~Falling Eden~

There once was a garden of the most exquisite sort. A forested stretch of land; all that was left of a world that had been green and good. But the creatures charged with the stewardship of this world had mistreated it and died out, poisoned by their own waste and greed, leaving a dry, barren wasteland to echo empty in their footprints. The garden remained, protected somehow from the ruin which lay outside its high, heavy walls of stone wrought when the people had still cared enough to respect their natural world.

Lush and wild, it remained; untamed growth that pushed at its granite cage, spilling into the trickling flow of the spring that created sustenance out of the acidic rain which fell from a burnt and dying sky. It was an Eden known only to itself. Under the watch of the great, ancient Tree which stood at its center, the plants and animals thrived, sheltered from the pain which had thrashed the life from everywhere else. From the beasts and insects to the tiniest flowering vine, all were given sanctuary.

Proud and tall and strong, made wise with age, the Tree had been no more than a seedling during the beginning and had watched the ages pass. Along with them, he had borne witness to the joys and sorrows of man; a species capable of great love and even greater treachery. When man had begun to show signs of carelessness toward his mother planet, the Tree had closed the garden gates, never again to open for a human until they could learn to respect it. They had never corrected their error, and, thus, had paid the price.

It had been a cold decision, made without affection for the human virus of a species. Yet the attempt to protect what might be salvaged from man's destructive nature had not gone in vain. The power of the Tree's guardian spirit had prevailed.

Asking only that they respect his decisions and judgment as the oldest presence, the Tree made sure that his subjects, both flora and fauna alike, were kept safe and comfortable. The richness of the garden he kept inside, where it could be allowed to flourish. Whatever evils remained outside (human remnants or otherwise) he kept out. It was his job, his duty, as the warden of the last remnant of what had once been a paradise. There was never any dispute over any request made by the great Tree, be it a request for an animal to bring water to a particular fern that was a bit out of reach from the spring or for an herb to donate one or two of its leaves to a squirrel's sickly offspring.

Because of his just, kindly nature, the Tree was regarded with the affection of a parent, a father to all who walked or took root beneath the spread of his limbs and the watch of his spirit. The plants and animals under his charge cherished him.

It would have stayed this way, unto the very reaches of forever...if not for her. Carried on the wings of a dying memory, left to the soil which the bird's lifeless feathers soon became one with, she delved into the earth at the strong, rooted feet of the great Tree; and grew.

She called herself a Rose, once she was strong enough to speak - alien to all who twisted from the cloudy sun to peer past one another for a glimpse of the stranger fate had brought to the base of their guardian's grassy throne. The Tree's gentle, sheltering nature would allow him no moment of hesitation. Once he saw how frightened and confused she was, how her delicate new leaves shivered, needy and alone, he took the tiny seedling under his leaves. The garden's welcome was a soft, fostering solace.

Time saw the Rose grow into a graceful beauty, blossoming with deep red color to display her passage into adulthood. She was truly a lovely thing, if fragile about the edges, and purely devoted to the Tree which had given her shelter and care. So devoted, in fact, was she that with her growth, her slender limbs began to climb the vast expanse of his trunk; an embrace to keep him close to her, body and heart. She never actually spoke of love to him, but the confession was evident in the way she clung, twining herself about the strong, sleek bark. And it was not the love of a foster daughter.

He never made a move to respond, but neither did he attempt to remove or rebuke her.

Yet the sight of this, the guardian Tree's space being so impeded by this untried little flower, gave birth to a stirring of uncomfortable rumors - whispers spawned from an unknown source - that the singular, alien plant had brought evil into their midst. She had come from the wasteland left by the humans...what proof did they have that she wouldn't poison them all?

It was one of the wildcats who acted, inspired by a deep-set terror eating away at his heart. He approached the place where the Rose rooted, tucked in a corner near the great Tree's base, and with one powerful paw he dug into the rich soil that made her home, and so, her life source. She had barely enough time to scream her pain, before the Tree reacted, striking the cat to the ground with a heavy branch sent whistling through the air. While the whip of living wood and bark did no more than stun and bruise the startled creature, the intended message had been made chillingly clear. You will not harm her.

The Rose lifted her head and peered up at the Tree with wide, adoring eyes. He looked back at her, quiet and serene. Inside the face of the wise, aged guardian of the garden - the face which had never once shown much more than civil affection or bemusement - there was a softened edge. She knew without being told that he loved her.

And the Tree, for all his intentions or passions, knew that it would end in sorrow.

Year after year the Rose grew, twining more tightly about her lover's body, reaching, straining to be tall enough to match him, and year after year her thorn-laced grip cut more deeply into his flesh. She couldn't have known, so young and unknowingly naive she was, that he was slowly dying. Every kiss brought him closer, weakened him, squeezed the life from his boughs, crushed his lungs and structure. Never once did he say a word about it. He endured the strangling until it was no longer possible.

Theirs was a long and tragic love-affair, the likes of which could put pitiful Romeo and his impulsive Juliet to sordid shame. In the end, the scene was the same. The Rose, not knowing her clutching embrace was truly a choke hold, drained the life from the Tree. His death was agonizing, wasting away to nothing until his body drooped and the spirit faded into the darkness which overtook the garden without his will to keep it alive. Realizing what she had done, the Rose cursed herself for her inadvertent cruelty. By the force of her grief, she followed him into death, leaving the earth to the inevitable decadence into cold, terrible emptiness.

Fin