A/N: This story is dedicated to my best friends, "the scarlet phoenix" and "dragonally." They have been great encouragements to my writing and wonderful influences on my life. I love and miss you all greatly.
Trysting Oak
outlaw author
Deep in the heart of the forest, where it is said spirits lurk and few men dare to go, there is an oak tree, ancient and bent with time, which is as dear to me as the best of my friends.
My first memory of this tree is that of a young child, unwilling to admit to the even younger girl at his side – who clenched his hand in a small, scared fist – that they were lost and that it would be well nigh impossible to find their way again in the raging storm that transformed the peaceful sentinels of the forest into fierce guardians of its secrets. In the depressing gloom of that night, the oak tree rises in my memories as it appeared to rise like a giant from the very earth before me, awash in the eerie greenish glow of the storm-tossed heavens it seeked to touch. That night the oak tree was a shelter for us, its wide-reaching branches – like the outstretched arms of some great protector – serving as a roof for the two shivering children at its feet. Our damp hair was plastered to our foreheads and our necks, dripping cold that slithered down our skin, and our ruined clothes clung to our fatigued bodies. But as we knelt at the feet of that great protector, a sense of safety stole over us, creeping stealthily into our minds, and although the wind still screamed about us, we drifted into sleep with the comforting solidity of its trunk at our backs.
From then on, the oak tree that I had stumbled onto by chance became an integral part of my life. Many years after Fate had led me to it, I was there again – as I often was – accompanied by the young girl who had been with me that first time. In the intervening years she had grown into a stunningly beautiful young woman. Forsooth, I was surrounded by beauty that day. The oak tree stood with a proudly regal air, the herald of spring, announcing the change of the seasons with the tiny buds of bright green that adorned its branches. Marian's dress was colored as the breast of the robin who sang so cheerfully in the branches above us. But I was only peripherally aware of these things. In that moment, all I felt were her soft lips as they gave beneath mine and the exquisite smoothness of her skin beneath my fingers, in contrast to the rough bark of the oak scraping against my back. All I smelled was the faint scent of herbs that always clung to her, mixing with the fresh, clean smell of spring. Ever afterwards, the taste of her kiss meant spring to me.
Many years later, Marian and I stood at the base of that oak tree again, this time for our wedding, which had been delayed by my outlawry. It was a pleasantly warm summer day, the complete opposite of the first time we had laid eyes on the Trysting Oak, as it had come to be known. The air was laden with the sweet smell of the flowers that grew in the glade, some of which had been plucked and twined into my lady's auburn hair, which glistened in the bright sun that filtered down through the boughs of the oak like shafts of light between the slats of a roof, creating patterns on the greensward like the light from a stained glass window on a church floor. Its branches arched majestically above us, the vaunted ceiling of an ancient cathedral. There in nature's holy shrine we were married, before the great oak that – besides the love we shared – had been the one constant in our turbulent lives.
Generations later, it is more gnarled and moss-covered than ever, and it is bent like an old man weary of the world, but I have no doubt that it will last for many more generations to come.
A/N: This story was inspired by a short assignment for English class; the first descriptive paragraph is what I handed in, and I think it is my best. But please review and let me know what you think!