Chapter Text
The Rak’tika Greatwood was a strange place, full of creatures Emix almost knew and plants he could almost identify. Strangest of all were the Elementals, if it was even appropriate to give them that name. Emix could feel them, sort of, but there was a nagging off-ness to them. It was as if they were “speaking” a different language that even the Echo could not give meaning to, or if a chirurgeon had slipped a potion into his favorite juice. It actually felt worse than being away from the Elementals (that is, the Elementals of the Twelveswood) altogether.
He could have just stayed out of the forest as much as possible—gods knew he had plenty else going on—but that was just it. On the Source, whenever he had too much on his mind, he would visit the Twelveswood to think. If he wanted to do that here, he would have to get better at connecting with the local spirits.
It was easy to find the Greatwood’s equivalent of the Guardian Tree, and it took only a moment for Emix to find a comfortable spot to sit among its branches. He nestled in and closed his eyes, letting the spirit of the forest wash over him. Slowly, the voices of the Elementals came into focus.
First, there was the pain. The imbalance. The aether, it was wrong, so wrong and it hurt, it hurt. It burned freezing cold and it screamed and it blinded and it hurt, but Emix resisted the urge to recoil. It was possible the art of Hearing had been lost with the flood. They just needed someone to listen.
“I wish I could be of more help,” he told them, “but I’m no more balanced than you are. I know how to cleanse corruption in a forest, but I don’t know how to do it to myself.”
The pain did not exactly recede, but a sad compassion washed in over it, covering him like a blanket, and he had to agree: it was a comfort, however small, to be sharing in the same predicament.
After a while, he noticed another voice, quiet against the din of the louder voices crying out in pain. It was a voice of hope. It was young, and tentative, but once Emix caught hold of it, it was unmistakable. It was the night sky, the spreading darkness, the possibility of a future. He held it close, cradling it in his chest, imploring it grow.
It must have been hours, judging by the position of the sun. When Emix returned to consciousness, the nagging feeling was gone, replaced with a sense of harmony. He sat up and opened his eyes, and what he saw made him smile. Around the space where he had lain, an outline of flowers had bloomed. He had earned their blessing.