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—???, Alfheim? 

Here was an enclosed world.

It was cut off from the endless frost and cold— A temperate house of glass.

A place which, regardless of the state of the outer world, whether pelted by hail or encroached by snow, has withstood the test of time and the eden held within remained ever warm, comfortable, and most of all… eternal.

—Eternal, as was what grew here; as within the boundaries of this garden, even nature disregarded itself.

Plants of any distribution sprouted here without germination. A rose would bud, flower overnight, and remain in a flowering state without ever wilting, and an apple sapling would mature as a tree, bear fruit, and when picked, would replenish itself– once again, overnight. 

Truly, it was a most curious place, like a phantasmagorical garden— no different than a phantasmagorical garden.

There was no limit to the variety of plants which could be found here: winter shrubs, tropical flora, saltwater mangroves, single blooming monocarpic plants, polycarpic ones, flowers which would normally bloom only after a century, and even plants which were of foreign worlds or things which should not exist. Without exception, anything could sprout, and once sprouted, would bloom in full maturity over the night, before eventually vanishing without any trace only to be replaced by the next to take its place. 

This was a holy land. It was a consecrated place, graced by the divine as a sanctuary in the most inhospitable icy wastelands. 

It was a garden where mortal man could only hope and dream of— a place where the dead did not decay and where the living went to live on eternally, feasting off the plentiful fruits of vitality. It was paradise. It was eden. It was a holy ground consecrated by the very being who lived there.

It was hell—

—A prison of solitude isolated at the deepest recesses of the world, with crystal walls which no strike from iron or steel could break, where the living could not escape from even through death and where the dead would be tormented eternally in unrest. 

… 

And at the heart of this world– this most verdant world– a single subtle, gentle, voice whispered, its speaker just barely rousing in her sheets. And her eyes, which were a deep and splendid shade of verdant emerald, peeked and took a glimpse of the serenity of this garden, created and made privy to only her alone.

She took a peek of a glimpse, and then closed her eyes once again to rest in pure white sheets on a bed which was a dozen times too large for her to use up alone. But, the size of this bed also birthed the freedom for one to lay wherever she wanted, to turn and roll whichever direction she wanted– and here without any form of urgency– sleep for however long she wanted.

Yet, here inside this isolated paradise, sleep continued to elude her as always. For no matter how many minutes, hours, or days she kept her eyes shut, there never came a spell of drowsiness.

But that was fine.

It was fine. 

What rush was there?

She had all the time in the world.

—As though time itself had no grip or meaning over her.

Whether she passed it in lucidity or in waking dreams, it made nary a difference. Because, whether the sky turned white or dark, if it snowed or hailed, none of it held any bearings here, in this place of eternal, everlasting, verdancy.

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