A small man’s brow furrowed slightly at what he saw. Before him there stretched miles of thick roots, with golden carvings that shimmered across their wooden surface. They reached out towards the end of the island they sat upon, leading outwards from a large, magnificent trunk. A tree, which was thousands of years old, whose trunk reached high towards the sky, and whose branches stretched out to the ends of the earth as they knew it. There would be no surface of this world where the great tree’s visage could not be viewed, no time of day where it would not shine with a godly glow that threatened all evil by simply existing.

The man stepped forward to touch the thick root that lay just ahead of him. It must’ve been at least twenty times his size. Running his gloved fingers along the smooth wood, he felt something that shook him to his core. Something that he feared he'd find every time he went on patrol, and had worked for thousands of years to prevent.

A small patch of dark, black rot crumbled beneath his hand, showing its terrible decay to have reached much deeper into the root than it initially appeared. The simple touch had irritated it into crumbling, and the carving upon the root lost its magical shine, no longer glowing magnificently as the rest of the tree did. The decayed bark that had fallen to the ground quickly rejoined itself, melting down into a fledgling creature of pure rot, which swirled in place as if formed of the foulest of black waters. Not even a moment after building itself, it was quickly stamped out by the man, exploding into a little flurry of golden dust.

It may not yet be noticeable from outside the center island, but its residents could all tell– The Charitable Origin, the world tree that maintained all magic and represented pure divinity to the people– was slowly, but surely, dying. Its trunk, which had once stood firm and tall, was now more hollow and dark on the inside than it had ever been in all its many years. The songbirds and insects that once embraced the tree and sang upon its branches had long fled in search of a more perfect home– one that was not soon to suffer such a terrible end.

“Themis.” The man called out behind him, and another quickly joined him from between two other roots, just south of where he stood. “It has spread to the roots.” Themis, who had already approached looking concerned, let out a deep, frustrated sigh. “It’s beyond help, then. We cannot save a tree that’s already dead.”

The first man shook his head and started on a path back to the usual gathering point. “We must. This tree is not capable of 'dying'– we need not save it. We simply need to wake it up.” Themis rushed after him. “I don’t understand, lord Armaros. How does one wake a god?”

“Perhaps we should ask it. Who would know better than one’s own self?” At this, Themis nodded, finally catching up to him. “To the core, then?”

“To the core.”

Both men removed the gloves they had been wearing and tossed them onto the ground. From their backs shot out sturdy beams of light, which formed into shimmering golden wings, resembling those of a butterfly or hummingbird. They both quickly leaped into the sky, appearing as no more than small shimmering fireflies to the unassuming eye– they were quick as light, too, zipping around the large tree faster than the moonlight could illuminate them. They landed tenderly upon a myrtle leaf, shaking off the condensation from the night air that had accumulated on their clothes, soaking them as if they had been caught in a light rain.

It was yet another damp, cold night. Long ago, the tree had released a warmth throughout the land– it was never winter back then. But none of the humans of this time were old enough to know what they were missing– they simply lived out their short lives, assuming the constant chill of the air was how it had always been, and adapted to it naturally over thousands of years. But the fairies didn’t– they remember the warm summers in contrast to the snowy winters– they remembered when the sun shone brightly through the sky, and not just the occasional peek through the thick branches.

The tree had once tried to save the poor humans from the eternal winter– it had enlarged its leaves so as to shield them from all the snow and ice– but so too were its leaves too thin, and over many years the snow found its weak spots and burst right through. For at least a hundred years, it had been only dark and cold in the world– but similarly, it had since been so long that nobody now remembered that time, either. The humans today donned coats as they did shirts and shoes– it was simply what was done. And so too were the faint dustings of snow as normal as the morning dew. Armaros pitied the humans who had never gotten to see green grass and blue skies– but at the same time, they somehow remained joyful nonetheless. They did not know what they didn’t have.

Despite the frost that covered the lovely myrtle, its small white flowers peeked through day-old buds, ignoring the temperature and showing off its vibrant bloom to the rest of the gardens. It was not only the humans who never knew the heat– and as such, the plants who could live, lived; and the plants who would die, died.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

And yet, some denied any such thing as “death” and bloomed regardless. That was something that amazed Armaros– perhaps the resilience that these plants showed, against all odds, was much like what the humans had done all those years ago.

Removing himself from his short break, he and Themis stepped up to a large hole that had formed in the side of the great tree, which had long since been used as the entrance to the core. It was a great deal to speak to The Charitable Origin, but it was an even greater deal to discover how he should save it– he cared not for the formalities, the greetings, or the traditions expected of him. “Wait here, child,” he told Themis. The fairy exited to wait outside the trunk instead. Armaros, with his small feet, marched right up to the towering, shining core and spoke indignantly. “I must speak with you! Awaken, I insist.”

The tree moaned and the wood that Armaros stood upon rattled slightly. “I insist!”

Following his pleas, roughly a minute of creaking and rattling sounded throughout the center island– but finally, the great tree spoke to him. “...Such insolence.” It whined, groggily. Armaros scoffed. “I shan’t throw myself upon your feet to receive your attention. It’s simply too much effort in return for the response I receive.”

The tree shook at this, but settled down quickly. “...What do you require so fervently, O insignificant one?”

Armaros crumpled his nose at the blatant insult and decided to scrap any of the respect that he initially intended to showcase. “I simply must know. Why do you slumber so? Do you not care for the humans you nurture and the plants who seek your warmth? Do you not miss the days of flowers and bees, and of the beavers and their streams? Do you not pity your children, The Primeval Lords, who work to clean and care for the mess you have left behind?” The tree shook once again. “All I ask is for what you wish. How are we to regain you of your stamina? How are we to save the world you have created? What are we to do?” The fairy placed his hands on his hips and awaited a response, wings fluttering impatiently.

“...One is not long for such dominion, as you know. One pities the small creatures. They love them so, and how they love each other. Truly…” Its resounding voice seemed to falter at this, and its shining core flickered ever so slightly. “You shall not give such blame. Could your own powers not nurture such needs?” It questioned, lazily.

“Surely you aren’t to ask of the fairies your own duties? We are not gods. You are the life, as you well know– there would be no daughters and sons without you, nor happiness or light. Besides, all the other gods do their duty, and they do them well. But who else could nurture the fauna or bring forth the summers as you do? I ask again, do you not pity them?”

“...I hear you well. You wish for the salvation of the humans?” The great tree deliberated his request. “Very well. Bring them to me.” The core echoes, resolutely. “Bring me a human, to serve as my covenantor, and I shall make a deal. One will tell them many secrets, and share with them abilities yet unknown to the humans. In return, they shall carry the task of bringing about the new age.”

Even the idea of such folly was enough to completely enrage Armaros. “Surely, you are not to siphon your charge onto a human! Tell me my ears have deceived me!” He was the one shaking this time, and began kicking at the bark upon which he stood. “I shan’t! Never would I think that I should pity a mortal so! To become the poor hound that heeds to the beckon of such a useless relic that is a lazy god! I shan’t!”

At this, a colossal, thundering crash resounded from within The Charitable Origin, echoing out from the core to the entirety of the center island, and possibly even the bordering lands of the other nations.

“Silence!” The god willed, rattling the whole tree from where it stood, buried deep in the ground. “One has never heard of insolence so great as to that which you have shown today! Bring me the human, fairy– bring it to me! I shall hear no more from your lips, or your impudent heel, until a covenantor is brought to me!” The outburst echoed through its large branches, shaking down many frosty golden leaves, which were to land in the large stream and melt down while sailing about the quick tides. “...If you truly care for this world, you will bring what I ask of you. Begone.”

The shimmering core of The Charitable Origin lit up ever so brilliantly, with bright golden light pouring out from every hole and window in the great trunk. The light was as pure and thick as a wall, and forced Armaros out from within the center, pushing him off the solid ground and forcing him to use his wings to land safely.

Themis quickly chased after his abashed lord, who flew furiously in circles, harrumphing and kicking around the poor beetles– twice his size– that sat upon the leaves of small stems. He dared not ask him how it went, for he could tell quite clearly. The irate fairy was red with anger and was jittering terribly as if having a seizure.

“Insolent, he says! I am millennia, no, eons older than him and he claims me to be insolent! This shall be the last time I humor such whimsy in a god, I say! I should’ve known, I should’ve!” He kicked another beetle that had been cowering just to his left. A few other fairies gathered around him and Themis, having noticed the great rattling and shining from the tree and their poor chief, who had been forcibly sent out in a tizzy. As his tantrum continued, a flood of unintelligible questions began to flutter around Themis and any other fairies who had been spotted nearby. The poor fairy had hardly regained his composure before Armaros shouted at him. “Themis! Fetch me the brazen Tutor Adriel and the names of the human royals currently closest to Pymgard. If he wants a human, we shall fetch the most incapable, ashamed one we can find! Now, go!”

“Yes, Lord Armaros!” Themis flew off in an instant, off to fetch the people asked of him. Armaros continued to clomp around, all while furiously kicking bugs and gesturing angrily at the large tree in front of him, as the curious crowd fluttered quickly after Themis.

“Oh, Curses! Curses, you rotten old tree!”