Chapter 2- Aelhir

  “That which does not move, rots.”

  -The Deep Canon

  Life was a symphony for Aelhir as long as he’d lived. The joy of running through the glade was tangible throughout his life. Even now, he could feel the leaves against his face, smell the sap, feel the stream rush past his feet, and sense the life that surrounded him. Still Grove had been a safe place for him and his father for many many years. When the elders took them in, he found a replacement for the wilds, he found community and security.

  From a young age, it felt as though the very wind within his long white hair desired to teach him some secret lesson if only he could learn to listen. This was not to be allowed though, as the voices of the wood were known to lead Elves astray from the ways of the Ancestor. Still, Aelhir couldn’t help but listen to the songs around him as he worked. The problem was, the voices didn’t just sing. The air became warmer in his cool hovel, the breeze kicked up gently, and he heard one song becoming more prominent. Aelhir knew that if he listened correctly, the god wind would notice and…

  “ Oh, sweet mortal! I hoped you would return. Now as I tried to say the last twelve times you concocted the draft of the Ancestral Current. It all started-“

  “Please stop, god wind, I cannot listen to you. The elders made it clear that you are not to be trusted.”

  “Ahh, but if I’m not to be trusted, how come they can’t debunk any of my teachings? How come they cannot proffer any document from the Ancestor teaching me as a poor guide?”

  “Because I refuse to tell them about you, god wind. It is written in the teachings of the Ancestor: ‘the wind stirs that which is still, it disturbs that which lays safe at rest’, so why would I want to trust something so…unstable?”

  It was simple, the Wind didn’t understand the ways of the elders, and Aelhir didn’t understand the ways of the wind. As a Disciple of the Still Grove, he was supposed to be able to tune out the voice of the wind. And yet… as long as he could remember, the wind had been kind to him. Out of all the voices in nature, the wind spoke simply and presently to him. But as he thought of this, he could sense another spirit coming in the direction of the wind and himself.

  ”Well, I for one, think it would be a great idea for you to listen! There’s a reason you make such a poor draft every time. Honestly, the spring water would be more useful on its own than that sludge you call a -ahem- tincture.”

  Just then, a vortex formed in the water and an indignant and OLD voice came from its throat, “Now hold on, don’t ENCOURAGE him to drink with me alone. He’s already so… simple. Besides, it’s clear the present issue is his lack of patience. The last few times, you have shortened the steeping of the ingredients by at least an hour.”

  Then came the childish almost laughing voice of the wind, “what he really needs is to actually crush the leaves instead of slicing them like a fool”

  Aelhir felt the tips of his long ears turn red, ”The writings of the Ancestor are very clear. It says to ‘sever the green’ very clearly. The elders are right, you are simply spirits of confusion with the intent to lead me away from the true path.”

  Aelhir began staring at his dwarven knife. A treasure even among the Elves as its construction predated the Deep Expansion. The elders permitted dwarven tools in the Grove, but only those forged before the tunnels spread — metal that still remembered sunlight. Aelhir began humming loudly to himself as he reminded himself of the proper way of things. One drop of the sundew, a cup of running water, three fresh leaves from the Moly plant diced small, and a lock of the Spanish moss. Throw all the ingredients in a wooden cauldron hewn from green wood and set over an ironwood fire. Let the pot sit in the moonlight and drink in the morning. The formula was well ingrained in his head, since the elders would not permit him to ascend until he perfected the simple draft.

  Yet the truth of the air stared at him across the decades. For more than thirty human years he had been a Disciple of the Still Grove. He could still see his father’s proud face when he returned from the elders’ choosing, requesting him for training. Almost instantly, he had excelled: skilled in hunting and healing, his meditation near-perfect, his garden rivaled only by the hermit who had come to teach them planthood. Still… he could not progress past the tincture of enlightenment required to ascend.

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  As he readied the ingredients, the horn of the communal glade blared into the sky. Another student had achieved the tincture of enlightenment. He knew he had to make his way to the center of the grove, where the trees wove together into the great central hall for the Glade. Aelhir sighed, looked to the sky, put on his sandals and sun hat, offered a pleading look to the Ancestor, and stepped forward among the other disciples. Many were significantly younger than he, and he felt their pitying and embarrassed glances as he passed.

  “Still working out the kinks in that recipe, Aelhir?” one voice teased.

  “I’m sure you’ll get it. Any day now!” said another.

  “It’ll happen eventually. How many ways can you ruin four ingredients before getting it right by accident?” came a third, followed by snickers.

  He passed a young girl he had once taught no more than three months prior. She nodded politely but avoided his gaze. The familiar burn of shame rose in his ears as he moved deeper into the crowd, the weight of decades pressing on his shoulders.

  Finally, the horn blew again. On the stage, the young girl held the pearlescent vial with Ferrir, the Keeper of Knowledge. Ferrir smiled, his robes catching the dappled light of the Glade.

  “Children of the Grove, hear me! Today we witness the enduring wisdom of the Ancestor. Through patience, discipline, and reverence for the teachings, one among you has achieved the tincture of enlightenment, stepping closer to harmony with the Grove that cradles our lives and our hearts. Remember, the Ancestor did not guide us for ease or vanity. Stillness is our strength, our shield, our compass. To hurry, to force, to seek shortcuts, is to invite imbalance. Let the success of this student remind each of us that mastery is not measured by speed, but by pure devotion. The wind may whisper, the waters may call, but it is through steady hands, attentive hearts, and adherence to the Ancestor’s writings that we flourish. May your hearts remain as rooted as the sentinel oaks, as patient as the winding streams, and as steadfast as the Ancestor’s eternal breath.”

  The wind stirred along the edges of the central hall, tugging lightly at the brim of Aelhir’s sun hat, and the water at the base of the stage shimmered faintly. Aelhir lowered his gaze, feeling the familiar sting of shame, the hope of one day achieving the tincture, and the quiet weight of guidance just out of reach pressing against him beneath the sentinel oaks.

  Aelhir turned sharply around and grabbed the door, throwing it open as he stepped into the night. The cool air should have calmed him, but instead it grew warmer, thicker, pressing against his skin as though the grove itself had followed him out.

  “No. Just don’t even start with me, god wind,” he muttered, jaw tight. “I don’t want to hear anything you’ve got to say. If you hadn’t—”

  The wind whirled around him, violent and immediate, tearing his sun hat from his head and sending it tumbling into the brush.

  “If I hadn’t what?” it hissed, the playful laughter gone entirely. “If I hadn’t saved your herbs from shriveling? If I hadn’t stopped the leaves from sealing together into that miserable sludge you dare call enlightenment?”

  “ENOUGH!” Aelhir shouted, clutching his satchel to his chest as if the wind might rip it away. “I am not your plaything! I follow the Ancestor’s teachings! I will not abandon them because you—”

  “Teachings?” The word cracked like a branch in a storm. “You mean the doctored nonsense your precious elders hand you year after year? Yes, Aelhir. You have done remarkably well beneath their guidance.”

  The gust slammed into him harder now, hot and relentless, pushing him back a step.

  “I have circled you for decades,” the Wind continued, its voice rising, no longer amused. “I have whispered, nudged, shifted the flame beneath your pot, dried the moss when you let it rot. And still you pretend you do not hear me.”

  Aelhir’s heart pounded. “I do exactly as I was taught! The elders said to sever the green—”

  “And you sever it like a coward!” the Wind roared. “You slice when you should crush! You rush when you should let it steep! Your hands know this. They have always known this. It’s what attracted us to you.”

  The trees bent under the pressure of the gale, leaves tearing loose and spiraling through the air.

  “You think patience is your failing?” the Wind demanded. “No, mortal. It is fear. Fear dressed as obedience.”

  Aelhir stumbled back toward the stream, breath ragged. Then the water answered. It did not surge. It did not crash. It rolled. The current thickened against the stones, and a low, old voice rose from it like something long settled being disturbed.

  “It is not patience,” the Water said, heavy and measured. “It is hesitation.”

  The Wind stilled slightly, but the heat in the air did not fade.

  Aelhir stared toward the dark ribbon of the brook. “You… you agree with it?”

  A ripple passed across the surface, catching the moonlight.

  “You shorten the steeping,” the Water continued. “You fear the clouding of the draft. You remove it from the flame too soon. You do not allow it to transform.”

  “I follow the instructions!” Aelhir protested, though the words sounded thinner now.

  “The instructions were wrong,” the Wind snapped.

  “They were altered,” the Water corrected — not loudly, but with a weight that pressed deeper than the gale. Silence stretched between them, broken only by the restless leaves and the steady flow of the stream.

  “I have been patient,” the Wind said at last, but the anger in it had hardened now. “Kinder than you deserved.”

  The trees groaned as another gust tore through them.

  “I will not beg you again.”

  The Water’s voice followed, quieter, older. “We do not wait unchanged, Aelhir.”

  The air withdrew suddenly, leaving the night colder than before. The stream continued its steady course, indifferent and eternal. Aelhir stood alone for the first time, clutching his herbs, the echo of their words heavier than the wind that had battered him.

  Through his loneliness, he noticed a smell, though. One he hadn’t experienced before.

  It was coming from his crushed herbs