The Brown Stag and
The Cherry Tree
He met her at the place that would soon hold a cherry tree; the first dawn of the world had brought blossoms and her beautiful face. She was made of flowers, her skin the texture of waxy leaves coated in dew, her eyes like drops of honey. But he had no name for any of these things, for the world knew not what spring was. Earth had never borne flowers, nor trees, nor held water in her channels. He nodded at her; they both knew to begin, but just what to do was a mystery. And so he walked up to her, muscles rippling beneath his coat of shaggy fur, and lowered his nostrils to her cheek. Touched her with his damp nose, breathed on her with his moist breath.
She raised her head and cupped her hands around his neck, allowed him to pull her up, then sprang into the air, the water from his body falling through her tresses, coating the earth in rain. The first thunderstorm of the earth, the first shower of trillions. The dry and brittle clay became rich, became dark, became soft to the touch, so that if you pressed bare and human skin to it, you could not lift your hands without taking some of the ground with you. And from this soil came shoots of green, plants that were nameless. Her wings spread wider, wider, wider, until they encompassed the world, encompassed his body, filled it with a warmth he couldn't quite explain. Behind her body came a carpet of green and gold and violet, grasses and flowers and petals. He made certain to watch her, to make sure that all she did was beautiful, every now and then keeping her on task. But she needed no teacher, for spring is spring, life is life, and love is love. All these things had no letters to represent them, but that did not mean they didn't exist, for they did.
Roots of trees dug into the earth, churned it up, then spread towards the sky with bare branches. These were promptly filled with green of every shade imaginable, coated with sun that broke through her rain clouds to fill the world with light.
The final touch: a swarm of butterflies, falling from her tresses as if they'd been born there, and this was probably true.
And when she had finished, it was a slow and gradual descent. The patch of earth on which he stood was where they had started, and it was disparingly bare. She frowned. He stood back, watched to see what she would do, watched to see where her imagination could take her. First, a shoot, then brown and rough bark, then the round and sweeping spread of branches. Her fingers pulled every gnarl, every knot, into existence with care. And then, in a shower of magic, a grand sweep of her wings, rosy petals decked the tree, like hundreds of little jewels, each perfect in its own right. And he stood beneath them, raised his antlers to the sky, wished he could tell her, in more than nods and snorts that this was beautiful, that he loved her, that he wanted it to last.
But all he could do was tilt his great head to one side. Yet he knew she understood.
It was not until hundreds of years later that they were to be tested, as greatly as they were the first day. Her forest, her valley, her mountain, they lay in winter's clammy grasp, and he waded through the snow to find her. Another breath, misty, fine, like smoke, pulled her from her sleep so that she could wash the world in green, as she had for so many centuries. And so she did. He always waited by the cherry tree, always watched her sprinkle it in pink. She did it with a smile on her face, a gorgeous and tilting smile that made his world open up and close down all at once.
She pulled her emerald kingdom up the sides of the mountain...only to have it stop.
And her curiosity, it...it..-she-the forest-fire...
He was not there to watch her, was not there to ensure that she would not do something foolish. Because for all her years she had been something real, she was still silly at times, still prone to mistakes, still over-exaggerated. And the flames that leapt from the volcano were as much his doing as they were hers. He could run, but she could not; she could not run because her power came from the earth, and the more the earth burned, the weaker she became. He ran and he searched, he watched the cherry tree burn, he looked for her, but she was nowhere to be found.
It was only after the flames receded, only after the volcano burped and collapsed into itself, did he breathe upon her ashes and wake her up.
But she was weak, her body nothing more than a pile of soot, burned and charred beyond recognition. Gone was that lovely face, that beautiful smile, replaced by a little thing with ashes peeling off her with every breeze and a bitter frown on her mouth. He touched her, nuzzled her, turned to see their...yes, their...their cherry tree, gnarled and black. She always knew what to do; he was only there to help her, to wake her up and put her to sleep, to make sure that everything stayed balanced. She was the decisive one.
And yet...he tried. And she grasped ahold of his antlers, allowed him to pull her up. He would show her. If he could not tell her, as he so desperately wanted to do, then he would have to let her see with her own eyes, the horror, and what she had to do. He ran, ran through the piles of ash and charred wood, led her to the center of all this. He felt her tears ooze from her face, felt her smile as she realized...realized...realized that she could do this. That she was alive, after all.
Her weight on his antlers disappeared. He needed only to raise his eyes to the heavens, to see her in the form she had taken on that first day of the world. Water. It blanketed the sky and brought liquid to the ground, coated the world in such a perfect storm that he couldn't help but think that she had grown stronger. Her smile, that beaming, graceful, grin, it was back fuller than ever. This was true, this was possible, this was spring, and this was life, in her purest and most invincible form. Trees sprang from the ground, wrapped around themselves, broke the heavens with their branches, flowers bloomed...
The cherry tree, oh, the cherry tree!
Laced with pink and bursting with color; his heart shuddered with joy.
If only he could've just shouted it out, then and there, I need you. I love you. I missed you.
But he was contented with watching her sweep up and around the mountainside, a ribbon of eternity.
Death is not forever, and neither is life. Not when you look at them by themselves. But place them together, link them around like a ring, and they will last forever. Perhaps that is why he loves her so much. Because she is the best of him, the part of him that he relishes being. They do this, not because this is their duty, but because this is what they love. She loves to watch the world change because of her, while he loves to watch her be happy. And so spring is given the added grace of being, in the end...a labor of love.
A/N: My first story outside of the Storm Hawks category. I'd adore feedback.