Through Dreaming Trees by Lferion

Through Dreaming Trees

Read Through Dreaming Trees

<p>The tree-lined ways were a labyrinth, Fingon decided. A stately avenue of silver-barked, copper-leaved beeches led one way, Hawthorns in full pink and white bloom led another, while fruit trees in bloom and fruit and fall-turned leaves wound between. As Fingon walked along, it seemed the seasons touched trees at not-quite-random, though the paths (tracks, roads, boulevards, overgrown trails, neat stepping stones...) remained an even, refreshing temperature with a slight breeze, untouched by winter snow or spring showers. He could smell the wet leaves, the flowers, the summer-warmed fruit. The nuts that fell into his hand tasted rich and ripe.</p>

<p>It was a labyrinth, but not a maze. There were no abrupt ends, paths that simply stopped with nowhere to go but back. Always another tree, another stone, another set of footprints, hoofprints, tracks in the sand or grass or leaf-mould. Always a way onward. Was that not his life in a nutshell? Finding a way, making a path, onward, upward, jumping in feet-first, sometimes aware of what might be around the next bend, over the next pass, just as often not. Often armed with little more than hope. Was this how he would go forward into a new life?</p>

<p>He sat down on a stone under a hazel brake, catkins moving in the faint breeze. Was this a dreamscape or a truth? Irmo's gardens dream-shaped to his need? And what was that need, however presented? -- What, after all, were Irmo's Gardens but dreamt reality, substance summoned from thought, from vision, from fear and grief, joy and hope? Or was there another way to be that he could take? Holding to hope, yes, but tempering the impetuosity, honing advertance. No, he thought, that is not the counsel of this road. A prudent lesson, yes, but not that of the path.</p>

<p>It was not a maze, and he was not trapped in it. Parts might seem to repeat, but he was not going in circles. Spirals perhaps, but not circles, closed, constant. The only way out is through. He got to his feet. Before him ran a smooth expanse of red-and-gold sand leading between two living pillars and out into a wide space bounded with purple mountains, roofed with a brilliant sky.</p>

<p>The sun-light, star-dark, color bannering the skies of both: night passes, day comes again: the waking world awaits. He took a deep breath and stepped forward to greet it.</p>