“I’ve always felt rooted to this place.”

Fëor’s forlorn eyes remained fixed on the ground as he explained himself. Ërna remained silent, wondering if he actually hated his home, too—but that thought was quickly abandoned.

“I’m comfortable here,” Fëor clarified. “Home is where I’m happiest. Like the herbs and trees around me, I feel refreshed by the roots I’ve planted here. And yet, despite that…there are times when I feel bound by them, too.”

Fëor looked up at Ërna, gazing straight into her eyes.

“That’s how I felt when you spoke just now. I was inspired, but also reminded of my reluctance. That’s why I feel a bit jealous; because, despite your struggles, you had the strength to wander against all odds. I can’t do that.”

Ërna didn’t know how to respond to that. It was difficult for her to fathom how a person’s home could hold their heart so strongly.

“Have you never gone on a journey before?” She asked, wondering just how far his reluctance went.

He shook his head.

“Ever since I was born from a sálwëamára that grew upon Gälnos, I’ve never left Gälenor. I’ve always stayed close to this glade, my house, or that old tree.”

Born from a berry…on the great tree Gälnos?! Ërna thought to herself, mystified. Not from Mýrás like the rest of us?

“D-d-does that mean you literally can’t leave this place?” Ërna spluttered.

“No, that’s not the case,” he replied, somewhat unsettled by her sudden change of demeanor. “Animals wander freely, after all; and they were born from Gälnos, too. Besides, I actually have a brother who wanders often, despite being so frail. He was born from a sálwëamára too, but his grew on a higher branch than mine did, so…perhaps our blessings are different.”

“I-I see,” Ërna managed, feeling a bit silly. “What stops you from leaving, then?”

“I guess I’m just afraid,” he admitted. “I’m afraid it’s not just the wonderful stories I’ve heard that are true…but the horrifying ones, as well. Compared to those, the comfort of home seems much safer.”

Ërna stiffened.

“What stories are you most afraid of?” She finally asked, fearing the answer he might give.

Fëor hesitated. He didn’t want to tell the truth. In fact, he was beginning to regret how much he had already said. It was strange how quickly the two of them opened up to each other…but it was too late to stop now, so he decided to tread cautiously.

“Just beyond the borders of Gälenor,” Fëor began slowly, “I’ve heard stories about a kingdom called Pelría. Nothing compares to the prosperity and splendor of that place. Its ancient capital, Pelren, rests beneath a blue-leafed tree called Mýrás—which is even older than Gälnos, apparently.

The greatest garden in all of Älthren is there as well, tended to by a priestess devoted to both Ëolna and Rëálna. It puts this flower-filled glade to shame. After all, they say it was created by the Fëolásrí—the Three Kindred—who worked together in harmony long before Pelren grew to be such a sprawling city. I hope that place is real. I truly do. But, as for the ones who conquered that city to create their new kingdom…”

He paused, thinking carefully before continuing.

“They’ve developed incredible technology, done many great deeds, and helped thousands reach higher standards of living…but their violence and philosophies are frightening. Their first king, Eldrenir, betrayed his own adopted nephew to solidify power—and that was only after his greed led him to begin attacking his own people, over and over again, in an attempt to grow his hoard of land.

“Now their light spreads like wildfire, forcing the land to regrow in their image. Every story I’ve heard, despite the beauty therein, foretells the same fate: that their prosperity comes with a price. That is the seed from which Pelría grew, and now they are hostile to anyone who isn’t their kin or adherent to their belief that the land is theirs alone to shape. So even though I’d like to see the wondrous things they’ve made, I just don't think a person like me would be welcome over there..."

There was a moment of silence as Fëor’s voice faded away.

“So you’re afraid of the Eldásrí,” Ërna said, finally naming the group that Fëor painstakingly avoided mentioning directly. Her wind was cold and heavy, burdened by an incredibly deep sense of sorrow.

“I am,” Fëor admitted gruffly. “And if those stories are true…then I’m even afraid to stay home, because this place would be next. In fact, that's what my foster-sister fears more than anything.”

“D-do you hate the Eldásrí, then?” Ërna faltered. "Do you think they're all bad?"

Fëor was silent for a while as he considered her plea, which only deepened her dread. After all, if she couldn't find acceptance at home...what would she do if she couldn't find it here, either? Waiting for an answer to that question felt like an eternity.

But finally, Fëor spoke.

"The seeds of fear and suffering have been planted in my heart by the stories I've heard. I can't deny that."

Ërna was crestfallen.

"Any yet," he resumed, avoiding eye contact, "I still believe that some Eldásrí are like you: a petal dancing in the wind at dawn, gentle and warm.”

Finally finding the (rare) poetic side of himself, Fëor turned his once-awkward speech into the words that Ërna needed to hear most. That didn't stop him from feeling incredibly embarassed, though. Face red and eyes closed shut, he scolded himself for getting so carried away after talking about old stories; but when he opened his eyes and saw Ërna's reaction, that feeling quickly abated.

She was rubbing tears from her eyes.

Fëor smiled softly in turn, offering silent support as relief settled into her spirit. After all, she was an Eldásr herself. To receive acceptance rather than prejudice from someone living in a land threatened by her people must have meant a lot to her—an Eldásr running not only from her own hostile home, but from an externally-imposed identity she felt no harmony with.

“You know," she began softly, "if you want to see the world beyond this grove, you don’t have to travel alo—“

A growl from the edge of the glade cut her words short.