He was alone, undeniably so—but free. Free to listen to unburdened wind whispers through ancient boughs, free to touch rough tree bark without judgment, free to seek the world’s hidden wonders where he truly belonged.

He would be a nomad, guided not by harsh man-made faith, but by the ancient, benevolent presence he revered.

His daily prayers, not to a carved sun but to the boundless sky even above the sun, were offerings of gratitude and quiet pleas for understanding—a conversation with the world itself.

He would learn the true language of plants, uncover their secrets, and find his own path to healing, unconstrained by dogma.

The rich forests and sprawling wetlands of Vasal, its soaring mountains and vast oceans, stretched before him—a boundless canvas awaiting his careful, loving touch. 

His family rushed to advocate for him, he was but a child, the elders had gone too far! After some time, they found sympathetic ears and a search party was sent out to find him and bring him back.

When Elos returned to Veridia, he saw them. His mother, Elanaki, stood tall and resolute, her green eyes blazing with defiance. Beside her, his father, Ioann, his jaw set, his gaze firm. And tucked just behind them, a beacon of quiet strength, was his grandfather, Jawney, his hand resting reassuringly on his grandmother Blossom's arm. They hadn't abandoned him. They were waiting.

"We leave with you, Elos," Elanaki declared, her voice clear, carrying above the stunned murmurs of the few onlookers. "Veridia is no home without you."

Ioann nodded, his gaze meeting his son's. "The truth, no matter the cost, son. We choose the truth."

Blossom, ever practical, simply clutched a small, heavily laden sack of their own essential herbs. "There are other places on Vasal, places where the earth's wisdom is honored."

Jawny, his hand resting on Elos's shoulder, offered a small, knowing smile. "And other stories to be found, my boy. A new chapter begins, not ends."

Their decision was swift and unwavering. The elders of the temple, shocked by this unexpected act of solidarity, could only watch, impotent in their rage, as the small family turned their backs on Veridia. Their plan was to reach Nikaia, a bustling port town far to the west, a hub of maritime trade and the connecting route to all the ships that plied the vast oceans, linking the countless islands and other port towns of the old continent of Vasal. Nikaia represented a chance for a new beginning, a place where their unconventional ways might blend into the endless flow of travelers and ideas.

The journey to Nikaia was arduous but filled with a tense, fragile hope. They traveled for days with a small caravan heading the same way, walking through verdant forests, crossing sparkling rivers, guided by Ioann's knowledge of the land and Blossom's uncanny sense for safe passages. Elos, though still reeling from the temple's judgment, found solace in his family's unwavering presence. He spent the trip observing the new flora and fauna of the regions they passed through, his mind already beginning to catalog new species, a sense of purpose re-igniting within him. Each night, under the immense, star-dusted sky, he would offer his silent prayers to the creator of love and compassion, now more profoundly grateful than ever for the gift of his family.

They finally reached Nikaia, a cacophony of foreign tongues, the salty tang of the sea, and the endless creak of ship timbers. It was a dizzying world away from the rigid silence of Veridia. They quickly found a small, seaworthy vessel whose captain was willing to take them to a less dogmatic northern port. Their few belongings were loaded, the gangplank was almost pulled away, when Elos remembered.

"My seeds!" he cried, a sudden, desperate realization. He had kept his most precious sack of meticulously collected and cataloged seeds in his old, worn leather satchel, but in the rush of boarding and the excitement of departure, he had briefly set it down near the cargo hatch, distracted by the bustling port workers. These weren't just seeds; they were years of his life's work, the nascent future of his healing practice, a tangible link to the wisdom of Vasal.

"Go, quickly!" Ioann urged, seeing the frantic look in his son's eyes. "We'll wait."

Elos leaped off the boat, his heart pounding, rushing back towards the cargo area. He spotted his satchel, just as a low, guttural rumble, unlike any sound he had ever heard, tore through the air. The ground beneath his feet bucked violently, a terrifying, sudden lurch. The cries of the seagulls turned into shrieks of terror, echoing the screams of the people. A massive earthquake had struck.

The very docks he stood on began to crack and splinter, chasms opening in the stone. Buildings along the waterfront groaned and crumbled, sending plumes of dust and debris into the air. The water in the harbor, usually a gentle lapping, turned into a monstrous, churning beast. A colossal wave, born of the seabed's violent upheaval, rose from the deep, towering over the port. Elos, clutching his sack of seeds, watched in horror as the towering wall of water crashed into the harbor, slamming into the moored ships. He saw their small vessel, his family still aboard, lifted impossibly high, then swept away into the churning chaos, disappearing into the watery maw of the collapsing port. The roar of the wave, the splintering wood, the cries of a hundred dying souls, filled his ears, a deafening symphony of destruction.

When the ground finally stilled, and the water receded, leaving behind a devastation of splintered wood, shattered stone, and the eerie silence of death, Elos stood alone amidst the ruins. The bustling port of Nikaia was a desolate wasteland. There was no sign of his family, no sign of their boat, nothing but the grim testament of the sea's fury. The sack of seeds, clutched tightly in his trembling hands, was all he had left. The choice had been made for him, brutally, irrevocably. 

He was truly alone now, not just from Veridia, but from everything and everyone he had ever known. His grief unimaginable, the sobs in his chest a testament of the love he held for his family… my soul's he whispered, my loves my life's blood, how can I live knowing you're gone. He cried and as the tears smudged his weary face, the screams and moans of pain from the victims of the quake made him rush to ease the pain of others. He worked tirelessly till the night turned pitch black as more tremors rippled through the ravaged city. He was surrounded by suffering, by broken bodies and broken lives. The weight of their pain pressed down on him, an almost physical burden. But within that pain, he also saw a spark of resilience, a desperate will to survive. And so, Elos, the healer who had lost everything, found himself compelled to give everything he had left.

He worked without stopping. through the night and into the next day, his hands moved with a practiced efficiency born of years of training and an almost desperate urgency. He treated burns with soothing poultices he concocted from the few herbs he still carried, splinted broken limbs with salvaged pieces of wood and cloth, and administered water to the parched and feverish. He spoke words of comfort to those who had lost their families, his own grief momentarily submerged beneath the tidal wave of other people’s pain.

He found a small, dazed boy clutching a tattered doll, the child’s eyes wide with shock, his clothes torn and stained. Elos gently cleaned his scrapes, offered him water from his own skin, and sat with him in the dust, murmuring stories of faraway lands and brave heroes, until the boy’s trembling subsided. He helped an elderly woman who was trapped beneath a collapsed wall, her leg badly broken, her face etched with pain and resignation. He worked for hours, carefully moving the debris, splinting her leg, and giving her water. She held his hand, her grip surprisingly strong, and whispered, “You are like the old balms of Vasal, boy. The ones who heal the soul as well as the body.”

These words, simple and heartfelt, resonated deeply within Elos. In the midst of chaos and devastation, he was fulfilling his true purpose, the purpose that had led to his exile. He was healing, he was comforting, he was offering solace. And it didn’t matter if his methods were considered heretical or his beliefs unorthodox. All that mattered was the relief in the eyes of the injured, the gratitude in their whispered thanks, the small spark of hope that he could ignite in the face of overwhelming despair.

As the sky began to lighten, casting a pale, gray hue over the ruins of Nikaia, Elos stumbled wearily to the edge of the harbor. The colossal wave had receded, leaving behind a wasteland of splintered wood, shattered stone, and the eerie silence of death. The small boat that had held his family was gone, vanished without a trace into the churning chaos. The grief hit him again then, a tidal wave of its own, threatening to pull him under. He sank to his knees, the sack of seeds still clutched tightly in his hand, and let out a sob that tore through the desolate stillness.

“Why?” he whispered, his voice hoarse, broken. “Why did you take them from me? All of them?” He cried for his mother, her fierce protective love. He cried for his father, his quiet strength. He cried for his grandmother, her gentle wisdom. He cried for his grandfather, his whispered stories. And as the tears streamed down his face, he felt a profound sense of emptiness, a terrible, aching void where his family had once been.

But even in his grief, he couldn't ignore the cries of the survivors. The moans of the wounded, the desperate calls for help, were a persistent reminder of his responsibility. With a sigh, he wiped his eyes, stood up, and turned back towards the devastation. He was alone, yes, truly and utterly alone. But he was also a healer, a wanderer, a cataloger of life. And he still had his knowledge, his skills, and his unwavering belief in the power of compassion. And, he still had a lot of his work of seeds and plants within his packs. He had seen them, and felt them safe within the packs resting on his back. He knew he was destined for more than just grieving.

He knew he had to survive and live and see what knowledge still awaited in the world. He would rebuild. He would heal. He would go on. And maybe, just maybe, in the act of helping others, he would find a way to heal himself.