Author Note: I wrote this for my creative writing class my senior year of high school. :) This is the first piece of writing that I've ever put online *blushes*My friend (UslessEpiphany26) posted it on her site and I liked the reviews that it got, so I thought hey why the heck not.
I am fire and he is ice.
She stands between us, a victim of the elements.
Without the slightest hesitation, she embraces him.
Unafraid. Unfazed. Cold. Unyielding.
Am I not the sun? The warmth? The means of life?
Why then, am I shunned and disregarded?
Lonely Tree stands alone in the clearing. Long wavering limbs reach skyward. She is chilled. She is dying. The days grow shorter. Each leaf falls to the ground slowly, in spiraling motions--symbols of her nearing end. The sun cries at her death. His rays long to warm the lonely tree. She is accepting of her fate though, at peace. She even grows to love the winter. The freezing wind shakes the tree as it passes through the few remaining leaves.
"I will be the death of you," the winter wind whistles, mournfully.
"I know," Lonely Tree replies. She shudders as the ice begins to form deep within the roots. The ground chills. The sun shines briefly on the ice-crusted branches, fervently trying to warm her.
"He is a parasite. Devouring everything in his path and destroying it," he seethes as she shudders again.
The sun is bitter. His loathing of the winter grows as each day the tree grows weaker and weaker. The nights are the worst. The sun dolefully leaves her, fearing that when he returns she will be dead.
During the night the snow begins to fall, the tree wonders what this means. She is mesmerized by the beauty of the changing landscape. Colors disappear beneath a blanket of frosty white.
"I will be the death of you," the winter repeats.
"I know." This time it is said with a hint of admiration.
It is fatal, but it is a beautiful fatality. She is contented to be able to see the beauty. The winter is disgusted. He loathes his inability to save the tree, but he is not sure of what to do. He is a creature of habit. He is also accepting of his fate. He knows the tree will die. He also knows that it will be his doing.
"I will be the death of you," Winter wind moans in disgrace.
The tree is bare now; completely defenseless against the elements. The weight of the snow on her thin branches bends them, some breaking. She is accepting.
"I know."
Each day the tree waits for her end to come. The snow dominates her view now--nothing but a white blanket, covering her familiar landscape. And yet, every day she still thrives on. The winter wind is baffled. He is struck by her resilience. He is used to controlling every aspect of the land. Yet this tree--this fragile, tiny new tree-- she confounds him. She is an enigma in her survival. So, he grows to love her. Every aspect of her astounds him: her fragility, her peaceful acceptance of each situation thrown at her.
"You're beautiful," she gently whispers, one bitterly cold night.
"I'm a killer." He expresses his self-disgust with another gust of snowy wind.
She drifts in and out of consciousness. Each vision provides varying scenes. Slowly, the warmth returns, and she is startled to find that she hears less of the mournful winter. She is even more startled to find that she survived.
The birds return. Her familiar landscape of lush greenery slowly revives. She is disheartened. She misses him. His cold brutality, searing her roots, had become her reality. She is dazed.
As the last of the snow drips off the early blooms on her branches, she begins to cry.