The Forest Heights

A new day had dawned on the Forest Heights. The magical lilt of golden throated birds poured through her rooms and overflowed into the trees below as a new face ascended the lift and took up residence in a long vacant wing. This stranger wove tales the likes no one had ever seen, twisting and arching as the vines on the ground and gathering the attention of all in the Heights.
Motivation was afoot and the stalwarts drew heart their vigil had not been in vain as quieter voices began to ring out and a congregation of woodland creatures remained late each night to visit the dreams and talents of every tenant.

As the holidays approached an air of great movement and excitement swam across the lush carpets and curving walls of that haven amongst the treetops. Visiting with the Wildcat in the rooftop gardens or squinting against the sunset on a balcony that kissed the needles of a fragrant cedar, whispers could be heard. Rumors were making their way on hidden tongues and they spoke of a feast. What else could these past days lead to, they murmured, but a feast? Quenching deep thirsts and bursting vacuous stomachs with all the thoughts and delicious devices of these boys keeping watch so high in the valley. Endless toasts to past deeds and distant brothers and the promising finite of tomorrow. And of course whipped hazelnut cream atop butternut pies and hot wildberry wine sprinkled with cinnamon and crushed nutmeg and all the steaming honey wheat loaves spread thick with apple walnut chutney a boy could fit in his mouth.

But not until the wood had been chopped and the water pumped and backs broken and sweat poured and even a bit of blood spilt. The past few days had been good and promised continued fortune but there was still much to do.
There was a plaque at the entrance to the Forest Heights that even as the Winter creeped in someone would be out to look on at dawn, marking another day to remain in the Histories.

The plaque read:
Never Forget, Always Remember.