It took about three heartbeats before Robird made sense of the king's words. When he did, he was racked by that fearning so intensely that he felt as if he had the blood frozen in his veins at the same time as being plunged into boiling oil, except for the lack of pain. The cavern seemed to turn a somersault.

"Could..." he croaked, then cleared his throat and tried again. "I'm sorry, could you please say that again?"

The king frowned.

"I thought I was clear enough. I want a union between you and my daughter to produce an offspring that will give both of us what we need."

Robird drew a deep breath and swallowed. The cavern still couldn't quite decide to settle down, so he fastened his eyes to the only thing that seemed fixed to him - the oak princess. The sight of her somehow cleared his mind, though he was deeply grateful that she did not meet his gaze.

"Oh no, king, you were as clear as can be, it was my ears I was unsure of. It was rather... unexpected. Such an honour, I mean."

The princess grimaced and shut her eyes.

"May I take it you agree, then? Or have you any objections?"

Robird cleared his throat again.

"Not... objections, not as such. But perhaps doubts, or rather questions, if I may?"

"Ask."

Reluctantly shifting his eyes from his would-be fiance and to his likewise father-in-law, he grinned sheepishly.

"Well, to begin with... an oak and a human? Is it even possible, I mean having... an offspring?"

"Under the right auspices, it is. It has been done before."

"Oh. I guess I shall find out what the auspices are if it comes to that... but then, you mentioned that you want a son. What if there's a daughter?"

"It will be what is needed." Seeing Robird's quizzical mien the king gave a brief, snorting laugh. "This is where you show your foolishness. Man, woman, son, daughter... so important to you humans. Did you not know that oaks are both?"

Robird's eyes widened and sought out the princess. The king noticed and chuckled dryly.

"Yes, my daughter too. Had you been a woman, human fool, she would have been a prince to you."

It might be only in his mind, but there seemed to be a fleeting, smug grin on her lips that stung his heart. Still she did not meet his eyes.

"It is preferable to us that she appears to you as a woman and your offspring as a son, so that he can contend with men of your kind on equal terms."

"But," Robird said and looked again at the king, "he will be a villein, a serf. He will have no equal terms. What do you expect him to do?"

"He will have the forest on his side. We will give him the power he needs to rise out of serfdom - and you with him."

"A serf cannot marry without the consent of his landlord."

"It is no marriage and the landlord will not know."

"But how do I explain a child if I have no known wife?"

"You will say you took him in as an orphan." The king smirked. "You told me how you dreamt that you were actually the lost son of a princess, taken in as an orphan. Now you can make that tale come partly true for your own son."

Robird couldn't but smile and shake his head in awe.

"You have an answer to everything, king. Only one doubt remains to me."

"Name it," the king said confidently, "and let it be answered as well."

"Well..." Robird looked again at the princess, who was indifferently studying a shiny beetle climbing across her knuckles. "I only doubt that there will be love in such a union."

The king stared vacantly at him, then at the princess.

"Love. Is that an issue here? That is a thing between humans. We are oaks. Why would you expect to love an oak or be loved by one?"

But Robird shook his head.

"That is the problem, I don't expect it. I regret that it cannot be. I wish she could look at me and see something of a kind with what I see when I look at her. But she will never regard me with more affection than she does that beetle. I fear that I will lose my soul to her and become like an empty husk if we are united."

Again, the corner of the princess' mouth quirked, and again, she cast a glance at him that had a glint in it that was not all disdain. "You see, father, he fears me. He is not more of a fool than that he also has no wish for this outrageous union you wish for. Let him be on his way."

But the king gave no sign that he had heard her. Glowering, he leant slightly forward and bored his eyes into Robird's like a root bores into stone, only quicker.

"What is this talk of souls and husks? An oak may die from white-rot or root-rot or age and stand as an empty husk for many years before falling. Humans do not such. They wink out and are gone when they die. Is it death you fear? It will not touch you by our doing."

"It is not death I fear, my king," said Robird, frowning. "When I say that I will lose my soul, I mean that..." He paused, at a loss, looking around at all the assembled courtiers. "Look, you are all oaks. But the trees that we see growing out of the soil, that is not what I see here before me. What do you call these forms of yours? I would call it your souls."

The king let his gaze glide around the assembly, then return to Robird.

"I would call it our life. When we die, the life is gone even if the timber still stands. You see no dead oaks here before you. Yet you speak of losing your soul yet not dying. So what you call a soul must be different."

"I see," Robird mused and looked again at all these various forms. Then a thought struck him. "But you each have your own dance, none like unto the other, but like unto the tree that stands on the ground. What would happen to you if you forgot your dance, my king?"

There was a murmur in the hall and the courtiers shifted, glancing uneasily at each other. The king bared his teeth and the princess' eyes widened.

"That would be worse than death. So what you call your soul is akin to our dances? Then I understand you fearing the loss of it. Yet I cannot see how you would lose it by the union to my daughter."

"That is because you do not know love, king," Robird replied. "It is a force stronger than all else that moves humans, or so our poets say. It can make a man forget all that he is - to lose his soul, and if he receives no love in return, then he is surely doomed."

"Are you saying that you would love me enough to forget your dance... your soul, fool?" the princess asked. If it were possible for an oak to be astounded, Robird thought, that was what she seemed. But he dared not think it, she was beyond his understanding. Perhaps that was why he was so drawn to her and yet so in awe of her that the mere thought of approaching her sent his hide all a-prickle.

But what if understanding was possible? The idea was thrilling beyond any dreams of fame and fortune. But he realised that she still watched him intently and shook himself out of his reverie.

"I do not say I would, princess, for love is beyond any man's command. But I know that in a union with you, I would give you all that I am. And if you would give nothing back but a son, then however great a gift he would be, I fear I would be lost."

The king looked from his daughter to Robird but said nothing. Long moments passed before the princess spoke again.

"You set the dance of the oak as the soul of the human. What of the oak would you set next to the love of a human?"

These words sent a flush through Robirds body, a feeling that reminded him of nothing so much as that which grips you when on the cusp of sleeping, you suddenly feel yourself wide awake yet the world itself seems but a dream. There was no thought in his head and yet he saw the answer clearly before him in the same moment as he uttered them.

"Next to the love of a human, princess, I would set your song. What I heard in it, how you look at all that grows or crawls in the forest, was something akin to what I call love." He sighed and it felt like a cloud of scalding steam shooting out of his chest yet leaving him untouched by harm. "If you were to sing of me, my lady, then I would not fear our union."

"Is that all?" the king huffed. "Then sing a song of our guest, daughter."

"Nay, king," Robird said, still gripped by his lucid trance, "such a thing you cannot command. It must be a song of her own choosing if it is to be a song of me. Her song cannot hold any falsehood."

"It sounds to me like a challenge, fool," the princess said, still with a quirk to the corner of her mouth. "As of now, I hear no song of thee in my mind. But I offer thee a challenge in return. Sing for us, fool, a human song of your liking."

With that, Robirds trance broke like a bird's wing in the jaws of the fox and he felt instead the flush of shame on his cheeks. "Sing?" he stuttered, "me? Why, that would be like... like a nightingale asking a toad to croak for her!"

"Would it now?" the princess replied, and now the other corner of her mouth turned ever so slightly up as well, whether in derision or delight. "Then croak for me, little toad, or begone from my sight."

There seemed to Robird that a buzzing and a ringing filled his ears then. He somehow felt sure that it was all the court laughing at him, yet when he dared glance about him, all their faces were grave, awaiting his song. Wetting his lips, he tried to shape his mouth around words that were not there. A song? He was no singer. To be sure, he joined in the hymns of praise for the deity on homage days, and he could catch the tunes fair well. But singing alone, before such an assembly, just after the princess had enthralled them with her soultaking chant?

And what would he sing anyway? The hymns were in praise of human deities, as far from these oaken beings as the sun is from the roots of a mountain. They would tell the princess naught of him and his dreams.

It came to him then. He knew another song, one that his mother had sung to lull him to sleep. It was only a simple old folk tune, but he remembered how it had gripped him with a feeling of awe before nature, the same awe that he could sometimes feel when finding a lazy ladybug riding the green, translucent shell of a snail, or the furled fern fronds of spring that looked like snail's shells, or clouds in the sunset sky looking like the fading fern fronds of fall.

"Then," he said, clearing his throat, "I will croak as best I can for you. You must forgive the paltry words and the rough tune of this ditty, but it is all I can offer. It would not be so bold as to sing it after hearing you, but your wish is my command. Very well."

He lumbered awkwardly to his feet to stand up straight, hands clasped before him as his mother had taught. Then he closed his eyes, drew a breath and plunged into the song.

              Out in the meadow, the wild berries grow
              Come, honey-leaf!
              If you do want me, 'tis there you should go
              Come lilies and columbine, now!
              Come roses and sage and thyme, now!
              Come, fair marigold, and
              Come, honey-leaf!

For a blink, he dared open his eyes and met those of the princess. They were as still as leaves on a windless day, giving nothing away. Robird almost faltered, but closed his eyes and pressed on into the second verse.

                 All bonny flowers wear ribbons and gown
                 Come, honey-leaf!
                 Ask, and I'll bind thee of flowers a crown.
                 Come, lilies and columbine now...

Winding through the chorus, he thought he heard a sound to his right. Shooting an apprehensive glance there through his eyelashes, he was astonished to see a couple of the oaken courtiers moving their arms, as if trying if their dance would fit his tune.

It didn't, of course. A human song of whimsical spring flowers in a meadow would scarce move an oak. Their arms fell to their sides again and with a sinking heart, Robird squeezed his eyes shut.

At that moment, he also remembered how the third verse went and it almost sent him reeling. He had not remembered that when he settled for this song. Would she laugh now?

But he was committed now and somehow kept his voice steady as he went on singing.

                Then I will crown thee the princess of spring
                Come, honey-leaf!
                And I'll thee wed with a dandelion ring...

There, it was out. He opened his eyes fully now, determined to hold his ground in the face of derision. But the princess remained as before, seemingly unswayed. The courtiers, now...

Even though he needed not think of the words of the chorus, so deeply rooted were they on his tongue, he almost lost them at the sight. They were not dancing individually as before, but they swayed from side to side in unison.

Had he touched them after all, with his silly human song? Or was this some prelude to seizing him and throwing him out of their realm for being presumptuous?

Come what may, he would finish the song. Coming into the last verse, he caught and held the princess' gaze.

                Out in the meadow the sweet berries be
                Come, honey-leaf!
                None can be sweeter than thou art to me.
                Come lilies and columbine, now!
                Come roses and sage and thyme, now!
                Come, fair marigold, and come, honey-leaf!

Therewith he clamped his mouth shut, bowed to the princess and sat down, defiantly glaring, to await judgement.

She did not meet his eyes. But she also did not look at anything else before her - somewhere beyond the walls of the hall was whither she looked and what she saw there, Robird could not guess. Perhaps she had lost interest after his disappointing performance and forgotten all about him already.

The king also watched his daughter, waiting. For a long while, all was silent. Somewhere in the hall, a tinkling as of running water could be heard. The sound seemed to envelop the moment and tie it back into itself, like a snake biting its tail, so that it was only one moment repeating itself endlessly. Unable to move or speak, the thought stuck Robird that he might be trapped in this moment for eternity.

Before the thought had time to fill him with dread, the king spoke, breaking the spell.

"So, daughter, what do you make of human song?"

The oak princess stirred, focusing for an instant on Robird before looking at her father.

"It was ... enlightening. Quite different from our songs."

"And..." the king nodded at Robird. "Is it worthy of a song in return?"

The princess gave a slight shiver which might have been the oaken way of a shrug. "Worthy or not, I cannot say. As for whether I could sing a song of this fool..." Her upper lip drew back in what might have been a smile, might have been a grimace. "I cannot say either, yet."

She turned then to look straight at Robird and once more, he was filled with fearning. As in a flash, a memory entered his mind of a day long ago, lying on his back beneath an Oh, so green canopy of leaves under a brilliant sun. A sudden breeze had wafted through the tree tops and drawn the foliage aside like a curtain, and suddenly the sun had shot down into his eyes and burnt a hole in his vision. He had run to his mother then, fearing that he had been blinded, and she had hushed him and his sight had come back. Thus the oak princess' eyes seemed in that moment, like the sudden sun through the leaves, and they burnt a hole not in his vision but in his heart, and he knew that no mother could soothe nor any time fill it again.

With an effort, he pulled himself together and hearkened as the princess spoke further. "Now that I have heard your song, it may be that I hear it in my dreams as I sleep come winter. Then who knows? Perhaps I shall find myself singing about this young fool when spring sets the sap aflow in my limbs and brings me into budding again. Would that please you, fool?"

Robird rose again and bowed. "It would please me beyond any promise of earthly riches, my lady. I always long for spring, but now I cannot see how I can endure the coming winter. The thought of your song will be the first in my heart as I wake up in the morning, the last as I lie down to sleep and the rhythm of my heartbeats in between."

She did laugh then, a laughter of only delight, lifting his spirit until he felt he could burst through the earthen roof above them and soar into the sky beyond.

"Then I set thee a challenge for the winter. Find me and sing your song again under my boughs when the shortest day ends. When day and night are each other's equals, do it again. Perhaps I will give thee my answer then."

"I will!" cried Robird. "Tell me but where to find you!"

"That would make the challenge too simple," she said with a twist of her mouth. "But I will show you what to look for. Sing, my people!"

At once, all the courtiers raised their voices and sang. If the tune was the same as she had sung, he was unable to tell. If it was, it nevertheless sounded more distant even though it was stronger, carried as it was by so many voices. When the princess rose out of her throne to dance to it, the song seemed to whip and whirl her around the hall like the strongest gale.

Her spinning dance entranced him and caught him as in the eye of the storm, with a fog rising around his vision until he could see naught else but her tumbling shape. He knew with certainty that he had seen her tree somewhere, but for the life of him he could not recall where. He would have to seek it. He would have to find it.

With that certainty, the fog closed in all about him and he saw no more.