“Hey! No digging here!”
Branimir shook his fist at the tree branches above where startled bluejays gathered, squawking in shock and a touch of dismay that their singular focus for foraging treats was interrupted. Their confusion evident in the twisting of their heads and blinking, crying out their claim, their assurances they’d buried the acorns themselves did nothing to sway the angry little elven fairy from his task.
Branimir held firm, the acorns were his now, to defend and protect, the bluejays shrugged, immediately disinterested if there were no easy snacks to be had and leapt to the sky. Branimir scowled after them, following with narrowed green eyes, not daring to leave this small patch of earth alone. There were plenty of other acorns for the birds to feast on, but the one Branimir had sensed just below the surface of the still, cold earth was different.
It held the spirit of the mighty oak tree, no longer spreading it’s branches in this realm, but it’s magical roots held strong, reaching through space and time, sharing the secrets of the past and hints of the future to the forest fae who listened.
It’s acorns, carried across the world, by the very birds Branimir hissed at, shaking a clenched fist at their retreating tail feathers, had the potential to grow a special, word changing oak. One with the spirit of fae, who, given the chance, might stretch beyond the confines of root and bark and leaf and emerge into the world a new being, an Oakling.
If Branimir was patient, and kept this small, bare patch of dirt safe from curious jays and greedy squirrels, the tree had a chance.
“Let them try.” He muttered, a hundred years or a thousand, he’d not give up his post.
Leave a Reply