After Elos helped all he could in the ravaged city of Nikaia, tending to the injured and offering comfort to the grieving. He healed, giving freely of his knowledge and skills to anyone who needed them, regardless of their status or background. Some survivors, moved by his compassion, brought him food, sharing what little they had salvaged from the destruction. Others, having lost everything, could only offer their heartfelt praise and thanks, their words a testament to his kindness. And yet others, more fortunate and possessing some remaining coins, gave them to Elos to help him begin to rebuild his life. These small acts of generosity were deeply touching and helped to sustain him through the darkest hours. As the initial chaos subsided, Elos recognized that he could not remain amidst the ruins forever. His deeds were talked about and his fame spread throughout the region.

He eventually met up with a merchant caravan heading toward his home village of Veridia. After negotiating and paying for his passage with some of the coins he had received, he slowly traveled back to his home, the journey offering a time for reflection and a chance to process the traumatic events he had witnessed. He prayed for all those affected and gave thanks of his own with positive affirmations.

The caravan people were not only kind but knowledgeable, sharing their supplies of food and water with Elos, they also offered him invaluable companionship during the long journey. As they traveled, the merchants and travelers shared countless stories of distant kingdoms, mythical creatures, and far-off lands, painting vivid pictures in Elos's mind of the world beyond Veridia. These tales sparked his imagination, fueled his curiosity, and broadened his understanding of Vasal’s diverse cultures and geographies. The constant flow of conversation and shared experiences helped to distract him from his grief and anxieties, providing a much-needed sense of human connection in his time of profound loss. With some of the coins he had been given by grateful survivors in Nikaia, Elos purchased a sturdy roll of rough, undyed fabric from one of the merchants. He envisioned using this material to create a couple of simple togas, practical and versatile garments suitable for traveling and working in the wilderness. He knew that his torn and soiled clothing was quickly becoming threadbare, and he recognized the need for more durable and appropriate attire.  He planned to fashion the togas during the quieter moments of the journey, between stops and chores, utilizing his latent skills of tailoring he had learnt from watching the people of Veridia.  He thought of the design and how the cloth would wrap around him, and how it would be something to keep the sun off of him, and give a better layering of cloth for the colder nights.

Elos wanted closure regarding his experiences and he had overheard fragments of conversations between his family members during their departure, hinting that there were unresolved matters they felt compelled to address in Veridia. These "loose ends" troubled him, creating a sense of unfinished business and a desire to understand the full ramifications of their sudden exile. He knew his parents and grandparents were not ones to leave things undone or said if at all avoidable, and he worried that the hurried, forced departure from Veridia meant there were questions left unanswered, perhaps even injustices left unaddressed, that concerned them all.

Elos’s return was not ceremonious, and he kept busy trying to put his affairs in order, he stored most of his books and treasures underneath a hearth in his family's secret cave which they had used as a goat shelter when they still owned a herd, now it was forgotten part of the hillsides that no one had uses for.

The lingering scent of the blight that had hit the village after the earthquake hung heavy over Veridia, a grim reminder of the sickness and death that had gripped the village. It was a smell of fear, of desperation, and of the temple’s increasingly desperate grip on the hearts of its people. The Sun-Blessed priests, their faces gaunt from endless chanting and rituals, had tightened their sermons, each word a hammer blow against doubt, declaring the affliction a divine test, a purification. Any failure to overcome the sickness, any lingering cough, was whispered to be a sign of insufficient faith, a rot at the soul. This narrative, Elos knew, was designed to reinforce their power, to stamp out any challenge to their authority. He watched from the periphery as neighbors grew suspicious of neighbors, as whispers of 'hidden sin' and 'weak faith' replaced the customary village greetings. The community, once bound by shared purpose and collective harvest, was now subtly fractured by an insidious fear propagated from the gleaming spire of the Sun-Blessed Temple.

Elos, for his part, had retreated to his family home, a dwelling on the village's western edge, the one bathed in the soft, late afternoon sun that spilled over the whispering forest. He spent his days in a quiet hum of activity, distilling the last of his blight-fighting concoctions, his hands still stained green from mountain moss and earth. Each successful treatment, each child whose breath returned to a steady rhythm, felt less like a triumph and more like another stone added to the burden he carried. His small, cluttered room, usually a haven of botanical experiments and neatly organized parchment scrolls, now felt less like a sanctuary and more like a temporary respite before an inevitable storm. 

He knew the temple's scrutiny was intensifying. His success, undeniable and often surpassing the priests’ own rituals, was a double-edged sword: it proved his skill, but simultaneously highlighted his dangerous independence from the Sun-Blessed doctrine. The whispers that had once been furtive now felt like a rising tide, a wave that threatened to engulf him. He heard the muffled criticisms from passing villagers – "He relies too much on the earth," "He speaks of other powers," "His hands are too clean of prayer." Each word was a tiny chip at his already fragile standing. His isolation was complete; even those he had saved now looked at him with a mixture of gratitude and suspicion, their loyalty irrevocably tied to the temple’s judgment.

The summons came at dawn, carried by a young acolyte, barely a man, his face pale and solemn, his eyes darting nervously. "Healer Elos," the boy murmured, his gaze fixed on the ground, his voice barely above a whisper as if the very air might carry his words to the ever-listening Sun-Blessed One, "the High Council requests your presence in the Inner Sanctum. Immediately." The words were formal, almost rote, but Elos caught the tremor in the acolyte’s voice, the slight quiver of his hand holding the parchment. This wasn't a request for healing, not an invitation for a consultation. It was a judgment. 

Elos nodded, a cold certainty settling in his stomach. This was it. He gathered his few personal effects – his well-worn leather satchel, heavier than usual with the weight of impending exile; a small pouch of his most precious seeds, meticulously collected over years, each one a tiny promise of life; and a discreetly rolled scroll containing his most controversial botanical findings, a desperate attempt to safeguard the knowledge he had painstakingly gathered. He left his detailed journals, hundreds of pages of meticulous observation and nascent theory, hidden beneath a loose floorboard near the hearth of the cave where the livestock was once housed, a silent prayer that they might one day be found and understood, that his life’s work would not be entirely lost.

Elos paused, noticing the young acolyte’s nervous demeanor and the tremor in his voice. He recognized the fear in the boy's eyes, the fear that came with being caught between the authority of the temple and the unfolding drama of Elos's impending confrontation. Elos felt a surge of compassion, a desire to alleviate the acolyte's burden, even amidst his own turmoil. Softening his tone, he asked gently, "Tell me, acolyte, what is your name?"

The acolyte, startled that Elos would address him with such simple kindness, stammered slightly. "I… I'm Acolyte Skios," he finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper, his gaze fixed on the ground.

Elos nodded, a small, reassuring smile forming on his lips. "Well, Acolyte Skios," he began, his voice steady and earnest, "I would like to propose something to you. I'm about to go to the temple, and I suspect I won't be returning for quite some time… perhaps not for years. I have a farm and this house on the edge of the village. It's a modest place, but it has a solid roof and a good well. I would like to offer it to you. You can look after it, you can live there, you can use the land. I'll even give you a few silver coins to ensure you have provisions." He reached into a small pouch at his belt, the one containing the remaining coins he had received in Nikaia, and pulled out a few gleaming pieces. "Would you accept this?"

Acolyte Skios stared at the coins in Elos's hand, then back at Elos's face, his eyes widening in disbelief. His composure crumbled then, and tears welled up in his eyes. He nodded vigorously, unable to speak, overwhelmed by the unexpected generosity. He had witnessed the villagers' scorn and the elders' wrath directed at Elos, and he had expected only anger or indifference. Instead, he was being offered kindness, security, and a chance at a better life. He choked out a sob, overwhelmed that his life had just changed so drastically in this single unexpected instant. He was an orphan of the temple and had always been under the authority of the Sun-Blessed One, but this was different. This was something he had never dared to dream of.

Seeing the boy’s reaction, Elos's smile deepened. "Before we go to the temple," he said gently, "let's stop at the Magister's office and sign some papers. Make it all official. Ensure that the house and land are truly yours. It's important that everything is done properly." He paused, looking at Skios with concern. "Are you of age to own property? Will they allow you to sign for it?"

Skios nodded again, his head shaking vigorously, the tears still streaming down his face. "Yes," he managed to whisper, his voice thick with emotion. "I am of age. Just." He knew that this change could be taken from him in a heartbeat, and he felt an unexpected loyalty towards Elos in this one moment.

Elos patted the boy’s shoulder. "Good. Then we'll make sure it's done right. Come along." He started to turn towards the Magister's office, feeling a strange mix of emotions. Even amidst his own impending confrontation and potential exile, he felt a profound sense of peace in knowing that he had helped someone, that he had left at least one small act of kindness in his wake. It felt right. His life was his work, and now he could help at least one more.