X-Trees| Volume One: Welcome Home

Prologue

Jean Redwood was his greatest failure, simply because he'd never gotten to hear her scream.

But there is no purpose in dwindling in the past; not when such a bright future was upon them. He glides to another row, eyes lost in the sea of plaques, twin ships at sea without a beacon to direct them home. He was vilified for the purity the Petrify Fungus brought the world, but that was because Trees grew shallow nowadays. No longer were their roots deep and wide, penetrative, searching for answers, for better soil, for the promised land of Yggdrasil. And what they failed to recognize, what minds like Cypress Xavier refused to see, was that greatness awaited in the ashes, that the mightiest of forests grew from the ruination of cities, a price he'd easily pay.

"I didn't come here to watch you bask in past successes." Leave it to Archangel, a large maple, with his bruised purplish bark and narrow gaze, to remain ignorant, to not understand that true life starts in death.

"I always like the dead, you know why?" Archangel tenses, his large branches stiff and unrelenting, his wings poised and razor-sharp, ready to attack. If he was so rash to do so, he would fail, yet again. The corners of the figure's lips, stained black as night, twist into a smirk. He is amused by Archangel's posturing, and confident such a threat would never come to fruition. "It's because," he continues, running gnarled fingers along the point of his chin, "they know how to stay quiet."

A primal growl gurgles up from the depths of Archangel's throat. It is raw and nasty, and reverberates with a lifetime's worth of hatred.

The figure smiles, his eyes glowing from deep within his hood. Archangel never failed to be entertaining. "If you were to try and kill me here and now, Walnut, how many failures would that make? A dozen?" He takes a lumbering step forward, the forest recoiling, every blade of grass, dying leaf and needle of pine desperate to escape this monster's claws. The figure is honored to be seen as such, though he'd much prefer the label of 'visionary' to that of 'monster.' But beggars couldn't be choosers, could they? "Two dozen?" he continues. Archangel's inorganic razor feathers screech together in agitation. The figure's grin widens maliciously. "More than that small brain of yours can keep track of?"

Quick as lightning striking a Great Oak, Archangel's arm snaps outward, his fingers digging into the figure's neck.

The figure is not alarmed. He is calm, composed. Even as Archangel lifts him skyward, the tips of his roots dangling above the forest floor. He's never seen Walnut look so impressive, so downright sinister.

But the figure is fearless; he has long since moved beyond such inconvenient musings. His reaction is one of cool-headed logic - he reaches into his robes, procures a shovel and casts it into the dirt. Archangel breathes heavily, the few remaining organic leaves atop his head trembling. The fight of right and wrong rages in his expression, the Tree wavering between revenge and mercy. It's this agony, this constant pull between light and dark, that keeps Walnut from achieving perfection.

A mind could only be set free when the conscious fell to the wayside.

"You didn't come here to chat," he says, Archangel's fingers continuing to constrict his airway. His throat clenches, and the forest dips into shadow as his vision grows unstable but he does not let this discomfort show. "Just as I didn't come here to fight." He raises one of his branch-arms and motions toward the shovel, then the grave. "I summoned you to dig."

Archangel sneers, his nails digging into the figure's bark. Dark black sap oozes from the wounds. He smile is smeared in black and vile; it is one that chills Archangel to his core. Finally, Archangel relents and throws his arm back along his side. The figure lumbers forward, a wet cackle escaping his lips.

Walnut boughs forward, and, with a grunt, plucks the shovel from the ground. He spears the earth, turning over soil and twig and earthworm. Digging, as he was commanded to do.

The figure takes his time, straightening his robes, adjusting his hood. He disregards the sap staining his pale, white bark. "How good of you to finally do the work you were called upon to do," he comments.

Archangel bites back the words he wishes to spit at the figure's roots. Instead, he digs. The work, mindless and exhausting. It isn't until the sun has begun setting that the casket is unearthed. Eight feet beneath the ground, a modest coffin. Light gray, satin finish. A large 'X' engraved on the top.

The figure sidles up to Archangel. Looming over the coffin, a bark of delight rolls off his tongue, scaring the crows from their nests. The wind doesn't dare howl.

All is quiet save for the forest's guest as he repeats each word etched onto the grave's headstone.

"Beloved friend. Family. Husband. Leader. Hero." Lips like oil slicks part, the figure's big, black eyes, wet and glassy.

Archangel thinks it preposterous that his companion might cry, but so was the nature of bittersweet reunions.

"It's been a while, Scott."