there was once a man i knew.. his name was arthur.
arthur, in his living days, was a mediocre man, who lived a mediocre life. his mother and father lived and died; his sister did not keep close contact with him long after.
arthur was odd. he always had been, according to his journal entries. he did not keep friends, often too lost picking flowers and enjoying the little bugs he found.
i remember, i think he liked moths the most...
he grew up, his parents died of illness. he told his sister, i want to find something new, to make a mark on the world. i don't want to leave without being remembered.
she, however, wanted to grieve before listening to her brother's plan to move on. rightfully so.
... right. he wanted to make a discovery to share, so that he could start something for the future's sake. or, something along those lines, does that make sense?
that's what he told me..
and so the lonely man, in his lonely pursuit, moved to a lonely place; grey and dreary, as he had known his life to be. the trees were colored like ash, but they were not burned. though, flecks of orange eyes scattered like embers, watching the man wearily.
fascinating, i remember him remarking - that from the grass on the ground, to the leaves in the trees, there was no color but orange. only light to dark, dark to light - and the trees' warm gaze.
but his life was filled with such color at the discovery - arthur adored it. he fell in love with the forest, and it seemed the forest loved him, as its main residents - he found that they were - took an odd liking to the first stranger to visit them.
he watered their flowers, tended to their saplings, attempted to understand them. they, in return, allowed him to use their wood to build a home, to protect his recordings and research to understand. there, arthur lived for many, many years.
but the thing about humans.. they don't live as long as trees.
yes.. it's a little vague, but.. i think he was sick. like his parents - he coughed, and for the first time, our pale garden saw crimson stain its grass.
arthur couldn't reach out to anyone. there were no humans nearby besides him, let alone doctors that could help him. medicine is quite hard to obtain when you've lost contact with the outside world.
it was cruel, and it was painful.. but, as he laid in the fallen leaves that made his deathbed..
i heard him sob. he wept - so, so much. that loneliness, isolation - he knew he was going to die alone.
so i decided.. that he wouldn't do that.
i remember the way my roots held him, curling up and cradling him so gently. somehow, i knew he never felt that before, and it hurt for him to speak.. but i knew he wanted to say 'thank you'.
i whispered to him, i told him how loved he was, but i don't know if he heard my voice over the wind. but that's okay.
he died within my roots.
i met him, for a moment. arthur, i mean - the real one. i felt my roots creep into his chest to hold his heart dear.
i loved him, and i saw him smile. i saw his lips spell 'thank you', as i gave my heart to him, and he gave his own to me.
then i woke up, and he woke up with me, and my heart and soul were his as much as his were mine.
and i loved him. and he loved me. and we loved ourself.
