Oh, Tree of Woe
Wonders no more grow beneath your bough.
Pity us lost kin
For under your leaves we know only sorrow.
The King is gone, the Queen eats his shadow.
The old Keeper sows rot in roots gone fallow.
Give us salvation or give us fire.
To escape the Tree of Woe our last and only desire.
"Do you hate me?"
The briar vine made a whistling sound as it flew through the air to smack sharply into Spero's back. The storm grey fur there dampened the blow some, but still the thorns found their way through to bury their wicked points into his hide. His sharp inhale of breath was followed quickly behind by the shaking of his head.
"Do you resent me for hurting you?" The voice was a monotonous drone, as if the speaker could not be bothered to put effort into adding emphasis and inflection. It was in stark contrast to the effort put into each lash of the briar vine. "Do you find solace in thoughts of revenge; pleasure in imagining hurting me back?"
Once again, the thorny whip dug into his exposed back making the skin beneath his fur feel as if it were on fire. A hiss of pain escaped through his clenched teeth, and not for the first time that day, Spero lamented the absence of his armor. Even just the comforting weight of it would have been a balm against the sharp needling of the thorns.
"No, Prefector. My emotions are anger and resentment, but my mind is strong." Spero did not look up from the polished wood of the great limb they were on. Instead, he stared intently at the grain patterns; letting their swirls calm him. "I know my emotions lie. They would have me believe you hurt me only to cause pain. But my mind knows you do it only to teach, and you teach because you care."
The words were true. Spero did feel anger at the tall form of the Prefector who stood behind him. But it was anger detached from action. It had no place in his decisions. These last few years training with the monks of the High Canopy had taught him much; key amongst which was how not to be controlled by one's emotions.
"If you speak true, initiate Spero, then arise and receive thy bindment."
The thorny vine lashed against Spero's back one last time, as if to punctuate the Prefector's words. Grimacing through the pain that now ran in hot lines from his back all the way down to his tail, he turned around to face the Prefector and stood up on his two hind legs to reach his full height. Even then, he was a full foot shorter than the towering form of the monk before him.
The Prefector stood at ease, looking calm and comfortable in the shimmering silk robes that were the uniform of the monks of the High Canopy. His dull orange fur peeked out at the sleeves and framed his head like a glowing halo in the afternoon light. Even as gibbons went, the Prefector was abnormally tall and thin of frame. His body language was of one in control and at peace with the world; all that marred the image was the bloody vine whip in one hand and the three missing fingers from the other. Something long ago had ripped those fingers off of the gibbon, and from what remained of the hand it had been a particularly violent severing.
With slow movement born of ritual reverence, Spero presented his left arm to the Prefector. Long primate fingers grasped the thorny vine in both hands, mindless of the tiny pricks and cuts it caused, and began to tie the vine around Spero's upper front arm. Sharp jabs brought fresh pain as the Prefector wound and wove the vine in an intricate pattern, and if the gibbon was aware of the discomfort he was causing it did not seem to bother him at all.
"With this vine, you are bound, initiate Spero. Bound to the will and the way of the High Canopy." The impassive ape-like face of the Prefector never betrayed any excitement, though his words were tinged with reverence as he spoke the phrases of the ritual of binding. "Bound not in emotion, but in thought. Not in passion, but in purpose. Bound in service to the Great Tree, from the top of its canopy to the very bottom of its roots. Bound to guide the world to the path of mindful salvation."
