She was already so exhausted; the heat was unbearable, the air too thick, the smell so overwhelming. All around Isolde, the persistent buzzing of flickering lightning bugs cast a mesmerizing murmur over the night air, lulling her into its soft rhythm. Another step, this time, Isolde’s foot barely left the ground. The tip of her boot dragged along the pillowy earth, then  caught a snag. Isolde stumbled, barely managing to catch herself on a nearby tree. She swore, biting her lip til she bled, then muttering another string of curses between mouthfuls of pollen. How far had she even come? Still now, the manor looked no closer, yet Isolde was swaying on her feet from exhaustion. On cue, the gentle summer breeze tickled her ankles, then swirled upward, wrapping her in a warm blanket of sickly-sweet air. No. She could not. Isolde lashed out, pushing off from the tree she’d braced herself against, slashing at the air with her sword, and yanking her wrist out and away from the soft vines which had crept up the tree trunk and clung to her wrist. She stood for a moment, panting as she took in how foolish she must have looked yelling at trees and slicing at air, then laughed. This was a place of quiet comfort and peace, not an obstacle; she had nothing to fear from it. 

Isolde took another step, then another. The manor was close now, it’s walls looming, holding her Aoife somewhere within. And Isolde would save her, liberate her beloved from the clutches of the wicked fae who had stolen her away. That was all the strength Isolde needed to press onward. Whatever fae tricks and enchantments which lay ahead of her would test her resolve, of that much Isolde could be certain, but they would only serve to temper the steel of her unflinching will. Courage burning in her heart, Isolde pressed forward, only to round a corner and stop dead in her tracks. 

Something was moving in the underbrush. No, not something in the underbrush; the underbrush itself was moving. Two women laid upon the soft earth, shrouded in arrays of colorful flowers and leaves which blossomed from their mossy hair and deep green skin. Half sunken into the earth, leafy grasses and bushes sprouted and wove all around them, blanketing them even as it threatened to swallow them up. They were naked, save the selection of leaves and flowers adorning their supple bodies. Isolde could not help but stare. Her eyes wandered across their bodies, lingered on the soft, swelling flesh of their bare breasts, which bloomed in the evening light, colorful petals crowning the pistils and stamen of their nipples. 

The women moved in a slow, lethargic waltz of passion, tangling limbs and tracing fingers along one another’s bodies as their lips and tongues danced together in delight. Hooded eyelids fluttered flowering lashes as their tender love ebbed and flowed, meandering onward, blissfully oblivious to anything and everything outside the little world they planted in slumberson, sibilant sweetenings and soft slips sensual kisses. Myriad roots, sinewy and strong, wove beneath and between them, sprouting from the undersides of their arms, legs, and torsos. They had some degree of give to them, permitting just enough for the two women to continue their lazy lovemaking, but it was clear neither could do much else but lay upon that soft bed of moss and flowers, bound to the earth and drawn into a dreamscape of perpetual dopey, drowsy adoration. 

Isolde was so tired. Something about the sight of those girls, their slow, gentle love, was affecting her. They seemed barely awake, lingering eternally in that perfect, cozy state between sleep and wakefulness, fueled only by a delicate passion that would simmer forever, never waning, never coming to boil. Was that yearning Isolde felt in her heart? Goddess, she was so tired. And that mossy earth looked so soft, too, softer than any bed she’d ever slept upon. 

Perhaps, for a moment, Isolde would rest. Perhaps she would bask in the longing she felt at the sight of the two beautiful flowers before her. Perhaps they would even let her join in on their slow, gentle love. Perhaps their sweet nectar would sooth the aches in her muscles, and perhaps, when Isolde’s eyes fluttered shut, she would dream of a world where she did not need to struggle. 

The moss really was soft. It embraced her as it would a lover, cradled her from head to toe in as she settled onto the warm, sun-soaked earth. A contented smile tugged upon Idolde’s lips; she drew a slow breath, and felt her eyes flutter shut. Down, down, down, her body sank further into the bed of moss; even the soil was oh so soft. Her mind, too, drifted into the welcoming arms of that quiet summer’s eve. The rhythmic buzzing of insects soothed her as the pollen and sticky heat soaked up her thoughts, weighing them down. They sunk into the quiet, soft fuzzy haze, and flowed downward into the soil. It waited for them there, rich and nutritious, welcoming her focus, her will, her ambitions. They could rest here. Isolde could rest here.

Something soft: a hand, no, hands, they carved little exploratory trails along Isolde’s exposed belly. Such warmth, such tenderness, such comfort, Isolde arched her back, and breathed a peaceful sigh. The hands continued. Inquisitive caresses mapped the peaks and valleys of Isolde’s eager flesh. Wherever they went, they brought a warm, electric delight, which faded into dull, but oh so delicious warmth. So tender, so soft and comfortable; Isolde found herself yearning for that feeling. Her skin prickled in anticipation where the searching strokes had yet to chart, and sighed a thousand little sighs when that hazy warmth rolled in. 

Someone was kissing her now, languid and amorous and aimless. It was a kiss without ending or beginning, merely brief pauses, eddies in the leisurely currents of passion. The rivers of their passion carved a trickling path through the cracks and crevices of Isolde’s stony conviction, eroding as it went. Their lips broke, not for the first time; all the same Isolde gasped as though it were her first breath in years. She laid upon pillowy earth, dazed, her head splayed out to the side. Drool tricked from her lips parted as she gazed through unfocused, half-lidded eyes, shamelessly oblivious to her own thoughtless expression. 

Some blurred shape drifted into fuzzy relief. Pretty girl, Isolde thought. The flower smiled at her, then leaned for a sloppy kiss. Sweet nectar overwhelmed Isolde’s senses, and as sticky molasses dribbled and coated her thoughts once more, she hardly noticed the second set of lips pressing into her neck. Another break between kisses; Isolde sighed, basking in the warm sunlight. Her warm rays left tingly kisses of blanketing warmth upon Isolde's flesh wherever they touched. Such delight, Isolde would bottle it and bathe in it, drink it if she could. She stretched, slow and sleepy, arching upward toward that delicious, golden warmth. Her hips began to gyrate unconsciously, pressing upward and outward to take more of her beloved Sunshine into herself. 

An arm snaked beneath her back, joining in on the passion. Hands cupped her breasts, her chin, caressed her cheek. So many hands now, more than just two flowers’ worth. Legs entwined with hers, clinched her waist, cradled her head and neck between pillowy thighs. More lips, more tongues. So many tastes and smells. Isolde took another long whiff, and felt herself skip across the surface of her mindscape like a stone along water, then sink. 

More  kisses, tender and sweet, Isolde leaned into them, then let her eyes flutter shut. A fat, ripe breast pressed against her eager lips; Isolde suckled without second, or first thought. Her tongue traced the curve of a back, then along a cheek, down a dew-kissed thigh. Now her back arched and her toes curled as a finger reached up into her. Now she stared out toward her sisters, looking without seeing, drooling as another sister held her by the hair and took her. Now her tongue explored the deepest, sweetest folds, drawing slow licks up and down as trembling, twitching petals tickled her nose. Now a stamen, fat and engorged, rocked in and out of her eager mouth, coating her in sticky pollen. She was nuzzling. She was squeezing. She was kneading. She was resting. She was lapping. Sucking. Nesting. Groping. Cuddling. Caressing. Drifting. Waking. Dreaming.

How long had it been? Isolde didn’t care. Her head rested upon the soft belly of one of her sisters. Far above, the Sun showered her in carrseses. And oh how Isolde loved her Sunshine; She was so pretty; She was so kind; She was so gentle and warm and soft and nourishing to Isolde and her sisters. She watched over them, loving each and every one of Her flowers as they loved Her, always so careful to shine Her lovely warmth onto the most achy, needy parts of Her sleepy little flowers. A ticklish fluttering caught Isolde’s attention. Her eyes traced a lazy path toward the source; she was in no hurry, after all. A lovely little sight graced her eyes. A pair of pixies had settled within one of the many small flowers sprouting from her belly. They fluttered about, making giddy love. Not wishing to disturb the pair, Isolde suppressed a delighted coo. 

Perhaps they might take some of her pollen to one of her sisters? Or even make a new sister entirely. She did so love when the little bees and butterflies and pixies would come by to tease and stroke her, to coat themselves in her lovely pollen and reach deep into all the achy little places Isolde’s roots always kept her from reaching.

Isolde watched on, a sleepy smile stretching across her face. The taller of the two had the smaller pinned against one of Isolde’s petals now, thrusting her hard stamen between her lover’s petals. Isolde was fairly certain they had different words to refer to such things, but she had neither the desire, nor the focus to bother learning. The shorter one breathed a sharp gasp, her eyelids fluttering shut as she rocked her hips into her lover, tickling Isolde’s petals so deliciously as she went. 

Their passion continued, fluttery little wings and squirmy little bodies brushing against her all the more, sending ripples of ticklish pleasure up her body. Isolde twitched and panted as heat built within her, simmering brighter and hotter, ‘til only the love of Her Sunshine surpassed it. A soft, shuddering moan rose up from Isolde’s throat, jostling the little lovers. They stopped, the taller of the two pressing a hand to her lover’s mouth as she glanced up at the source. She met Isolde’s eyes, then smirked. 

Eyes gleaming with mischief, the fairy shoved her tiny lover face down into Isolde’s flower, and ordered her to lick. It was hardly the most intense sensation Isolde had ever felt, but the tiny tongue lapping at her was the exact sort of slow, teasing stimulation Isolde did so love. With both hands, the taller of the two took the stamen of their little flower nest and pressed it into her waiting lover. Of all the stamens on all the flower’s adorning Isolde’s body, this was one of the smaller ones. Nevertheless, her unwitting partner was even smaller. A tiny, howling moan erupted from the girl’s lips, and she began to grind, possessed by wanton lust. Isolde groaned, savoring the sweet stimulation as she basked in Her Sunlight. She must have drifted off at some point, as before she knew it, the tiny fairy lay spent, eyes glazed over, gasping and panting whilst her lover withdrew Isolde’s stamen from her pollen-stuffed lover. 

Humming quiet contentment, Isolde brought her hand up to the pair, and gave each an affectionate stroke. The smaller of the two, beet red, huffed, before murmuring the tiniest of thanks, while the latter gave a mischievous little salute, and hauled her lover to her feet. Without another word, the pair fluttered into the air, and darted off, but not before the larger of the two made a quick detour to oh so briefly kiss and tickle Isolde’s most intimate and sensitive of spots. The smaller seemed to attempt a similar gesture, but she was having a hard time flying straight. Her tiny body bobbed and dipped in the air as she struggled to keep on course, globs of sticky pollen oozing from her swollen flower. 

Isolde smiled to herself, and rested her head back into the mossy earth. The pair would return soon, she hoped. They might even bring friends. For the time being, however, Isolde turned her focus to the Sunlight. Her warmth washed over Isolde, silencing the happy little flower’s thoughts and carrying her down into the hazy bliss of Her embrace.  

Between fleeting naps and passing dalliances among her sisters, the flower again found herself with some semblance of thought. So, like any good pretty flower, she used those thoughts to think about how lovely it was being a pretty flower. She was, after all, so very pretty, just like all the other flowers. It was a flower’s job to be lovely, pretty, colorful. Pretty flowers made the world go round, they got cute bees and butterflies and fairies to pollinate them, and helped Her keep the air nice and clear. For the life of her, she could not think of anything she would rather be than a pretty flower. And yet, for some reason she felt something was amiss, as though her world was missing something, something very important. It felt like purpose, but what purpose? She had purpose, knew it well, intimately, even. Still, she could not shake the sense she had come to the Mistress’ garden for a reason. That, alone, was a foolish notion. She had always been here. This was her home. Nevertheless, her dissatisfaction persisted, leaving the pretty flower in a state of contemplative discontentment most unbecoming of one so blessed as her. 

In the midst of her fretting, a sound attracted the flower’s attention. Someone new had come to the garden. No, not new, she recognized this one. Shaeline was one of the Mistress’ servants, she had been round many times to care for Her garden. What a strange thing to think; her mind truly was off in strange places today. Humming to herself Shaeline floated over to the flowerbed on gossamer wings, pouring an endless stream of water from her pail. Wherever her water fell, a chorus of grateful moans rose up to meet Shaeline . Delightful anticipation crept up along the little flower’s trembling flesh. How had she not noticed just how thirsty she was until now? The Mistress always had the best, most delicious water, too. Each and every flower always looked forward to it. The flower's leaves and petals shook as she stretched upward to take as much of the sweet, refreshing liquid into her. Shuddering and gasping, her eyes rolled back into her head as she felt water trickle down into her roots. With renewed vigor, she struggled to sit up, and even managed to rest atop her knees; she craned her neck upward, eyelids fluttering and mouth wide as her tongue lolled about in desperate hope of catching more, more, more. 

Then, as suddenly as it started, the flow stopped, leaving her dripping and glistening in the evening light. She barely had time to process her disappointment, when a hand cupped her chin, tilting her gaze further. The flower opened her eyes. Shaeline peered down on her, wearing a look of curious contemplation. “I’ve not seen you before, girl. You’re new, aren’t you?” She asked. But no, that wasn’t possible, she wasn’t new. “Do you still have a name?” 

A name? What a profoundly animal concept. Laughter bloomed in her throat. But she did have a name, didn’t she? “Isolde,” she answered, the word leaving her lips before she could even think on the matter.

Some sort of smile, inscrutable as it was, crossed Shaeline’s face. “I see. But will you be keeping it for much longer is the question. Tell me, Isolde. Do you have a purpose? Why did you come here, human?”

Human? She was not human! She had been though, hadn’t she? That question of purpose rung in her head, stirring memories which had long slipped out from her roots and down deep into the soil, there was no better fertilizer than a mind, after all. A second name now bubbled against her lips. “Aoife. She took my Aoife.”

“Oh, you don’t say?” Fascination, amusement, mischief played across her face one by one. “Well, I’m sure one way or another the Mistress would like to meet the woman who loves her dearest little pet enough to brave this place in some foolhardy attempt at… rescue I assume?” 

Rescue? But it was so nice here, among the sun and—Isolde shook her head clear. “Yes, to rescue her.” The thought that it might be best to not divulge her plants to this strange fae struck too late. 

“Yes, yes. Rescuing her. What a delightful plan! And what’s a delightful plan without an accomplice? And who could possibly be a better accomplice than your new best friend, yours truly.”

Isolde blinked. “Um—”

“No need to thank me!” Shaeline replied, pausing to twirl and flip in the air. “Well, maybe a little thanks would be nice. You were pretty far gone, after all, If I’d come much later your old memories and identity would be nothing more than fresh nutrients for this lovely garden.” She paused, raiding an expectant eyebrow.

“Thanks, but li—”

“You’re most welcome, cutie!” Shaeline beamed. “Don’t worry, you’re in good hands now. The best hands! So here’s what we’ll do: I can restore your humanity—at least, most of your humanity. Like I said, you were really far gone, so there’s probably going to be some lingering side effects. Maybe stay out of the sun as much as you can—unless you want to get all sleepy and start sprouting flowers, that is. Anyway! I’ll restore you, get you unrooted and mobile and all that. And from there… Well, listen. You’ll have to do a lot better than this from here on out. I mean, you didn’t even make it inside! Just remember: nothing in this place is as it seems. At every turn, the people, the creatures, even the manor itself, will try to make you a permanent resident, so keep your wits about you. So, ready to try again?” She gave a flourishing flick of her wrist, magic sparking at her fingertips. 

Isolde took a deep breath, gathered her composure, and nodded.