rusakko

The sapling is small and insignificant. Still, through luck or sheer determination, it has managed to take root in a hairline crack running through the rock, so thin that Onni has never even noticed it before. Its delicate, sprightly green leaves seem out of place among the heavy greyness of the stones surrounding it.

He should really just pull it up. It won’t survive for long anyway. There’s not enough sustenance, not enough room for its roots to grow. It’s inevitably going to wither and die. Why prolong its suffering?

He spares it, though. In part because rowan is a holy tree, beloved by Rauni and a bringer of good luck. It isn’t wise to scorn the gifts the gods choose to give you, and despite his name, luck is something Onni has never had too much of.

Though it’s silly and sentimental, he also sees a light, bright will to live in the little tree. It fills him with equal parts of admiration and envy, but some soft little corner of his heart feels unable to crush it. So he allows the tiny rowan sapling that trembles even in the slightest breeze rippling over the lake to stay where it is, and after his initial surprise at its existence, doesn’t give it much thought. Not at first.

In hindsight, he should of course have seen the connection between his first encounter with the Icelander in his dreamspace and the appearance of the tree. Or at least wondered a little more at its rapid growth in the weeks following the ghost attack, as the redheaded boy kept pestering him, first over the radio and later in his dreams, too.

Perhaps he was too preoccupied with worrying about his sister and cousin to be observant, or perhaps he was unconsciously closing his eyes from the truth. In any case, it’s not until the first tiny white flowers begin to blossom among the leaves that Onni really becomes aware of how tall the tree has grown while he wasn’t looking. Taller than he is, certainly, and while its trunk is still slim, it is far too sturdy to be growing from that almost invisible fault in the rock.

Except that, when he walks over to investigate, Onni finds that the crack is significantly wider than he remembers. Looking closer, he also sees that new fault-lines have appeared, winding away from the rowan tree in every direction like a misshapen star. And, coincidence or not, the snaking grey-brown roots have found their way into every single crack in the rock, stubbornly digging themselves into barely existent crevices and refusing to let go. Onni couldn’t uproot it now even if he wanted to. Therefore, he doesn’t even try, though the soft rustling of the leaves is a constant, nagging presence at the back of his mind. Refusing to leave him alone, just like the Icelander.

He manages to keep his secret from Reynir for quite a long while, making sure not to let the redhead too far into his haven when he shows up (always unbidden, always making Onni’s nightly wake seem a little bleaker and lonelier after he leaves). And he keeps showing up whatever Onni says and does to try to keep him away. Although admittedly, Onni’s efforts grow less and less determined as time passes and the tree grows.

He’s sleeping with his back against the now thick and solid trunk when Reynir finally catches him unawares. The snow lies cold and smothering over the waking world, but in Onni’s dreamspace, the branches of the rowan tree are still green with leaves and hanging heavy with glossy, red berries. Onni often wonders if the berries would taste as tart in his dream as in the real world. He hasn’t dared to try yet.

As always, Reynir cheerfully brushes off Onni’s half-hearted admonishments about barging into his area uninvited. He settles down in the shade of the tree, looking perfectly at home, and looks up at the gently swaying branches above them, head cocked slightly to the side.

“I never noticed that you had a tree before! Has it always been here?”

“No,” Onni replies reluctantly. “But it’s been growing for a while, now.”

He hopes that this short answer will be enough to satisfy the Icelander’s curiosity. It isn’t, of course.

“I didn’t know that your haven could change like that. Do you think I could get a tree, too?”

“Maybe.” Onni doubts it, though. Dream areas will usually only change due to great emotional upheaval of one kind or another, and he can’t quite picture that happening to Reynir. He does briefly allow himself to wonder what might start growing in the Icelander’s haven if ‒ but he stops the train of thought before it runs off into a dangerous, uncharted direction.

Which, naturally, is the moment that Reynir’s face brightens up and he exclaims: “Hey, did you know that my name actually means ‒”

“Rowan. Yes, I am aware of that,” Onni replies tersely, unable to keep the heat from rising into his cheeks although he believes he manages to keep his voice gruff and unconcerned.

“…oh.” Onni can’t look at Reynir directly, having turned his face away to hide the traitorous colour washing over it, but out of the corner of his eye he sees the Icelander flush in turn as realization dawns.

Mercifully, Reynir doesn’t say anything for once. Maybe he’s as lost for words as Onni is. But he does shift closer, hesitantly at first and then, when Onni doesn’t move away or protest, edging even nearer until he’s leaning against Onni’s side. He’s solid and warm, and if Onni turned his head a little, their faces would be so close that they could taste each other’s breath.

But he doesn’t. It’s enough, for now, to lean back against the smooth tree trunk and feel shy fingers twining around his own, to look up at the never-changing sunset sky through the shadowy branches above them. In the waking world, the stars are paling as inky darkness makes way for the first grey light of dawn. But here, there is still time, and they are safe, for a moment, under the rowan tree.