In a rather different point of view, a lot of personification.
For the Caesar's Palace Monthly Oneshot Challenge, month of February. The prompt is below. I focused on the half after the dash.
And yes, the 'human saplings' are human children.
Thanks to Catching Fireflies for Beta-ing.
history is full of wars fought for a hundred reasons— dulce et decorum est pro patria mori (how sweet and honourable it is to die for one's country)
whispered.
They held out their arms reassuringly, as if waiting for someone to embrace them. Birds landed on the outstretched limbs and chattered to one another, ignoring the one they rested upon. But the trees didn't mind- they were used to that. They had their own quiet conversations, and their creaking, raspy voices told of unimaginable things.
I've heard they're slaughtering the human saplings, one tall oak proclaimed, bowing its leafy branches in horror. The wind rushed by, and screams were borne by it. The trees turned away from the wind's howls of misery, choosing to listen to one another.
Why the little saplings? asked a old sycamore's creaky voice. They've done nothing.
They call them 'tributes'. They say they will go to somewhere called an 'arena' and fight one another to the death. The oak's hushed voice was melancholy and disapproving.
Where is this arena? whispered a maple curiously. Its garments of bright green leaves rustled as the wind circled it.
It will be here, said the oak sadly. The destruction will reach us at last.
But it cannot be! The little saplings will never stand a chance, even if they're fighting one another, as you said, a rather young tree said, sounding terrified by such a notion.
That's the point of it all. They all will be killed, save one. The oak's voice was so quiet it was almost inaudible.
Why?
For their country, said the tall oak, a bit louder and firmer. A hawk landed on its brown arm and cawed a forlorn song.
I always have thought it would be a perfectly lovely thing to die for your country. How loyal you would seem! the old sycamore said approvingly.
But being killed by their friends, even if it is for their country, isn't loyal. It's shameful! argued another tree.
All was silent. The trees could not argue with such a plain fact. Birds chirped words of news to each other, and the trees listened silently and respectfully. They wanted to hear more of the young human saplings, the tributes, that would slay one another. But no word came. The birds were different. They talked with human voices. It was unnerving to the trees. They tolerated the voices of humans only when they came from humans.
"Four-eight-oh," said one of the birds in a sharp female voice. "Why are you not with your commander, Squad Four-one-oh?"
It was met with frightened silence from the trees as they prayed that a gust of wind would cause the birds to fly away.
"Into the bomb shelter!" another bird cried in a man's nervous voice. The tree it was perched on shuddered. The bird was a strange one.
It's not natural, not natural at all, the tree anxiously said to one of its fellows in a low voice.
None of this is natural. Those poor little saplings, said a pine, shaking its skirts as if to shake off the horror of the news about the tributes.
"Run for your lives!" screeched one of the birds.
sighed.
The human saplings raced through the trees as fast as their short, young legs could carry them. Occasionally they cried out or screamed in pain. Occasionally thick hot blood splattered the feet of the trees, and they looked down, shaken, but rooted to the ground firmly as always.
"Daddy? Daddy, I'm scared!" one of the tributes wailed, tears making their eyes bright. "Why do they hate us?"
Hush, little sapling, a cedar tree said soothingly. Come here. Though the little tribute could not understand its voice, the gentle creaking of its branches was inviting. The girl settled herself at the base of the short tree. There, there. The tribute pressed up against the tree, her body warm to the point of fever. The cedar rustled its branches, and the girl looked up.
"Oh!" she said aloud. And she started to climb the tree. The cedar was not harmed by her small, sharp knees or her grabbing hands. The armor of its bark protected it. When the girl reached a thick branch, she hoisted herself onto it, her skinny arms wrapping themselves around the tree's waist for support. The tree's branches embraced the tribute back. Soon the girl fell asleep there. The cedar held her up firmly, gazing down at the body in its arms with commiseration and tender fondness.
Three days later, the girl fell asleep there and did not awake.
The wind offered words of consolation. The cedar clutched onto the human sapling's body protectively until a large metal bird stole her away.
And, having no other sound to express the profound grief they felt, the trees sighed, their boughs swaying in a salute to this little sapling of a child who had apparently died for her country.
wept.
Fewer and fewer tributes roamed the forest. The trees noticed this, their bark-encased brows creasing in concern and grief. The human saplings that lived on were constantly on the run, or trying to hide, their young eyes clouded with grief and loneliness. Few ran together. They were turned against each other, and the trees hated to see that.
A flash of lightning lit up the dark trees. The sky rumbled a roared greeting to the forest. The trees waved to the storm clouds as they approached the confinements of the arena. Rain started to fall.
Suddenly, the sound of running footsteps shook the ground. The younger trees staggered a bit in the sodden soil. A human sapling, a tribute, ran blindly at the trees, and ran into an elderly maple. The tribute was a tall, lanky boy with a slight limp. He was older than most, but he looked just as desperate. His eyes darted every which way as if looking for someone. When he realized he had reached the boundaries of the arena, a terrible choking sound came from the back of his throat. "No..." he said. His voice was as raspy as any tree's, from lack of water.
More footsteps came, thumping unsteadily. Lightning glinted on a shining spear-point.
The boy by the trees flattened himself up against the old maple tree. The maple stood firm, but it anxiously whispered to its fellow trees.
Suddenly, something flew toward the tree and the boy, and they both cried out at the same time, the tree's branches stiffening in anticipation of pain.
The tribute boy let out a gut-wrenching scream. The trees looked down in horror as a spear flew right into the boy's unarmored stomach, through it, piercing even a few inches into the maple tree. The boy curled his body around the spear with a cry.
Two keen eyes shone with malice and victory a few yards away.
The human sapling gave a soft moan, and his blood splattered the maple tree's feet.
The maple tree, of course, did not bleed. It merely stood strong as its vision went blurry with pain and its arm-branches drooped in defeat. The spear was in its leg. It would not kill the tree, but it would wound it badly. Its long leg ached with a pain it had never felt before.
"You'll pay!" snarled the boy to his attacker. His tangled, damp hair dripped water onto the spear sticking out of his stomach. "Someday you'll pay!" The figure that had thrown the spear laughed and left. The maple tree was confused by this. They were all dying for their country, why would they pay for such a noble thing?
Other trees called out in rough, scared voices to the maple. Save him! they called. The human saplings are not as strong as we are! He'll die!
I can't, the tree called back in a pained rasp.
The boy was shuddering uncontrollably, blood leaking from him. His hands gripped the maple tree's armor of bark for something to hold onto. The tree held onto the tribute, its branches shuddering in pain. "I'm all alone..." the boy whispered.
No, you're not, the tree whispered. I'm here. Hold on.
The comforting swaying of the tree's boughs and voice seemed to relax the boy. He went a bit more limp.
"This is for nothing," he managed to say. Something gurgled in his mouth as he spoke, and when he coughed, blood fell onto the soil.
Not for nothing. It's for your country. Don't you remember, young sapling? the maple tree asked, perplexed. That's the purpose of this, isn't it?
But the boy couldn't understand- and even if he could, he could no longer hear. His body sagged, his dead weight on the spear wrenching it deeper into the maple tree.
The lightning shone upon the trees in flashes, blinking out a message its sympathy in its unknown language. The other trees bowed their proud heads. The rain hissed its apologies as it fell onto the boy's lifeless body. The thunder shouted a funeral song. And the maple tree looked as if it was weeping- the rain rushed down the tree's face in mournful rivulets.
Why was it for nothing? asked the maple tree, grieving. A spear to the stomach, and it was over for the young sapling. Why?
It was for his country, answered the voice of another tree, so it is all well.
Ah, that's right, said the maple, looking down at the boy's body with a new satisfaction. At least he died for his country.
Indeed! agreed another tree. How honorable!