Oak stood before Elm and, for all that Elm was larger and taller than Oak, he found his fellow dryad lacking.

“Not suitable,” Oak said.

Elm bristled, branches swaying atop the crown of antlers that adorned his head. “Not suitable?” he asked.

Oak looked about the rocky hills that Elm called home. This terrain was rough, with many areas unsuited to growing, but the earth beneath was good, and there was plenty of room for branches to sprawl and soak up the sun.

“No, not suitable,” Oak said.

“I’m at the twentieth level,” Elm said, pride evident in the statement.

Oak considered this. It made the older dryad far stronger than him in the eyes of the world. It was an impressive number to have reached. Perhaps that was why so many saplings were watching from behind the lines of simple trees around the rocky hill. They found safety in Elm’s shadow.

“We fight,” Oak said.

“Oh, world,” Wisp said. “I’m going to stand over there.” The willow pointed to the side, where a little steam zig-zagged around the rocks. “Don’t die.”

“No dying,” Oak said.

Elm huffed. “Then we fight.”

There was no declaration that the fight had begun. Elm merely swung a wooden fist forwards. This was as it should be, and Oak was expecting it.

He stepped back, then moved again as the larger, stronger tree kicked out.

Oak summoned a spear and swiped it around himself even as grasping roots tore out of the ground and tried to ensnare him. He was wise to this trick already.

“Is this your tool?” Elm said. “Not impressive.”

Oak didn’t rise to the taunt. He set his feet and became like Winter, waiting for the first warm winds of Spring to come.

Elm moved.

Oak placed his spear before the dryad.

They both paused as Elm took a step back and out of the path of his spearpoint.

The older dryad tried to come in at another angle, but Oak’s spear moved with him, slight twitches of his wrist, minuscule motions of his arms, and it was as if a wall had been built between him and Elm.

The elder dryad roared and vines tore out of the ground.

Oak moved like the waters thawing in Spring. These would shift and flow, and most of all, they would find the path with the least resistance and would cut their way to the source.

His spear sang as it spun around him, a constant ‘whoop-whoop’ of wood beating at air. Pieces of vines flew every which way, shredded as they entered the area around Oak.

But that was not enough.

Oak spun around, extended an arm behind him with his spear held by its middle, then shot it forwards.

Sister Broccoli had called this a javelin.

Elm’s eyes widened and he formed a wall of wood before himself.

The spear bit into and through the wall, stabbing Elm in the chest.

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A weak stab, to be sure, but still drawing first sap.

Oak summoned a fresh spear and began to walk, not towards Elm, but at an angle around the older tree. His longer reach meant that there was no need to be so close to the older tree in order to exert his full strength.

The fight turned into little more than a farce after that. Elm was old and set in his ways, ideas rooted deep in his mind. The old tree had one way to fight, and one way only. Oak knew his tricks already and was ready to counter them. The fight was, essentially, over already.

Seconds turned the minutes, and Elm’s desperation and frustration showed as the larger tree pushed more of his will into his magic and his assault redoubled in strength. All it earned him was more cuts and scrapes.

Finally, Elm stopped.

Oak stopped as well, the point of his spear dipping to hover just over the ground. “End?”

Elm nodded. “You win.”

Oak nodded. Far from vindicating him, it just reminded him that even the world’s gift of more strength wasn’t always enough to make a winner of a tree that did not put the effort into thinking.

“I’ll try your way of fighting,” Elm said.

Oak considered it, then shook his head. “No. Your way is good for you. My way is good for the still-flexible.” He paused for breath. “I need... young. Saplings who think as saplings do.”

Elm nodded slowly, then gestured to the woods around his clearing. There were a dozen young dryads there, some little more than foot-tall mounds of leaves and thin branches, but some were older, already past their first and second winters. Still thin and light, but with the first signs of the toughness that would keep them safe and hale.

“There are many saplings. Take those you want.”

It was a simple enough offer, but not one Oak could accept so easily. He didn’t need just any tree at his back, he wanted trees that were ready and willing to fight by his side.

“Only those who want,” he said.

Elm didn’t seem to understand. Wisp came to Oak’s rescue. “He only wants the saplings that want to learn how to fight. If they don’t want to, they can stay here.”

“Pick as you will,” Elm said.

Oak nodded his appreciation and ambled over to the treeline where the saplings were gathering. Some had heard and were calling their brothers and sisters forwards. “Hello,” he said. “The Darkwoods are in danger. Men are cutting it down. I need trees to fight this. I will teach those that want it how to use tools.”

He paused. So many words in so little time. It exhausted him more than the combat had.

“Come, if you want it.”

And with that, Oak marched off with the beginnings of an army at his back.