THE
LAZARUS TREE
Cold sunlight hung dormant in the air; it was a pale, sickly light, as if the sun had become ill and could not shine as it was supposed to. But the rocks glistened nonetheless; miniscule flecks of metallic stone within them caught the light and shot it back in tiny shards. Jagged stones, tall and ancient as the heavens, rose all around the rough mountain pass like forgotten sentinels, doomed to stand guard for all eternity; impassable, unseeing, self-important soldiers, unheeded and unknown. The wind whipped across the barren stones, stinging with cold and carrying sand and dust around in circles, constantly going about its endless, useless task.
And amidst this desert of rocky crags, of unfeeling, lifeless stone, stood the Lazarus Tree. Its trunk rose straight and smooth, perfectly round and silvery-gray. Its branches separated at carefully calculated places, even and measured. Dull leaves hung from the Tree; untouched by the chill, harsh wind, they did not stir. Placed at even intervals among the leaves were round, wine-gold spheres: the legendary Lazarus Fruit, key to immortal life and youth.
Sitting at the base of the tree was a woman, clad in tight-fitting, glistening black leather. She was slender and beautiful; thin, dark lips, straight black hair, eyes cold and dull as the stone that surrounded her. She sat with her legs crossed, her back painfully rigid, her chin up. Her hands rested on her knees; a sword, its hilt wrapped in tightly braided leather the same hue as her clothing, was thrust into a pile of rocks beside her. Behind one ear her hair was streaked silver, the same dull pewter as the Tree. Over one temple hung a curious, round symbol, wrought of iron. She didn’t move, didn’t even seem to breathe.
She listened.
From far down the slope came the crunch of footsteps over rocky ground. Pebbles came loose and could be heard bouncing down the mountain as the traveler approached. Around a rocky ledge came a man, tall and strong. He clambered doggedly on; glancing up, he beheld the Tree.
The man stopped and stared, his jaw hanging open in awe. He stood in his tattered and travel-worn clothing, a true warrior’s sword at his belt. Then he saw the woman, and started; she had been so still that he had not seen her.
He stood up straighter and called loudly, “Is… is this the Lazarus Tree?”
The woman’s voice was cold. “Yes.”
The man hesitated. “Are you, then, the famed guardian of the Tree?”
“I am.”
The man grinned. “I had been expecting something a bit more… challenging.” He drew his sword. “I have sought this fruit for so many years, and now it is at last mine!”
He raised his sword and made ready to lunge – but before he could, the woman was on her feet, her sword whipped out of the rocks and hovering half an inch from his throat.
The man snarled and brought his sword under to take the woman in the stomach, but faster than he could follow, his sword was knocked from his grasp, and the woman’s blade was against his neck once more.
He swallowed frantically, looking wildly at the woman. “Mercy, please….” he begged.
The woman pressed the blade closer into his flesh. She brought her face close to his, opened her mouth, and hissed, like an unearthly, hellish serpent. The man’s eyes grew wide with fear –
-- and then his head was severed clean from his neck by the woman’s sword. His body hit the ground with a resounding crack – it had turned to stone.
On an uppermost branch of the Lazarus Tree, a small, golden brown bud appeared. It would soon blossom into a wine-colored sphere.
There was a small snapping sound among the branches of the Tree; one round fruit fell from a branch. The woman caught it deftly in one hand, and took a bite of the rich, tough flesh.
When the fruit was gone, a translucent, spectral hand appeared behind her, and slowly caressed her pale neck and ran quivering down her spine. An unearthly voice echoed from deep within the trunk of the Lazarus Tree:
Well done.
Without a word, the woman moved back to the Tree, and sat down to wait for her next prey.