With the passing of time
The forest was beautiful. It had to be ancient. Age-old trees stood wide apart, leaving broad open spots where the sun was free to shine on the grass and the moss, allowing small flowers to grow. Younger trees grew where older trees had died, combining young leaves with the darker ones of the ancient trees. Over the whole forest spread a feeling of peace and tranquility. It was truly a magistral forest. In a forest like this anything could happen. Forest like these were described in legends. Not in legends containing evil trees that moved in the night and whose leaves rustled even when there was no wind, whispering of black deeds and dark dreams, evil trees that lured and trapped innocent wanderers. Oh, no. Not this forest. These were the kind of woods that might contain all kinds of wondrous creatures, unicorns, perhaps, or elves.
The man wandering through the forest hardly had eyes for the beauty surrounding him. The peace of the forest he didn't feel. He was lost and angry. The stag he had been chasing for so long, for hours, had led him to these woods and there it had disappeared. He couldn't find a trace of the stag anymore, and that was ridiculous. He had never lost a trail before! And yet, it was gone.
He just had to find it. The stag was a magnificient animal, larger and more beautiful than any he had ever seen before. And he had seen quite a lot of them. What was more, the stag had led him to this part of the woods. And although the man had hunted in these surroundings for years, he had never been here.
How long had it been since he had lost the trail? He had wandered for hours, first merely to look for the stag's trail, later - in growing anger and bewilderment - for his own. He had no trouble following his own trail back, at first. But as he went on, it grew more and more confusing, until at last it, too, ended.
The man grew more frustrated by the second. Anger seemed to radiate from him in waves. He looked up at the tree which marked the end of his trail. It was a large oak. No, it was huge. This oak had to be ancient, too, perhaps as old as the forest surrounding it. Perhaps even older. It seemed to be the symbol of the forest itself, the heart of the woods. To the hunter, it was suddenly all that had happened to him this day. The beauty of the tree was the symbol of the trickery of the woods. There was a malevolent gleam in his eyes as the man unslung the axe that was strapped over his shoulder.
"I wonder how old it is," he muttered, as he readied himself for the first stroke. He grinned, grinned like a maniac. "Well. I'll soon find out." The axe fell, its blade glistening in the sun.
The metal bit in the wood and the tree moaned. It sounded as if the tree was alive and crying out in pain. The hunter's grin widened. Again the axe rose, again it fell. The tree shuddered in the impact, leaves fell as if autumn had come early, and the wood screamed. Again the man lifted the axe.
Behind him, unnoticed, something seemed to shift, to move. Sunlight and shadow seemed to chase each other for a moment. Suddenly, where hitherto only leaves and grass had been, there stood someone. With two, three, curiously gliding movements, he moved until he was standing next to the man. There he remained watching, impassively, until the hunter had finished his killing job. The man never noticed a thing. Not until he laid the axe aside. Then he heard a cold voice whispering in his ear.
"It was twelve thousand, three hundred and eighty-one years old. I've watched it grow."
The hunter looked up. It was hard, for each word, each syllable, had increased the cold he could hear and feel, until by the time the voice had finished he could hardly move at all. For a brief moment the man had an impression of someone tall and slender, with pointy ears, delicate features and old, wise and above all angry eyes. Then, mercifully, he passed out.
He awoke, and that was more than he expected. He was still alive. The elf hadn't killed him. He felt stiff and tired, but otherwise all right. The elf was nowhere in sight.
The man stretched. To his surprise he discovered that his arms were already raised and he couldn't put them down again. He couldn't move! What was going on?
Before his eyes, the elf seemed to melt out of the background. He had been sitting before him all along, invisible until he moved. The elf looked coldly at the man. "Now, I will watch you grow," he said.
His words only slowly sank in. The man tried to move once again and, although again he didn't succeed, this time he heard a faint rustling, as of leaves moving in the wind. Then he knew, and a cold hand gripped his... heart?
He had been turned into a tree.
And the elf sat in front of him, watching. It took the man quite a while to find out where exactly he was sitting, but once he had found the spot, it was impossible not to watch. The elf in front of him always sat there, rarely moved, and always watched him. Time passed.
The autumn fell, and so did his leaves. It didn't hurt, it felt as if he lost his hair. A few leaves had fallen on the elf. He didn't brush them off.
Winter came, and the cold. The man withdrew deeply in himself. The winter made him feel drowsy. He could almost sleep. Snow whitened the forest and covered the elf. But still he watched.
Spring brought with it a curious tingling, an eagerness. The man suddenly felt an urge to move, to do something, to grow. A strange excitement came over him. As the sun warmed and the rain became more refreshing, leaves began to grow. The tree blossomed.
Then summer came again, another period of calm and peace. Now he understood the peace of the forest. It radiated from the trees, as it did from him. And from the elf.
Another autumn came, and another winter. A year passed. Another. Time began to flow by, a calm river gliding past. Seasons were like the passing of day and night, but slower, much slower. The man stood, and dreamed. The elf in front of him sat watching.
The man couldn't tell how much time had passed.
For a long time now, the forest, the seasons, the elf had seemed like a dream in itself. He could hardly remember what had brought him to this position in the first place. He had felt time passing, he had felt himself grow. Animals had nested in his trunk and on his boughs, or had dug holes between his roots. But then something unusual happened.
After what must have been ages, the elf stood up.
The man's heart leaped. Would he finally be freed? He had learned his lesson now. The elf walked toward him, as he had done so long ago. There was something shining in his hands. The man couldn't really see what it was.
The voice of the elf sounded as cold as it had so long ago. "I've seen you grow for twelve thousand, three hundred and eighty-one years." He lifted his arms. The sun glistened on something that shone like all the silver in the world. A sudden fear gripped the man as he recognised the object. As the elf brought his arms down, the axe made a swooshing sound.
"Now you will know how it feels to die."