A Tree By Any Other Name, by cairistiona
Mar. 7th, 2012 01:16 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
cairistiona7.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
b2memB2MeM Challenge: B10 Botany "Rowan"; Economy "Scarcity"; Talents and Skills "Gardening"; Weather "Cloudy"
Format: Ficlet
Genre: Fluff
Rating: G
Warnings: Very slight spoilers for my story "No Better Name"
Characters: My OC's Bowen Rushlight and Owen Estel Rushlight
Pairings: None
Summary: Questions, answers and flights of fancy. In other words, a moment between father and young son.
“It’s a rowan tree, or will be. Right now I guess you’d just have to call it a rowan twig.” Bowen Rushlight pressed the dirt carefully around the young seedling. “They’re a bit scarce in our lands, so when I found this little one growing beneath a great tall one deep in our north woods, I chanced to dig it up and bring it home.”
Little five-year-old Owen Estel squatted beside him and regarded it with solemn eyes. “How big will it be, Da’? Big as me?”
“Oh, much, much bigger. It’ll be a great tall thing by the time it’s grown.”
“As tall as you?”
“Much taller.”
“Will birdies like it, Da’? An’ squills?”
“Squirrels, son.”
“Squills.”
Bowen ruffled Owen’s hair, getting dirt on the light brown locks. He’ll learn to talk right and proper someday, he supposed. “Yes, birds and squirrels will like it.”
Owen Estel looked up at the sky. “Does it like sunny days or cloudy days best?”
“I imagine it likes both. Sunshine makes it grow tall and have pretty leaves, and cloudy days means it might get a nice drink.” He reached for the bucket of water. “But right now, there aren’t any clouds, so we’ll give him a drink ourselves.”
“What’s its name, Da’?”
“It’s called a rowan tree.”
“But what’s its name?”
“What do you mean?”
“It pro’ly has a name, just like me. Did you ask it?”
Well now, there was a stumper. How does a fellow ask a tree its name? Bowen put the bucket down and looked at his young son. “I can’t say that I did. Why don’t you ask it for me?”
Owen Estel looked at the tree, then held out a finger and ran it along the smooth bark. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then nodded. “He says his name is Rowlie.”
“Like Rowlie Appledore down in Bree?”
Owen grinned. “Wait’ll I tell Rowlie him and a tree has the same name!” He stood up and put his hand in Bowen’s. “Da’, can trees walk?”
“No, son. Trees don’t walk.”
“What if they did?”
“Well now, I suppose you’d have to step lively when you’re in the woods, so you don’t get stepped on.”
“I want to see a walking tree someday.”
Bowen didn’t know quite what to say to that, so he just gave Owen’s hand a squeeze. “Come on, son. We’ve more gardening to attend to. Those tomatoes won’t plant themselves.”
Owen Estel waved good-bye to Rowlie the Rowan tree, and together they headed over to the tomato patch, and for the rest of the day, Owen Estel told his da’ stories about walking trees and the squills that hopped around in their branches, and Bowen listened and sent thankful thoughts toward Strider, wherever he might be, for saving his happy, dream-filled little son.
A/N: The story of Owen Estel’s birth and Strider’s hand in it can be found in my story, “No Better Name”, at Stories of Arda.
Format: Ficlet
Genre: Fluff
Rating: G
Warnings: Very slight spoilers for my story "No Better Name"
Characters: My OC's Bowen Rushlight and Owen Estel Rushlight
Pairings: None
Summary: Questions, answers and flights of fancy. In other words, a moment between father and young son.
“It’s a rowan tree, or will be. Right now I guess you’d just have to call it a rowan twig.” Bowen Rushlight pressed the dirt carefully around the young seedling. “They’re a bit scarce in our lands, so when I found this little one growing beneath a great tall one deep in our north woods, I chanced to dig it up and bring it home.”
Little five-year-old Owen Estel squatted beside him and regarded it with solemn eyes. “How big will it be, Da’? Big as me?”
“Oh, much, much bigger. It’ll be a great tall thing by the time it’s grown.”
“As tall as you?”
“Much taller.”
“Will birdies like it, Da’? An’ squills?”
“Squirrels, son.”
“Squills.”
Bowen ruffled Owen’s hair, getting dirt on the light brown locks. He’ll learn to talk right and proper someday, he supposed. “Yes, birds and squirrels will like it.”
Owen Estel looked up at the sky. “Does it like sunny days or cloudy days best?”
“I imagine it likes both. Sunshine makes it grow tall and have pretty leaves, and cloudy days means it might get a nice drink.” He reached for the bucket of water. “But right now, there aren’t any clouds, so we’ll give him a drink ourselves.”
“What’s its name, Da’?”
“It’s called a rowan tree.”
“But what’s its name?”
“What do you mean?”
“It pro’ly has a name, just like me. Did you ask it?”
Well now, there was a stumper. How does a fellow ask a tree its name? Bowen put the bucket down and looked at his young son. “I can’t say that I did. Why don’t you ask it for me?”
Owen Estel looked at the tree, then held out a finger and ran it along the smooth bark. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then nodded. “He says his name is Rowlie.”
“Like Rowlie Appledore down in Bree?”
Owen grinned. “Wait’ll I tell Rowlie him and a tree has the same name!” He stood up and put his hand in Bowen’s. “Da’, can trees walk?”
“No, son. Trees don’t walk.”
“What if they did?”
“Well now, I suppose you’d have to step lively when you’re in the woods, so you don’t get stepped on.”
“I want to see a walking tree someday.”
Bowen didn’t know quite what to say to that, so he just gave Owen’s hand a squeeze. “Come on, son. We’ve more gardening to attend to. Those tomatoes won’t plant themselves.”
Owen Estel waved good-bye to Rowlie the Rowan tree, and together they headed over to the tomato patch, and for the rest of the day, Owen Estel told his da’ stories about walking trees and the squills that hopped around in their branches, and Bowen listened and sent thankful thoughts toward Strider, wherever he might be, for saving his happy, dream-filled little son.
A/N: The story of Owen Estel’s birth and Strider’s hand in it can be found in my story, “No Better Name”, at Stories of Arda.
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