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Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

The Listening Tree 
by Selah Janel 

The tree had been part of her since her life was not her own. It reminded Felicity of her other life when she’d taken music lessons in her private yard and dreamed of being courted. Now, the tree was her spot on the hill when she was broken. Its branches held her through her bitterness. It listened when she worried if her “foster parents” would sell her off, when her proud captors sneered in her face after they dragged her out of her shed and paraded her around on victory holidays. Her etiquette and poise could only hold so much. No matter how much she’d been trained, a stiff upper lip couldn’t combat sleeping in shack with no food or being whipped for acting above her station.

“I was a princess once,” she often whispered, just to remind herself. Maybe she still was, under the threadbare dress, grime on her face, callouses on her hands, scars on her back. She tried to smile for the tree and the sunset. That was how story heroines were – sweet, graceful, hopeful, even at the worst of times.

They also had magic guardians and miracles. All Felicity had was a destroyed kingdom and murdered family. Her life was tossed to those who would put up with her until she could be sacrificed for her enemy’s harvest.

The tree always listened. The evening sky never berated her or reminded her of how she’d fallen, never laughed at her empty stomach and rage-filled heart. The sea never beat her or dragged her back to the nightmares she tried to run away from. They listened when she told the tales of her homeland and lost herself in her own words. Nostalgia turned into epic tales of gods and monsters who were supposed to protect her family, whose teeth and fury were vivid in her mind and absent everywhere else. She poured stories and tears into the tree, the cliffs, the sea. When her voice was hoarse, her eyes cried out, she returned to where she had to be to avoid the worst punishments. They’d find her anyway. She could run, but escape through fleeing or death seemed impossible.

The day came, as it always would. Music played, but it wasn’t for her. The gathered cheered derisive shouts that called for her blood. Still, she walked with a straight back and placid expression as she was led to the cliffs in chains. Soon, it would all be over.

She thought the hush was due to anticipation as the executioner approached, thought the dark streaks of plum and flame were dusk coming early. The familiar fiery orb of the friendly sun danced through the tree’s branches, as if it her old friend held it aloft just for her.

The clouds danced through the sky with no wind. The glowing thing in the sky was not the sun.

She had not forgotten the stories of her kingdom. The old tales had not forgotten her.

The creatures that hid in the dusk’s beauty descended, devouring those who had mocked her, who had abused her, while the Fire watched on. The only proof of its opinions was that the entire kingdom burned to nothing by morning.

Felicity tried to block out the sounds, yet embraced their pain. In time, she found she could watch the things that lived in old wives’ tales rip her captors to shreds. As blood and remains flowed over into the sea, she watched with the practiced, placid care her mother had taught her.

The Fire watched her, as it had for so long. It descended and filled her. She was the only one left who it knew and it couldn’t lose her. If any of her tormentors had been left, they would not have seen a prisoner nor war prize. They would not have seen a princess. They would have seen her for who she truly, finally was: vengeance.

When it was over, Felicity strode back down toward the hill, bemused and no longer herself. No longer human, but better. There was work to do, that there were more places to crush, more pain to inflict to those who needed it. It was time for new adventures, new stories, new blood.

She smiled and whistled as she walked back to the road and beyond, flames in her eyes, and in the steps she left behind. The tree listened to the tune until she disappeared out of sight of the cliffs.

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Fiction © Copyright Selah Janel
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

More from Author Selah Janel:

Mooner

Like many young men at the end of the 1800s, Bill signed on to work in a logging camp. The work is brutal, but it promised a fast paycheck with which he can start his life. Unfortunately, his role model is Big John. Not only is he the camp’s hero, but he’s known for spending his pay as fast as he makes it. On a cold Saturday night they enter Red’s Saloon to forget the work that takes the sweat and lives of so many men their age. Red may have plans for their whiskey money, but something else lurks in the shadows. It watches and badly wants a drink that has nothing to do with alcohol. Can Bill make it back out the shabby door, or does someone else have their own plans for his future?

Available on Amazon!