The rushing waters continue to echo in the background as the small nut awakens. Various vibrations permeate the soft loam which cradles him. He shivers as instincts to reach sunlight war with his current dilemma. With only the ability to shake, imperceptibly at that, he fights against the hopelessness that attempts to consume him. For days he repeats the cycle of sleep, wake, and terror. The days turn into weeks with little change except he managed to settle himself deeper into the soft soil as his shell healed leaving a dark vertical scar. He barely controls the panic when he hears creatures above, sniffing so close at times he can taste their breath. The pressure above when a foot, paw, or hoof rests upon his sanctuary threatens madness. The weeks turn to months.
The cycles in the cave eventually become recognizable patterns, patterns that bring subtle comfort. He becomes more aware of the currents flowing through this place and the interactions of its inhabitants. Survival is the primary drive, but there is no malice. Over months, and then years, he has become so sensitive to the world beyond his blanket that he can picture it as if there's no veil blocking his view. Seeing it as clearly as if it were an extension of himself. In time he realizes he can see, as if he can shift his perspective from himself to a point beyond. Not far, but perhaps he can extend that in time.
Tempered excitement temporarily displaces the gnawing fear always threatening the periphery of his thoughts. Insects trundle on the carpet of moss. Some feed on the moss itself, others on them. He sees the rodents and lizards. Creatures flying above. Swooping into his vision briefly before once again out of sight. The denizens of the waters as they breach the surface and those who wade upon its shore. They're all so beautiful. He traces the food chain in its exceeding complexity. It soothes him. He is content.
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Rarely larger creatures venture into his domain, disrupting the calm balance. Of those, the ones who bring speech do the most harm. Chaos ripples in their wake. They bring poisons which temporarily sour the soil and spoil the water. Fires that spew choking smoke and scare his residents with it's harsh light. At times he can grasp the meaning of their words, some he can work out the concepts expressed, many incomprehensible. He despises all of them and the destruction they bring. The fear they bring back into his world. He hates the foul stench of them and the crude hides they wear disgust him. His detest lingers in his thoughts long after they leave as he knows they'll return again.
His focus turns to himself, examining what he is. He knows he was a simple acorn, how he was born. Concepts and instincts of what he should do, what his situation prevents him from doing. They're not from his own memories, but the knowledge the magic that formed him imparted at an instinctual level. He knows without sunlight he can't become what the magic urges him to be. What he wants to know is if he can be something else. Anything else to prevent the interlopers from despoiling his home. To ensure his peace.
As he gains a deeper understanding of what constitutes him, his understanding of his home expands. Over many years he stretches the bounds of his sight and sense. The gains are slow. He sends tendrils to taste the earth and feeds. Fine translucent threads weave below the land, meeting water and rock. Not of fiber, but of being. An intangible tapestry of himself binding him with this place.
He learns to isolate and heal many of the poisons that harm his family, to filter the smoke and dim their fires. To unsettle their rest with minor tremors and their steps with loose stones and mud. The Others begin to venture here less frequently. As the inhabitants learn to hide when a subtle shift in the air passes through, they eventually cease their invasions and peace again settles over his sanctum.