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In the beginning, the tree sensed little. Light shone down upon leaves, water soaked earthen roots, and life proliferated in and among branches, blooming and withering in a ceaseless cycle. The tree was ever reaching, up to the warm light and deep to the dark loam, spreading and growing and standing tall over the infant forest.
Then, in a brilliant wave of sunlight that was not truly light but connection, the tree felt. Then came heat. Then came energy. In the space of a night, the tree became more. The tree heard. The tree had always reached, but for the first time, something reached back.
Sound. Song. Symphonies wove through bark, through sapwood, and, impossibly, through heartwood.
For the first time, there was music.
There was a Honmoon.
Warm like sunlight, a connecting force burrowed around and through the tree like grasping roots, like patchwork mycelium desperate to anchor and to protect. The tree could not see, but with the Honmoon there was feeling. There was awareness.
The Tree began to listen.
Sound brought meaning to the cycles of time, and a new center of being, a new sun burned brightly within the heartwood of the Tree, fueled by the Honmoon and whispers of songs on the wind. These songs revealed a peculiar cycle, one that may have always existed beneath the shade of protective boughs yet gone unwitnessed.
Beings with little suns dwelled beneath the Tree, growing and singing and nurturing their connection to the Honmoon’s harmonious symbiosis. Strange beings, ones that moved above the earth, that created the music and the shouts of joy upon the breeze that the Tree cherished.
The beings must be little trees, for what else could they be? With suns and songs buried in heartwood, the little trees lived and grew just as the Tree did, ever reaching for connection to each other.
Through the cycle of time, the Tree came to know the cycles of little trees, the cycles of freely given warmth, of greeting, of gentle gratitude. The little trees paid their respect to the Tree, and in return the Tree reached back, shading with leaves in the harsh summer heat and providing solid support for their little trunks in shared exhaustion.
Just as the Honmoon rippled through branches, tugging playfully like it did with the little trees’ own thread-like leaves, so too did the Honmoon stretch below. The Tree wove roots deeply into the Honmoon, a protective mycelium of light and song to nurture the little trees when they needed it most.
Much as they might scrabble against roots and gnaw at the interwoven hyphae of the Honmoon, no Devourers would breach the Tree’s shield as long as the trunk stood tall. The Tree held a duty to witness, to feel, to know the little trees in life and rest.
The Tree grew, and under protective branches so did the little trees, always in threes, always together.
The Honmoon protected, and so did the Tree.
The Tree felt the pitter patter of little trees racing across the field, the press of their odd roots against the soft dirt kicking up dust and delight in equal measure. The Tree heard melodic laughter carried on the threaded string of the Honmoon, intertwining the trios of little trees that lived and played and breathed beneath the leaves. The Tree felt the dizzyingly bright beacons of suns nestled within tandem heartwoods, felt the triumphs and sorrows and the worth of the lives shared.
Time cycled ever onward, and in the growth of the little trees, the Oath marked an impending time of silence. For many great rains the Tree heard only echoes of music on the breeze, the swaying of the Honmoon resonating with the distant songs of absent little trees. The silence would be broken in time, with the little trees returning to present a new, curious set of three before the Tree, the next saplings that would fill this space with life.
With each new generation of little trees, familiar melodies wove into an Oath, and the Tree vowed back. Countless Oaths were made by the Tree on this very spot, responding verses unheard but no less important for it.
The Tree would witness. The Tree would shade and nurture. The Tree would protect. And when it came time for the little trees to return home to lay among the roots, the Tree would mourn for the lives that should have been.
The Tree cradled the felled in a final rest, an Oath made, an Oath witnessed, and an Oath fulfilled.
When the beloved trees beneath the roots grew in number to rival blossoms in a seeding season, the cycle was interrupted. Upon the wind, ushered to this place of protection by a solitary little tree, there came a new melody. A melody so small and fragile, yet it wailed unlike anything the Tree had ever felt touch the Honmoon.
The thrum of a beautiful sun lived within this new melody, a tiny and growing brightness that cried out for connection, for affection, for nurturing, just the same as any freshly cracked seed.
This was a seedling. A life just beginning to anchor its roots into the world and reach for the light. A little tree seedling.
The Tree had known life and laughter and loss. The Tree had never known wonder until this little one. Cycles came and went, brushing past the Tree and marching in endless, uniform time. Now, there was an impossible tiny life, growing in fits and starts and singing with unabashed enthusiasm.
The growth of this little tree was fast, but already the tiniest of the lives the Tree had ever known stayed longer than any little tree before. The Lonely Little Tree, returned in grief and duty with partners resting beneath the roots, once brought the seedling to the Tree. A small, impossibly small, branch was pressed against bark. A quiet hum passed along the point of connection, a zip of fever-bright energy.
Over the course of time and generations, the Tree had come to learn this humming flutter meant thank you.
The Tree knew now how precious this life was. The Little Seedling was to be protected. The Tree already cherished this one immensely.
The Little Seedling grew quickly, as all little trees did, but the newness of the development was all encompassing. The Lonely Little Tree wove songs with the Little Seedling, a matured melody cradling the infant voice with care, with guidance, with protection. The Tree grew to understand the Lonely Little Tree, for the desire to nurture was only natural amongst the grown.
The Tree did not understand the Little Seedling in the same way, but there was connection nonetheless. The Little Seedling ran and played as any little tree might, but periods of quiet stillness and sorrow sung upon the wind were just as frequent. The Little Seedling would know two more little trees in time if previous cycles were to be trusted, two little trees that would complete the harmony of a solitary sun. Nevertheless, the Little Seedling knew isolation just as intimately as the Lonely Little Tree.
Until the new little trees arrived, the Tree became the Little Seedling’s respite. Melodies of mischief and misery were whispered among the branches as Little Seedling climbed into the boughs, although such periods were often followed by a chase instigated by the Lonely Little Tree, shrieking laughter humming through the Honmoon and wrapping warmly around the heartwood of the Tree.
It was common for the Little Seedling to sit in the shade of the leaves, tiny trunk pressed against the bark of the Tree. On a few occasions, there was a shared offering of juice, of the lifeblood of fruit. The Tree could not absorb this, not the way Little Seedling could, but roots soaked it in nonetheless. A gesture of compassion rewarded by gratitude, for the offering was given in the kindest of spirits.
The Tree witnessed the Little Seedling grow, and when finally, finally, the Little Seedling was joined by two more little trees, laughter became a constant companion. Even the Lonely Little Tree’s mirth slipped against the Honmoon’s threads, a quiet secret shared between grown trees at the antics of youth.
Little Seedling, despite an inherent melancholy, flourished with new connections. The Oath arrived with alarming speed, yet the Tree stood tall and did not allow its own promise to be tainted by dread.
The Tree would miss Little Seedling, but all little trees return home. The next little trees would bloom beautifully under such careful guidance, songs more powerful and full of feeling than ever before.
Little Seedling brought hope, and in return, the Tree promised a sanctuary to return to when needed most, a place to share the lifeblood of fruit for no other reason than to be together.
This time of silence was not so silent, as the Lonely Little Tree stayed. Together, the Tree and this stalwart watcher listened to the echoes upon the Honmoon, beautiful and resonant and unmistakably laced with the melody of Little Seedling and the precious two little trees that had brought lightness into the voice of the Tree’s most cherished.
With the cycle already broken, however, the Tree should have listened to the notes missed, heeded the dissonance beneath the bright success of the Little Seedling.
As the little trees were at the pinnacle of their harmony, a ripple of Little Seedling’s unease passed through the Honmoon, a shout of desperation that worried both trees in left behind in the grove. Yet the song smoothed over once more, and the Lonely Little Tree was soothed by the resumed chorus of connection. The Tree listened for Little Seedling’s song, and all seemed well.
The two trees did not know the broken, aching shout had been a glimpse of dangers to come. Warning may have breathed upon the wind, but it was not warning enough.
With sudden, inescapable speed, a lance of dark, discordant noise ripped across the Honmoon. The sound was raw and pained and it was familiar, even as it severed intricately woven webs of hyphae and left the Tree without knowledge, without sound for an instant. An instant was far too long to be reduced to simply a tree.
When the wavering Honmoon stitched into a ghost of itself, the Tree seized the chance for connection, to understand what might dwell with the breached haven.
When sound returned, distortion rippled across the thread-thin hyphae of the Honmoon, resonant with a melody the Tree knew as well as the heartwood deep within the tall trunk.
Little Seedling had come home, far, far too early.
Little Seedling sought to be cut down, asked to be reduced to kindling before the Oath was broken.
For the first time in centuries, the Tree did not care for the Oath. The Tree did not care for protection or witnessing. The Tree only cared for the little trees, devastated beneath the boughs, their pain a tangible thing.
Little Seedling rent the Honmoon in two, and the Tree knew agony. The Tree had once felt that the cycles of absence were silent, but the Tree had not known silence. Not until now.
The tree knew nothing.
The tree heard nothing.
And yet, the Tree still grieved.
The Tree grieved into the darkness of loss and severed connection, the Tree grieved that Little Seedling could be so sapped of joy.
The Tree feared for Little Seedling, the precious life that had always wanted nothing more than to connect, to reach back like no other little tree had before. The Tree feared for the Lonely Little Tree, no doubt still beneath the boughs but unheard.
For the first time, the Tree craved a voice so that it might scream. The Tree desperately, achingly wanted to be known. It wanted to comfort the Lonely Little Tree, to weave a song that might reach deep into the guarded heartwood and reassure that there was understanding. There was connection. Both trees in this clearing, this place of protection rent asunder, had failed.
An eternity spent, hoping, wishing, waiting, and eventually, the Tree heard once more. Sunlight and song washed through in quiet waves, in relief and truth and love.
Little Seedling sang to the Tree, voice woven into a beautiful, impossible thing.
The New Honmoon was a gentler thing, but no less precious. Little Seedling’s sun sang upon the very wind, and later, much later, the soft and familiar patter of the Tree’s favorite wound along the path back to the Tree.
The Tree felt Little Seedling stand tall, and perhaps it was time that the Tree acknowledged the growth it had taken to bring this beloved one home.
Little Sapling stood tall, a testament to resilience and love.
Little Sapling pressed against bark and hummed in apology. Apology for the agony, for losing sight of what was dear. Apology for the darkness and the fear and for breaking connections.
For the first time, the Tree hummed back, bolstered by the love love love that nurtured this New Honmoon. The Tree hummed the hymn of its own love in return, carried upon the singing vines of the New Honmoon in feeling and song, for feeling and song were all the Tree had ever known.
The Tree hummed of lives lived, of little trees past, of joys and sorrows and all the beauty witnessed and felt. The Tree hummed the story of Little Sapling, how precious and loved and known this life had always been.
This place had once been a comfort, a shared respite. It had always been a place of growth and nurturing and protection.
Perhaps, one day, given time and understanding, it might become a place of healing.
The Tree and Little Sapling rested together for a time with an offering of spilled juice beneath the rustling boughs, a shared song of their suns weaving on the wind.
The New Honmoon loved, and so did the Tree.