Planting Seeds
With Anton and Geroi gone, and the Structure and Story once again sealed away, Ytic becomes a safer place. But in a city so large, broken bones and diseases are common occurrences. And, whether injured or sink, rich or poor, old or young, everyone knows where to take their ailments: the infirmary at the Royal Barracks, and the elf-dryad duo that now staff it.
Calmly, kindly, night after night passes by, tending to an eclectic mix of patients. Hedara watches closely, studying Mirara’s every action. In the evenings, they study her teachings, brewing potions and tinctures, memorising the anatomy of every sapient creature to ever grace Modnik’s cobbled streets. Eventually, they will take over some shifts themselves. There will be good nights, quiet nights, nights where life-threatening wounds are put right, and miracles are wrought from studied wisdom and steady hands. And there will be bad nights, nights filled with screaming and wailing, where they will not be enough to stave off death, however hard they try and however much they hope. Hedara will remember them all. Some will haunt her, some will keep her going in her darkest moments. Some she will tell as stories to enraptured audiences, inspiring others to follow her path. In her final hours, she will look back on all of them, every single one, with satisfaction.
Aina and Mirara’s wedding is a grand and noble fair, thanks, in part, to Hedara’s careful planning. Sadly, they haven’t listened to all of her great wisdom - the brides arrive on foot, not in giant cakes; and the colour scheme remains a tasteful pastel pink, rather than the bold and extravagant oranges and blues the dryad suggested. But there’s the orchestra, several dozen strong, playing heartfelt melodies of romance and joy, and the goddess of games herself, Kisara, entertaining the guests.
Hedara watches on from the front row, tears in their eyes, as the couple complete their vows. And as they kiss, and the orchestra swells into a triumphant crescendo, she can’t help but smile.
In the quiet depths of the Park, where willow trees bow their heavy branches, a dryad carefully lowers a tiny sapling into the hole she’s dug for it. Wizened, older than many of the trees around her, she quietly covers the roots with a nearby pile of upturned dirt, and then settles down next to it, gazing fondly at the young leaves. Hedara will remain here until the sun sets, and then return the next morning, and the next, until the roots have taken hold and the sapling’s stalk has grown thick and strong.
At least once a day, for the rest of her life, she’ll visit the young tree, if only for a few minutes. She’ll tell it of her deeds, of the lives she’s saved, or failed to; of the adventures she’s had; of the friends she’s made, and visited. One day, of course, will mark her final visit. Hedara will sit, and talk, rasping softly with each word, until her voice becomes too quiet to hear. And then she’ll simply sit, and watch, with a tender smile on her face, until night falls and sleep takes her.
A Tribute
“Let me tell you a story…”
The dryad sits on the bough of a large tree, looking down at their audience. Last year was the Mighty Hydra. Maybe next year would be the Elven Empress with a Sword. But this year…
“Once upon a time, there was a forest. And in the forest lived a songbird. A beautiful songbird, whose melodies were so enchanting that even the trees couldn’t help but echo them back. And one tree louder than all the rest, and so the songbird made its nest. And for a time, all was well.
“But the forest hid a secret; the Narrator lay trapped in its roots. And so, the Creator sent forth a crimson flood to free it. But the Many-Eyed Oracle called forth a vessel of flame to cleanse the forest - at a cost. The forest burned, and despite the tree’s best efforts, the songbird sank beneath the burning waves, and died.
“But the Creator had mercy, reshaping the songbird to sing once more. And for a time, all was well.
“Yet still the Narrator yearned for freedom, and the songbird was called to help. She transformed, her voice turning to ice, chilling all in its path. And with the help of the songbird and other creations, the Villain was overcome, and the Narrator set free. But once again, at the cost of the songbird’s life.
“Now, the Creator found itself enrooted, and so the death stuck. But the tree would not accept this. With the memory of the melody, and a stolen drop of creation, the songbird was restored, once more. And for a time, all was well.
“But the Narrator grew bored of this tale and sought to bring about its End. The lion saw this, and aimed to destroy the Gods, beginning with the Order itself. But he was stopped by the other forest-dwellers, who instead looked to contain and control the Gods. For without the Gods, there would be no story at all.
“And so the forest tried to trap the final free God, the Narrator. But some stood against them. And the songbird was one. And though it pained the tree to stand against their bird, they wrapped the Narrator in vines, and bound it to the earth. Across the forest, the Villain was killed, though the Creator was freed. But here, the songbird made her final stand. Without the Narrator’s aid, she could not withstand the thorns of the forest. And so she fell, and her swan song was sung.
“And yet, it seems, all is well.
“But the Many-Eyed Oracle foretells of a time, long in the future, when the Villain shall rise once more, with the power of the Narrator and of the Order. And unless we fight as we did then… the End will come. The End of all we know.
“But in the meantime, we will live. And we will sing.”
And so sing they do. An old song. A sad song. A memory.
A tribute.
Written by Ben C