“I am the Oak,” his father roared, final words before a flurry of steel and blood.  

The boy crouched in the alley, terror seizing his chest.  The Oak uprooted and fell, but not quietly.

The boy ran, mocking voices chasing him farther than steps ever would.

For years he survived.  Bitter toil in a city without mercy.  He had no roots, no purpose. A seed without soil.  Survival was less than life. So the boy stopped surviving and became something more.

Hard thoughts fueled him.  

Dark deeds sustained him.  

His heart became dry.  

The boy grew and knew what violence was.  He embraced it and, for a time, it was all he knew.  His name was whispered when fires grew low. Those who knew it looked over shoulders before speaking.Little of the seed remained.

Then She came, seeing life in the withered seed.  Like spring rain, She fell to earth and the boy, now a man, found himself stuck.  Resist as he might, the shell cracked and root touched soil. Together they left, stepping clear of the past.  

They bathed in the sun, roots spread and took to earth.  They grew deep as the years passed and, as one, they reached up toward the light.

Yet dark deeds are never forgotten.

He was gone when they arrived.  Come for a price on his head, they severed his roots and left before the dawn.

Nights passed and they woke to find a stranger in their camp, face shrouded by darkness, naked steel glinting in the firelight.

“Who’s there?” one asked as fellows stirred from their beds.

A moment passed and the man stood.

“I am the Oak,” he whispered and death filled the night.