ass_as_sin's Journal

The Tree
I'll follow you down baby, into that valley
I'll follow you down baby, but I won't come up again

The sky was bright and cold as she waited; bright like the stars, cold like the darkness between them. In the moonlight, she was pale and mysterious, just as she'd always wanted to be. Her silken dress caressed her skin gently under her warm fleece cloak, still caught by the breeze. Shivering at its gentle touch, she gazed once again down the hillside. He would come for her soon.

There is a tree upon a hillside, somewhere over in the foothills of the great snowy mountains; there is a tree upon a hillside, and its bark is smooth as skin, and its leaves as gentle as a woman's touch, and its blossoms are delicate things of silk and air, and its seeds are furry, as black fleece. And a hundred years after a woman had stood on a hillside, and then she had sat, and rested against a rock, and fell in and out of sleep, and known no hunger except that which she felt for the one who was coming for her, coming very soon now, a man approached the tree, and looked at its beautiful leaves and its silken blossoms and its smooth bark, and whispered, "I have come for you at last, my love."

And for the first time, the seed-pods of the tree fell open, and from them came salty tears, for the women had been waiting, oh how she had been waiting, ever so long and ever so lonely. And now she was a tree. But here, here there was a nook, a little cavity, and she strained within herself to grow and to snap and to merge. And as she had been patient, so he was patient; and another decade passed. He sat against the tree as she grew and changed, and after ten years he got up, looked across the sweeping plains stretching as far as the eye could see, scattered with heather and gorse, and saw no travellers there. Carefully, quietly, he removed the silver fastener from his black fleece cloak, and lay it on a branch; he removed his feathered hat, and set it at his feet. His red silk shirt had many buttons, black obsidian and sharp-edged, and when he had finished with them his fingers showed the marks of battle; but finish he did, and carefully lay the shirt down. Sturdy brown boots; white socks; black leggings; the tree arranged her branches so that the wind would sigh with the same soft voice she would have greeted him with, as the last of his clothing was discarded. It was a fine and sunny morning, although the wind was somewhat bracing; it did not seem to bother him at all. After all, he had been walking for over a century, walking all the while to reach his beloved.

He stepped forwards, and looked the tree up and down; the leaves chorused in a soft, shuffling voice, a mute declaration of her love. He reached out one finger, and touched the trunk of the tree, slowly and deliberately. Blossom fell in a shower around him as he carefully moved that one finger downwards, and downwards, and towards that fine cavity she had grown for him; but before it could reach its destination, he brought his other hand up and around the other side of the trunk, and placed the whole hand there, palm-first. The cascade of petals slowed, as she considered what he might be doing. Slowly, always slowly, the smile on his face slightly marred by concentration, he dug his fingernails into the soft, supple bark, and began to slide this hand down, leaving tracks behind him.

This time, leaves fell too.

The branches strained to produce a great arcing cry suitible for the occasion; and just as they had found the correct way to bend, and as his arms came level, he dipped the first finger into the cavity, swiftly, carefully. There was a *crack*. A branch sagged, limply. But no matter - there was another member which was no longer sagging, oh, no, not at all.

He brought both hands around to play quietly with the cavity, exploring its extents and its depths, as blossom and leaves caught in his shortish, brown hair. Yet, although there were many moans and other sounds from the appreciative branches, no more fell; the initial moment of delight was past. He looked up; he looked down; he raised his arms and prepared himself. His hands smelled of the sweetness of sap and resin. He looked down again, careful, slow, gentle; he slid his branch inside her trunk, carefully, calmly, taking the upper part of the trunk in his arms, pressing tightly against it. Blossom, and leaves, and seed pods; gently, he increased the pressure. A susurrus; a moaning; he looked up, blinking the seeds out of his eyes. He smiled. His tongue played across his lips. His tongue darted out to catch the smooth bark-flesh before him unawares.

Crack.

He let out a long, slow breath, and with that exhalation let out more, too, into the cavity, mingling with the resin and the sap that she had exuded. His fingernails cut smaller grooves into the bark where his hands were grasping. He held the trunk tightly, as if he wished to break his ribs against it. Finally, he relaxed, dropped his hands, and moved to take a step back.

There was a gentle, but firm, tugging. He looked down for a moment, placed both hands on the shaft of his penis, and began to slowly apply pressure away from the cavity. It would not yield.

The susuruss of the leaves began to take on a sinister tone.

"Stay with me," it seemed to whisper. "Stay with me here; forever."

Despite his recent exertions, beneath his hands the flesh was as hard as wood. He meant to drop his hands to his sides, to look up in hope and fear and wonder, but his hands would not move. They, too, had become like wood.

"Stay with me."

He looked up at the leaves and the two broken branches for a long moment, as the stiffness spread slowly but inexorably up his arms. And he looked for mercy, and he looked for release, but he found neither.

"I have waited for you, my love. I have waited a long time for you."

The voice was in the wind, but not in the wind. The voice was in his head. The voice was in his arms. The voice was him, and was not him; the voice was her that he had become a part of.

Even as his hair began to sprout buds, he did not scream.

Current Mood: calm
Current Music: Counting Crows - I'm Not Sleeping

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