The wind is blowing, whipping the lone tree into a macabre dance. It lacks leaves, as it is late in the season, and so skeletal limbs shift and shudder to the weather's demanding tune. Rain falls from the heavens in draperies that seep past cloth and coat, soaking quickly to the skin.

Here, on a hillock above cliffs that look out onto the slate-grey atlantic, stands that single tree. There are none others for a mile in any direction. None would grow, even if planted and tended well. This tree poisons the ground with its sorrow.

Here, too, stands a man. There are no other people as far as the eye can see, even if it were a clear day. No one mortal comes here, for this man has decreed it so. This section of cliff, this tree, and hill, might as well be lost Avalon.

In its three hundred year history, it has been trespassed but five times. The spaces between grow shorter, as word of the tree spreads amongst mystic circles. Word of a tree that bleeds magic into the air, a fount of pure primal force for the taking.

The man is not always here, no. The caretaker travels here as often as he can, which is never as often as he would like. Almost to spite him, the years drag on between visits. Now, he rarely makes it back more than once a decade.

Sometimes the tree calls to him, across vast stretches of space and time. It calls to him when strangers approach, and he is never further than a heartbeat away in those instances. Other times it calls to him to ease its loneliness. It misses him.

The man, lost in thought, rests against the trunk of the tree. His cheek against bark, his fingers travelling along it, as if it were the body of a lover. It is the body of a lover.

Despite the rain, his tears are evident. They shine: liquid sunlight that spills from his two-tone eyes. These are his true tears, tears he saves for special occasions. These tears stain the wood, slipping between the knots and whorls to leave bramblework designs.

The designs add to the marks of his previous visits. The life history of this tree, and this man, slowly forming in a long dead language, on its bark. A litany of magic, power, and the ravages of emotion.

Today is more poignant, for him, than others. Today is the ourobouros' day. He knows that soon he will leave the tree, and meet this lover for the first time. He will start a friendship which will last years. He will tutor this friend in the Arts, and eventually a bond will form. Eventually that bond will become love.

And then, three hundred years ago, this love will end at his hands. In a fit of rage, he will lash out. The village that stood at this spot will simply cease to be. All those that descended from here will unravel, as Time shifts to cope with its new path. His love will unravel, as ancestors vanish.

Desperation weaves Magic, and this magic wove a tree.

"Alexander" His voice echoes sunlight, and the dance of the moon. His breath is the seasons, and the passing of the stars. "I wish..."

"Nathaniel, don't." The tree speaks with the voice of a man. The words filter down from bare branches. "I do not regret any of it."

The wind blows again, pushing Nathaniel closer to the tree. Alexander's hands, holding Nathaniel.

Posted by Martin at July 10, 2003 11:38 PM