When GreenWoman wrote and posted TREELINE on senad in response to the "Dark Obsenad" challenge, a lot of people asked for a happy ending. GreenWoman then invited others to write their own sequels to TREELINE. Here is my version.

I thank GreenWoman for her beautiful story, and her gracious invitation for others to continue it. Terri helped me hash out some of the phrasing, and Christi listened to me grumble and handed out pudding snacks. Fox gave the text a final seal of approval.

I dedicate this story to the memory of Trilly, whom I miss dearly.

The envelope was wrinkled, frayed with age, its edges worn thin, barely holding together. On the front, the carefully printed word "Chief" was so faded it was legible only to one who knew what was written.

The hand that held the envelope was tan and well-weathered, roughened by years of outdoors work. Yet it held the fragile envelope delicately and reverently, as if the ancient scrap of paper were the deepest and most cherished possession of a man's heart.

"Chief?" said a voice from the doorway.

Blair glanced up, placed the envelope quickly but carefully back into the hand-carved wooden box, and closed the lid.

"Coming, Jim," he said, smiling gently up into tender blue eyes.

"What were you looking at?" Jim asked as they headed out together for their daily rounds.

"Nothing," said Blair, keeping his tone casually light.

Jim frowned slightly, but didn't press. They didn't talk much beyond what was necessary for getting their everyday tasks accomplished, and never about the past.

Not about the night Jim showed up at the door of the cabin in the middle of a storm, clothes torn, wounds bleeding, eyes glinting wild in a face too pale and too thin, and collapsed at Blair's feet. Not about the many days and nights before Jim's fever finally broke. Not about the times Jim moaned Blair's name and broken words of regret and apology in fevered dreams, while Blair huddled in a corner, shaking with tears. Not about the morning Jim was finally able to sit up in bed, and Blair silently handed him a steaming mug of coffee, unable to think of a word to say. Not about the many weeks and months afterwards, when Jim refused to speak a word, not to Blair and certainly not to Simon, but quietly went about the cabin, helping Blair with the chores, fixing things that needed to be fixed, devising small but practical improvements to the cabin and its environs.

Blair found himself unable to tell Jim to leave. Needless to say, Jim refused to respond to Simon's entreaties to return to Cascade, or to questions of what he planned to do about his future. Together, Blair and Simon discussed various options for Jim -- medical leave, early retirement, pension plans -- while Jim sat, uncaring and disinterested, as if they were discussing a topic totally alien to him. In the end, they had decided on retirement, and Simon had pushed through the requisite paperwork, ensuring Jim got maximum benefits.

Later, when it became clear that neither Jim nor Blair would ever return to Cascade, Simon quietly cleaned out the loft and arranged for its lease. The money from the rent, deposited monthly to their account, together with Jim's pension and Blair's salary, provided ample support for two men living this extremely simple life.

Time passed. Slowly the two men groped clumsily towards each other. With glacial slowness, the simplicity and quietude of their surroundings seeped into them, and the routines of their daily tasks set them at ease with each other. With the same slowness, the damage to Jim's senses also healed. Eventually, Jim took to sitting relaxed and peaceful in a chair every night, head cocked as he listened to the sounds of the woods.

"What do you hear?" Blair whispered one night.

"Your heart," Jim replied.

It was the first of many halting broken conversations.

An agonizingly long time later -- a long long time later -- the night they finally broke down and wept in each other's arms, finding finally the solace only each could offer the other, and slept curled tightly together, as if they were trying to squeeze into a shelter too small for both of them -- that night, Blair woke, slipped quietly out of Jim's arms, and took out the envelope he'd never opened.

Trembling hands slit open the envelope and reached for the sheet of paper inside. The handwriting was ragged and shaky, more like a child's scrawl than that of a mature man. Three words, that was all.

I need you.

The sheet fell from nerveless hands as tears flowed down Blair's cheeks and sobs wracked his body. Jim had woken and, without a word, taken Blair back into his arms.

They never talked about that night. In the morning, Blair had picked up the sheet, carefully placed it back into the envelope, and put it away. Jim never asked him what became of the envelope, and Blair never opened it again.

But once in a while, like today, he took it out and touched the yellowed surface, an arcane ritual whose purpose escaped his mind.

Pausing in his steps, Blair scanned the treeline. In an unforgiving environment, without enough resources to allow them to reach their full potential, the trees were stunted and garbled, often damaged beyond recognition. Nevertheless, they survived, tenaciously and determinedly clinging to life.

Looking up into Jim's eyes, knowing his partner shared his thoughts, Blair needed no words.