Flowers bloomed all around.

Daisies, black-eyed Susans, clovers, milkweed, and dandelions bobbed in a light breeze that smelled of fresh growth and damp soil. Sunlight fell over low rolling hills and pooled in the dips between, and clouds were scattered in fluffy handfuls in a rich blue sky.

Two boys sat together on one of those low hills, one behind and the other in front, very patient as his hair was braided.

Amandis worked slowly, and plucked flowers from the hillside to weave them in Diadne's hair. He'd had a lot of practice, and his fingers were skilled as a result. He probably could have finished the braid in a matter of minutes. But Diadne's hair was like threads of gold, soft as down, and smooth as the fine silks that passed in caravans through their village, and so it was always the same--Amandis took his time just to savor the feeling.

The wind blew again. Birds glided overhead. Children played in the distant town, and the ghost of laughter reached their ears over the meadow. At last Amandis was satisfied and finished the braid, tying it off with a bow.

"Done," he said.

Diadne swept it over his shoulder for a look, then cast an amused glance back at him. "You put half the meadow in it. You know it's a pain picking all these out at night, right?"

"Stay at my place, I'll take them out for you."

Diadne shook his head, still with a smile. There was a moment of quiet before he spoke again and said, "When I die, plant flowers on my grave. Then my spirit will live on forever."

The words came out of nowhere, but Amandis wasn't surprised. Whimsical things like this came out of Diadne's mouth all the time, and that was just one of many things Amandis liked about him.

"What are you talking about? You can't die before me."

He wrapped Diadne in his arms and planted a kiss at the corner of his jaw.

The words were spoken lightly, but deep in his heart, Amandis prayed that they would be true.

Diadne smiled and leaned against him, and for a while, on that ordinary spring day, Heaven embraced them both.

~<>~

Two years later, side by side, two boys departed from a quiet village in the plains and joined their kingdom's military. When they reached their destination, Amandis gave Diadne a necklace with an enchanted seed burrowed in its center.

Neither of them said as much, but their idle, comfortable lives were gone, and when they locked eyes, each could tell the other knew.

~<>~

Diadne was a simple man. He thought that's what people would say if someone asked what he was like. Nothing about him was exceptional, save maybe for his hair, but that had all been cut at his shoulders.

He liked flowers, springtime, and was very fond of honey. The only other thing he was very animated about--and he thought people would also say this if asked--was not a thing but actually a person, the man he'd grown up alongside. Amandis.

Right now, Amandis's blood soaked his clothes.

It was slick, sticky, and cooled all too quickly in the snowfall. His hand, clutched around Amandis's right side, was already stained red and numb. Though in truth, he wasn't sure whose blood had painted it, nor whether the numbness was due to the cold night air or blood loss. His other hand was only in slightly better condition, and the only sensation left there was pain in his joints from keeping an iron grip on Amandis's wrist.

Side by side, with his arm around his friend's waist and Amandis's over his shoulders, Diadne carried them both through the thickening snow. He'd shed his mortal agony somewhere behind them. He was hardly better off than Amandis, but all he felt was a deep chill, and a fatigue he knew would bring his last rest.

He couldn't say why he was going to the trouble of dragging Amandis through the snow, away from the battlefield. They'd both known that someday they would die in battle and be left to rot on the fields of war. It was their fate, their duty as soldiers.

Maybe it was just that he thought that that fate was far too cruel for someone he'd loved for so long.

If possible, he would've wanted Amandis to live a long life, one full of luxury and free of hardship, and with many people to mourn his death when it came, gently and quietly, to whisk him away in the night. Or to at least die painlessly, in a meadow under the spring sun, as if he were only nodding off for a nap. He'd always loved to do that.

But now that he could feel his friend's life draining out on his side, Diadne found that there was no storm in his heart. No monsoon to pour from him in strangled sobs and searing tears. There was a lake, perhaps. A vast, unending grief, too deep to perceive the bottom.

But it was peaceful. He thought maybe that's because he was dying too. That, at least, gave him a wisp of joy.

They passed into a little antre, where there was shelter from the snow. Diadne helped Amandis to sit against the rough stone.

A rattling sigh escaped Amandis's lips. How familiar that sigh was, how horrid it was now. When Amandis spoke, his voice was wet and congealed.

"What a shame." He coughed faintly, and red tinted his pale lips. "If I'd made it home from this. . ."

His gaze seemed distant, but he blinked then and shook his head. "Hey, Diadne, let's meet again next time, yeah? Maybe. . .if I'm lucky, you can be mine then."

Diadne smiled. "Next time."

It was a vow, even though he knew there was no way either of them could keep it.

Amandis smiled back for a brief second before he was overcome with harsh coughs. Blood welled in his mouth and dripped from his chin. These were his last moments.

Gently, Diadne took Amandis's face in his hands, and for the last time, he kissed lips that were already cold.

Amandis breathed his last with the ghost of joy on his face.

Diadne went back into the snowfall and stumbled on.

For minutes, or for hours. After however long, he reached the edge of a wood, and the last of his strength faded. He fell into the snow, closed his eyes, and discovered that peace wasn't the right word for how he felt. Acceptance would be a better word.

But there was still a bitter regret within him that in the end, he was dying alone, an unbelievable distance from his family and friends.

That was the last thought he had time for. In the cold, still night, his breath scattered and disappeared.

Next to him, lying on the snow, his pendant lit with a soft glow and unfurled a sprout.

Spring came late to the plains that year.

Snow lingered in the hollows long after it should have gone, and the earth was slow to soften. When it finally did, it did so all at once—muddy, fragrant, impatient. Green pushed through gray in thin, stubborn threads.

A patrol passed the edge of a wood one morning and stopped.

None of the soldiers could later say who noticed it first. Perhaps it was the color—too vivid for so early in the season. Or perhaps it was simply that life, where death had reigned so completely, demanded to be seen.

At the forest’s lip, where the snow must once have lain deepest, a small patch of flowers had bloomed.

Daisies, clover, milkweed, and dandelions crowded together as if afraid of being alone. Black-eyed Susans lifted their faces to the sun. They grew in a rough oval, dense and deliberate, fed by soil that had been torn and trampled and soaked dark the winter before.

At the center of them all stood a young tree.

It was no taller than a man, its bark still smooth, its branches thin and flexible. Fresh leaves trembled in the breeze, pale green and luminous. At its base, half-hidden by blossoms, lay the rusted remains of a broken chain and a dulled pendant casing, split open and empty.

The soldiers did not linger. War teaches people how to move on quickly. Still, one of them reached out and brushed his fingers over a petal as he passed.

“They grow fast,” he murmured, though no one had asked.

Years passed.

The battlefield became a memory, then a story, then a footnote. The kingdom’s borders shifted. Roads were laid. Caravans once again crossed the plains, their silks flashing like water under the sun.

Travelers came to know the place by reputation.

There was a tree at the edge of the wood that never failed to bloom. Even in harsh years, even when frost came early or rain came late, flowers gathered faithfully at its roots. Children wove crowns there. Lovers rested in its shade. The air always smelled faintly of honey and fresh growth.

No marker named who lay beneath it.

But sometimes, when the wind was just right, the branches bent toward one another, crossing and uncrossing like careful fingers at work. Sometimes petals drifted down in pairs, landing side by side.

And if one sat very still—quiet enough to hear the grass move—there was the sense of being held. Not by Heaven, perhaps, but by something gentler. Something earned.

The flowers bloomed.

They always did.

Diadne was a simple dryad. Nothing about him was very exceptional, except perhaps for his liking of humans, and no one of his kind understood exactly what about them drew him in.

He liked flowers, springtime, and was very fond of bees, because they made honey, and he had an inkling that it probably tasted very good.

He lived at the edge of a forest and a meadow. Beyond the forest and near the coast was a prosperous town. It was a vital resting point for caravans and other traders, and the revenue they brought in had subsequently turned what used to be only a small fisherman's town into a flourishing port and trading post that was honestly on the verge of becoming a small city. That town was home to many young children, adults in their prime, and elderly humans whiling away their remaining years.

If you asked the passersby what the Lovers' Tree was like, they would tell you that it was pretty but on the whole rather ordinary.

If you asked the local elders, they would simply chuckle and tell you to go ask the tree.

Diadne adored humans, indeed. For a long time, he had been a friend of that town's citizens.

For a long time, he had waited.

What exactly he waited for, he couldn't remember. He felt it in his roots, in the leaves and the blossoms that sprouted from his branches, the way he always felt winter coming. But whereas winter was wearying, always making him sluggish and eventually lulling him into a thick, dark slumber, this was a feeling more like static electricity. It hummed beneath his bark, excited his sap, and made him look forward to each day with vigor.

He awoke the first spring with this feeling, and this spring marked the hundred seventeenth since then.

Today, the last of the snow had finally melted in the morning sun, and he was awake and alert once more. To his delight, a young man came along at noon and settled between two of his roots.

The young man let out a heavy sigh. Diadne quietly seeped from the back of his trunk and crept away, then came back, letting his footfalls announce his arrival. In his experience, this was the best way to approach adults.

He came to a stop at the young man's side. He seemed to be a soldier of some kind, with symbols stamped into his chestplate and its shoulders. He also wore a fine cape of vibrant red, and at his hip was a longsword in a gilt sheath. Despite his youth and obvious status, or perhaps because of these things, he seemed very troubled.

Diadne spoke up and said as much. Humans were creatures who loved to tell others about their problems, and he was a tree who loved to listen.

The young man looked up at him. He smiled wryly, perhaps even self-mockingly. "I became a paladin to help people, but I haven't done much helping at all."

Diadne had lent ear to many humans. He'd heard many stories, and even larger amounts of complaints. But this sort of complaining was rare.

He sat beside the young man with his legs crossed. He asked in a gentle voice, "Are you sure you haven't helped, or does it only feel that way?"

"I haven't." The young man sighed once more. "In fact, everywhere I go, I just cause trouble. I can't even properly use my blessing."

Diadne pondered for a long moment. "Well, how long have you followed your god? I've heard that, in the beginning, many paladins struggle to draw on their blessing, and even end up making messes as a result." He smiled. "Some say that it's a sort of initiation, even. Many experienced paladins have gone through such a thing. To me, it seems that whether or not one persists decides whether or not their god will bestow them with a blessing that they can truly make use of."

The youth sat up and crossed his legs, copying Diadne's posture perhaps unconsciously. He looked more at ease now as he met Diadne's gaze. "You don't look any older than me, but you're so. . .wisened."

Diadne chuckled. "I've met many people, that's all. What's your name?"

"Nicholas. Nicholas Trinid."

He reached out a hand, and Diadne shook it. "I'm Diadne. It's good to meet you, Sir Nicholas."

For a time, they sat in silence. Then, Nicholas spoke. "You. . .seem a little sad."

Once again, Diadne smiled. This youth, he thought, was very unique.

"I've been waiting on something for a long time." The words came in the same soft and gentle tone he always used. Now, he realized that it was a rather melancholy type of voice. "My whole life, in fact."

"What are you waiting for?"

He looked up at the sky. Today it was a gorgeous blue, dotted with clouds that looked soft enough to sleep on. "I'm not sure. I suppose I'll never know until it happens."

Nicholas made a puzzled face. ". . .Like fate?"

His lips curved. "Not quite. I believe it's something greater than fate."

And he would wait as long as he needed to, or until his life as this town's Lovers' Tree came to a close.

At his roots, there had once been a necklace broken in halves. Now it had rusted and returned to the earth, but when he remembered it, he felt as if it symbolized some promise he had made. A promise someone had made to him as well.

He would wait as long as it took for them to keep it.