They reach the Greenhouse. From the front, all appears to be fine. It’s green, growing, and feels normal — or at least normal to Sanctum standards. The magical realm seems to infuse everything with Mana, leaving plants changed. The Arch Druid reaches the hallway to the second half. Immediately, he senses the difference. The very ground here feels wrong. He stands in front of the twisted door and reaches his hand out worriedly.

“What happened here?” he frowns. “The very ground around me is saturated with dread and decay!”

“Adam said his people had removed much of the arcane residue in the hallway, but is that why this feels wrong and the ground is all dry?” Amethyst probes.

“Do you not feel it?” Yàviersulë raises a brow.

“The ground feels wrong, but I do not have the connection to nature you do, Arch Druid,” she reminds him.

“Right,” he returns a grim smile. “My friends, I need your help with this,” he turns to the two Fae fluttering behind him.

“Oh, we’re friends now?” Tundo remarks and cringes when the Elf flashes him a glare. “Sorry, shutting up now,” he peeps.

“What do you want us to do, Arch Druid?” Feren returns calmly.

“Before we approach what’s behind the door, let us first cleanse the soil in the hallway,” the Elf offers. I’ll need a fourth so that we can form a sort of oval. I’d rather a circle, but this corridor is too narrow for that.”

“I’ll fetch my brother. Veld seemed preoccupied with the gardens when we left,” Feren bows and flutters off.

“Why do you need four of us?” Tundo queries.

“I want to perform a cleansing ritual. Sanctify the ground, purify it,” the Arch Druid replies. “Arcanists have their gifts, but they can’t affect nature the way we can.”

“We’ve performed growing rituals, how does one sanctify the ground?” Tundo queries.

“Do you have no Druids left on Earth?” the Arch Druid blinks.

Tundo shrugs. “There are Shaman,” he replies thoughtfully. When the Europeans arrived on the western continent, they discovered a primitive-to-them Human population. The natives of the land surrounding the gate are highly spiritual. Much like a Bard, they perform dances, songs, and sing to the spirits. I’ve seen them call upon those spirits for aid, but I’ve not heard of any that are designed to Sanctify the ground.”

“Continue,” the Elf is now curious.

“A Shaman sees the world as a living being. Everything is connected, everything has a spirit, even the stone and the trees. When they hunt, they will offer a prayer to the Earth to thank it for its bounty. They use everything they can, and waste little. They call Fae messengers of the spirits and see us as a sort of holy creature,” Tundo explains.

“I’d like to meet one of these Shaman you speak of. They sound like interesting people to talk to,” Yàviersulë muses out loud.

He turns as Feren returns with her sibling. “The ritual removes the impurities and cleanses the soil. It will allow it to become green again,” the Arch Druid remarks.

“What do you want us to do?” the new Fae queries, ready to launch right into it.

“I need you two to stand on each side, mid-way down the hall. Tundo, you can stand by the green side of the hall, and I’ll stand by the ruined door,” the Elf motions and the Fae move into position.

The Elf then reaches into his bag and pulls out four stones. They are warm to the touch, light and smooth. Each stone has a rune etched into it. He tosses them to the Fae and asks that they lay the stones at their feet. Once that is done, he closes his eyes for a moment, then looks up at the ceiling.

“We call upon our Mother Earth, Gaia. While we are far from the warmth of your embrace, we ask that you reach out to us, reach across the expanse and guide us in our time of need. We offer a plea to you, Mother, let these stones draw you to us in our time of need.”

It takes a moment, and Feren gasps as the stones first start to hum, and then glow ever so slightly.

His voice is almost a song as he prays in Elvish. “Yes, Mother Earth, we feel your presence,” he smiles. “The circle within these stones has fallen to corruption and become barren. We offer this prayer to you, Gaia, to cleanse the circle, cleanse the earth within, to allow nature to return. We ask that you lend us the gift of your bounty so that life can once again grow here. Mother, we ask that you bless this circle so that we can continue your work in making the world green.”

The Arch Druid asks that they repeat the prayer. With each intonation of the prayer, the glow in the hall increases. Finally, they feel it. A warmth that was not previously present. There is a soft glow permeating the room. Everything finally feels right.

“Thank you, Gaia. Your children have not forgotten you,” Yàviersulë smiles. “Thank you for gifting us your boon, even when we are so far away from the warmth of your embrace.”

“That… was… amazing!” Tundo gasps. “I felt a connection to nature I’ve never experienced before!”

“I love seeing a Druid work their magic,” Amethyst smiles. She steps forward, hand outstretched, not quite touching the door. “The room beyond still feels wrong,” she worries.

“The ritual only cleansed the hallway,” Yàviersulë remarks. He draws from his pouch a handful of seeds. “Let life flourish where there was once only decay,” he intones. A gentle breeze scatters the seeds in his hand. As they land, grass and flowers grow along the sides, leaving a stone path in the middle. “There, better.” His expression changes, and he turns around. “Now we deal with this,” he frowns as he stares at the twisted door.

With some effort, they manage to open the doors again; the vines had warped them more when pulling them closed. As Amethyst works on repairing the twisted metal, the Arch Druid steps forward.

“Careful,” Tundo reaches out to him.

“Stay back, let me handle this,” the Elf motions. “No one else enter this room, what is in here is in pain and you’ll only add to the confusion.”

“Yes, Arch Druid,” Feren bows.

He approaches the burnt out section of the vines, frowning. As he pushes the vines away to get a closer look, the vine first caresses him, backs away, then attacks. It wraps around his right arm pulling it away from him.

“Arch Druid!” Feren calls out.

“No! Stay back!” he commands.

As he brings his other hand forward muttering a Control Plants spell, other vines wrap around that arm and pull it away.

“Pusta!” he commands the plants to stop in Elvish. The next pair of vines that were diving for him pause, as if hitting a barrier. “Pedaslaimar,” he intones.

“Culaicacuruni?” the leaves rustle and whisper. “Is that really you?”

“Yes. Show yourselves!” the Arch Druid commands.

The vines twist and turn, forming an almost humanoid form. “My Arch Druid, it is you! How long has it been?”

“Too long, my friend. Is that you Ezel?” the Arch Druid muses. “You were among those souls that never returned to Arvandor. What happened?”

“The Magi, they… trapped us, no escape, nowhere to run! Hurt, pain, couldn’t run, couldn’t leave, stood ground, burning, pain, anger, pain, so much pain…” the vine figure moans and kneels to the ground. The entire greenhouse shutters and groans as the vines echo the words. They shift and shrink back, causing the Arch Druid to wince as they tighten their grip on his arms.

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“Ezel, my good friend, please release me,” Yàviersulë grunts. He can feel the blood flow being restricted, his fingertips turning blue.

“Oh, Dear! Yes, forgive us!” the vines rustle and whisper. “Laimaril, release him, he’s a friend.”

“Yes, husband,” a higher-pitched rustling floats through the foliage.

The Arch Druid nearly collapses as he’s released. He flexes his fingers as the blood suddenly flows into his hands. “Thank you, my old friend. There are two of you here?”

“I would not leave without my mate,” the deeper voice of Ezel replies. The leaves caress the burnt portion, “I tried to protect Laimaril, couldn’t save my love!” the plants lament and the room shudders again as the emotion ripples through the greenhouse.

“How can we hear them?” Amethyst’s voice is a little over a whisper.

“The Arch Druid intoned a Speak with Plants spell over the room, otherwise all we’d hear is creaks, rustling and wood rubbing against itself,” Feren mutters in awe.

“Can Laimaril speak?” Tundo ventures.

The vines suddenly lance out at the Fae. “Pusta!” the Arch Druid commands. The vines stop, then turn toward him. “I know you have suffered much, my dear Laimaril, but we are not your enemy,” the Elf stresses. “Here, let me show you.”

“What do you intend to do?” the vines rustle in both voices.

“Trust in me, my old friends,” Yàviersulë replies. The burnt vine shrinks back a little, revealing bones. “You’ve been dead for too long, I can’t revive you, but a Reincarnation spell will restore you to a life that can live outside of the confines of the greenhouse. Let me first heal the wound.”

While he can do nothing to heal a humanoid, he can still mend nature and fix plants. He mutters a healing song, and the burnt plants regrow and become green. There is a collective sigh rippling through the greenhouse. The vines clear away and leave a larger area in the centre, exposing the skeleton that they were protecting.

“There is only the one body?” the Arch Druid muses.

“There is nothing left of my corpse,” Ezel laments. “It was shattered into millions of pieces. In my last attempt to preserve my life, I tried to turn myself into a tree, only to be bound by the vines. While I could seek vengeance on those that killed my beloved, we have been trapped here since,” the leaves moan and wail.

“Let’s start with Laimaril then,” the Elf returns.

He begins the chant of rebirth. Druids don’t raise the dead or resurrect the fallen like a priest, they reincarnate them into another life, another form. One that will suit nature’s need and desires. He uses the bones as his focus. The vines wrap around the bones, making them stand, making them move. The vines soon form a more humanoid shape. To his surprise, they extend past, forming four feet rather than two. The Fae stare in marvel as they watch a Dryad form from the leaves and vines to finally stand in front of the Arch Druid. She’s half a head shorter than he is. As wood becomes flesh, leaves become fur, she has a brown-spotted coat, black hooves, and her body turns more green above the shoulders. Like other Dryad, the deer’s neck is replaced with a torso of an Elven-looking woman. Her eyes glow silver, the fur of her coat cover up to her chest, like she’s wearing a tunic or corset. Her hair forms from fine leafy grass peppered with wild flowers.

She closes her eyes and takes her first breath. “Oh, to breathe air again!” she smiles at the Arch Druid and he doesn’t hesitate to return her hug. “Thank you, Sire, for returning me to a life outside of that…” she glances down at where her body was. “This new form is… suitable,” she steps back, examining her arms and back. “I’ve always been fond of Dryads.”

“You make a lovely doe, Laimaril,” Yàviersulë smiles.

“What will become of my husband?” she worries, leaning into the Elf as she’s not used to standing after all these years.

The vines pull themselves back together to make a semi-realistic Elven form. “Ezel may be the easier of the two of you. He’s already a living plant. Let’s lend him a form that can move, shall we?”

The Dryad nods, though the confusion is clear on her face. Rather than a Reincarnation spell, as there are no bones or body to focus on, the Arch Druid uses his Control Plant spell to pull the vines closer together, to shape an even more humanoid form. The group watch in wonder as the Elf closes his eyes, focusing on what he wants to achieve. Vines snap from the ground to pull themselves into a solid trunk. The trunk then grows arms, a head, the thinner runners form something resembling hair. When Yàviersulë opens his eyes, he’s now looking at a tree taller than him. Its head grazing the top of the greenhouse is staring at him; the eye holes glow a florescent green. Before him is not an Elf, but a living tree. The Treant has absorbed all the vines and plants, leaving bare broken planters and scattered soil.

The Treant takes a hesitant step forward, then another. “I can walk!” Ezel’s voice booms through the now empty greenhouse. “Darling, I have a body again!”

“You make a wonderfully handsome tree, Mélavenne,” she smiles. “Tall, strong, and beautiful!” she beams. She slowly steps toward him, each movement stronger, more steady. She reaches out and caresses his trunk. “Such lovely strong bark, never have I seen you so muscular, My Dear.”

“Of course it would take a Dryad to find a tree sexually appealing,” Tundo chides. They all look at him. “Sorry,” he slinks back slightly at the Dryad’s glare.

“Oh, if looks could kill!” Feren nudges him.

“Oh, to hold you in my arms again,” Ezel breathes, his voice still raspy. The leafy vines form hands so that he can hold her. He looks up from her loving smile. “Thank you, my Arch Druid, for giving us something worth living again.” He glances at the vine-wrapped arm, and studies it for a moment. “I still feel like the vines, but this body should allow me to move.” He looks down at his wife, “We can finally leave the greenhouse!”

“You probably won’t like what you’ll find,” Feren returns sadly. “There’s not much left of Sanctum, maybe you should return to Earth?”

“Is there a place for creatures like us on Earth?” the Dryad turns to her.

“Not really…” Tundo muses. “You’d have to hide among the forests, and Earth is sort of low on magic in this age. It might prove difficult to hold your form — if I’m understanding the spell that the Arch Druid used on Ezel.” He returns a worried look. “You might end up falling apart and become merely a pile of vines again.”

“I can’t lose my husband! Not now that I can finally hold him in my arms again!” the Dryad whimpers, shooting the Treant a worried look. She turns a pleading gaze to the Arch Druid. “What can we do, where can we go?”

“I would suggest you leave the greenhouse, the Magi need it for growing food,” Amethyst offers.

“Why would I offer them anything? They are the ones that killed us!” the Dryad snaps angrily.

“The Magi that ended your life are long gone and dust as you were, my dear Laimaril. Do not punish those that are left. They too have lost their homes and their past,” Yàviersulë remarks. “Come, let me show you,”

“I’m not going through there,” the Treant motions to the door. “Let me make us a way out.” Ezel turns to the wall, and effortlessly pulls the metal lattice apart, like opening a can.

“Mental note, don’t piss off the tree, he’s really strong,” Tundo chirps, causing some chuckles.

“We’ll help the Magi make a door of this later,” Feren suggests as Amethyst studies the twisted opening. The Grotto Fae nods as she follows the tree out. “Careful of your step!” Feren reaches out.

The tree stops, leans forward, then lets out a squeak, like a whistle. “There’s no bottom to this?” he rumbles and the Fae shake their heads. “Thank you for the ledge,” he croaks as he takes a sharp right and walks along the floating island. The ground ripples and one can see root like feelers reach out and release as he walks, like he’s always lightly rooted to the ground in some form.

Feren is thoughtful as they follow the Treant around the greenhouse. Unlike the Dryad’s high-pitched voice that sounds like a birdsong, the Treant’s voice is a creaky rumble, like wood rubbing against itself to generate a sound. It squeaks and groans, but is understandably a language. “Will we still understand you when the Speak with Plants spell expires?”

“Yes, the more I use this voice, the better I can form words,” Ezel replies. The rumble’s ‘t’ and ‘d’ hit hard like a snapping of wood while the ‘s’ is elongated, like a snake hiss. The Treant looks over the void and sighs, his whole body moving with the sound. “So little of the Realm is left!” he groans.

“Will we help the ‘Magi’ rebuild, my beloved?” the Dryad spits out the word magi, but otherwise sounds concerned.

“Yes. Much work to do here. As the Realm’s Grove Tender, I cannot leave Sanctum as it is,” he replies.

“What of the Earth?” Tundo speaks up.

“There is no going back to the Earth,” Ezel grumbles.

The Fae look at each other, then back at him. “That’s what the Arch Druid said as well. Do you not miss your homeworld?” Feren returns worriedly.

“There is nothing left on Earth for our kind, what would we do there?” Ezel argues. He raises his arms. “This realm needs rebuilding!”

“Earth is falling apart, we need nature’s creatures now more than ever!” Feren pleads.

“Let Gaia worry about what happens with the Earth, it is no longer my concern,” the Treant grumbles. “I have a purpose here.”

Amethyst places a hand on Feren’s arm, “No use arguing with the tree, My Dear. Earth will find her champion.”

“Earth has not produced a strong enough Druid to rally the creatures of nature in two millennia,” the Spring Fae argues. “They are nothing but florists, groundskeepers, and park wardens. Who will save our world when the Earth has so little time left?”

“The Fates won’t let your world die, My Child. Trust in the cycle.” She glances at the Arch Druid, “This won’t be the last your see of Yàviersulë. Fate has a surprise in store for him,” she smirks.

“That’s the most you’ll tell us?” Tundo frowns.

“For now,” Amethyst returns a sly smile. “This is a good thing, patience, My Child,” she stresses.

“Are you coming with us?” the Dryad looks over her shoulder, tripping slightly.

“Yes,” the Spring Fae answer together.

“You will tell us this grand secret you’re keeping?” Tundo narrows his eyes at Amethyst.

“Yes, all in good time,” she returns.

The Fae grumbles and then catches up to the others.

“Should we not tell them, Mother?” Ciël chimes by her side.

“No, the vision isn’t clear. I don’t want to get their hopes up. There’s still a chance the Voice won’t be in this generation,” Amethyst shakes her head.

“Will the Earth have another generation if she doesn’t?” Ciël worries. “The reports I’ve read of global warming and environmental decay…”

“Let’s hope there is still time to save the Earth. Otherwise my seed will never be born,” Amethyst frowns. “Come, let’s not dwell on uncertainty and join the others,” she smiles. The two Grotto Fae catch up with the group as the tree seems to be running a monologue of what he wants to do next.