Page 11

11

ROOTS OF PAIN

T he Eldergrove screamed in a language only Thorne could understand. Every burned leaf, every poisoned root, every corrupted branch sent waves of agony through his expanded consciousness. He existed everywhere and nowhere, his awareness stretched across miles of forest as he coordinated desperate defenses against an enemy that attacked from all directions.

Shadow creatures oozed through gaps in the magical barriers, their forms shifting between solid and smoke. Human raiders wielding iron weapons and corrupted spells struck at the forest's edges, setting fires that burned with unnatural hunger. Thorne felt each assault as if it were against his own flesh, because in many ways, it was.

Another grove fell to the flames, its ancient trees crying out as they died. Thorne made the brutal calculation he'd been forced to make dozens of times already. Save the heart, sacrifice the edges. The mathematics of survival had become sickeningly familiar.

“Fall back to the second ring,” he commanded through the network of roots and branches that carried his will. Dryads and forest spirits retreated, abandoning homes they'd known for centuries. Some refused to leave, clinging to their trees even as fire consumed them. Thorne felt their deaths like pieces of his soul being torn away.

The constant warfare was taking its toll. Without Silas's presence to anchor him, Thorne found himself losing track of his individual identity. Hours would pass where he existed purely as the forest's consciousness, forgetting he had ever been anything else. Only the lock of hair Silas had given him, carefully preserved in a pouch against what remained of his physical form, could bring him back to himself.

He clutched it now, letting the familiar scent ground him in his own identity. Silas. His love. His anchor. The one he was fighting to protect, even as the distance between them grew more painful by the day.

A tremor through the root network pulled his attention to the heart grove. The Elder Willow's life force flickered like a guttering candle. Thorne manifested his physical form beside her ancient trunk, solidifying from shadow and starlight.

“You spread yourself too thin, guardian,” the Elder Willow wheezed, her voice like dry leaves rustling. Black sap oozed from wounds in her bark where shadow magic had taken root.

“I have no choice,” Thorne replied, placing a hand against her trunk. He could feel the poison working through her system, a corruption designed specifically to target ancient tree spirits. “The attacks come from all sides.”

“As they did in the Time of Sundering,” she said. “When the first guardians fell.”

“Don't speak of falling,” Thorne snapped, then immediately regretted his tone. “Forgive me. I...”

“You fear losing me.” Her remaining branches stirred in what might have been a gesture of comfort. “As you fear losing him.”

Thorne couldn't deny it. The Elder Willow had guided him for centuries, her wisdom a constant in his long existence. The thought of continuing without her seemed impossible.

“You must prepare,” she continued. “For succession. For what comes after.”

“There is no after. You will recover.”

“Sweet guardian.” Her laugh turned into a wet cough that shook her entire frame. “Even ancient things must end. Better to prepare than to be caught unaware.”

Before Thorne could argue further, the perimeter wards flared with warning. Another attack. He dissolved into shadow, racing toward the disturbance, leaving the conversation unfinished.

The southern border erupted in chaos as corrupted bears, their eyes glowing sickly green, charged through the underbrush. Behind them came human soldiers bearing the mark of Sebastian's forces. Thorne materialized between them and the fleeing forest spirits, his form expanding into something terrible and beautiful.

“You shall not pass,” he thundered, his voice carrying the weight of centuries.

The soldiers faltered, but their mage commanders drove them forward with whips of lightning. Thorne met their assault with primal fury, calling thorned vines from the earth to entangle them, summoning wind to scatter their formations. But for every enemy he struck down, two more appeared.

A binding spell caught him off guard, wrapping around his essence like chains of ice. Thorne roared in pain and rage, shattering the magic through sheer force of will. The effort left him momentarily vulnerable, and a silver-tipped arrow found its mark, piercing what passed for his shoulder.

He retreated, reforming deeper in the forest where the trees were older and stronger. The wound burned, silver reacting badly with his magical nature. As he pulled the arrow free, he heard distant horns. Reinforcements, but not Sebastian's.

Forest spirits emerged from the shadows, led by a stag whose antlers sparked with lightning. Behind them came dryads from the Western Groves, their bark armor gleaming with protective runes.

“The ancient pacts call us,” the stag declared, bowing his magnificent head. “The Eldergrove does not stand alone.”

Relief warred with wariness in Thorne's heart. Aid was desperately needed, but nothing came without cost in the world of spirits and magic.

“What price for your assistance?” he asked.

“No price,” the stag replied. “Only remembrance. When this war ends, remember who stood with you.”

More spirits arrived throughout the day. River nymphs from the Crystal Falls, bringing healing waters. Mountain trolls from the Northern Peaks, their stone clubs ready for battle. Each group had its own customs, its own way of fighting. Coordinating them all stretched Thorne's diplomatic abilities to their limits.

He found himself desperately missing Silas's talent for negotiation. His lover could have smoothed ruffled feathers, found common ground between disparate factions. Instead, Thorne struggled to keep ancient rivals from turning on each other even as they faced a common enemy.

Night fell, bringing a temporary lull in the fighting. Thorne used the respite to tend to the wounded and reinforce failing wards. As he worked, exhaustion dragging at his essence, a familiar presence slithered into his consciousness.

The shadow entity manifested as a dark mirror of himself, its form a twisted parody of guardian power.

“Still fighting the inevitable?” it purred. “ Your forest burns, your Elder fades, and your precious human plays at politics while you suffer.”

“Leave me,” Thorne growled, not pausing in his work.

“I offer salvation.” The entity circled him like smoke. “Break your bond with the Ashworth heir. Free yourself from human weakness. I will spare the Eldergrove, let you rule as guardians were meant to rule.”

“Your lies are as poisonous as your magic.”

“Are they?” The entity's form shifted, showing images of Silas in the royal court, dressed in finery, surrounded by fawning nobles. “See how easily he returns to his true nature. Power calls to power. He will choose the throne over trees, authority over love.”

“You know nothing of love,” Thorne spat, but the images stirred doubt in his heart. How many times had he seen similar scenes play out? Humans always chose power in the end.

“Don't I?” The entity's laugh was like breaking glass. “I was born from love betrayed. I know its every weakness, every failure. As you will learn, guardian. As you will learn.”

It faded away, leaving Thorne alone with his doubts and the taste of ash in his mouth.

* * *

The attacks intensified. As Thorne fought to hold the eastern border, a surge of memory caught him off guard. This grove, these ancient oaks, they had been Marcus's favorite refuge. Here they had shared secrets, planned futures, dreamed of bridging the gap between their peoples.

The parallel to his current situation struck him like a physical blow. The mounting pressure, the impossible choices, the slow erosion of trust. Was he repeating the same pattern? Had his shielding of Silas been the first step down the path that led to Marcus's betrayal?

The realization that he'd been protecting Silas the same way Marcus had once protected him sent ice through his veins. History was repeating itself, and he was playing both parts.

Lost in memory and recrimination, Thorne almost missed the shadow creature lunging for his throat. He dispatched it with a gesture, but the close call shook him. He couldn't afford distraction, not now.

Yet the memories wouldn't leave him alone. As he moved through the forest, every familiar place triggered echoes of the past. The clearing where he and Marcus had first kissed. The stream where they'd planned their grand alliance. The hollow tree where betrayal had shattered everything.

Seeking clarity, Thorne made his way to the heart grove's most ancient section. Here, trees older than human civilization stood sentinel, their roots diving deep into the world's bones. Among them, he found what he sought: carvings left by Guardian Ashara, recording her wisdom from centuries past.

The symbols were faint with age but still legible to one who knew how to read them. Thorne traced the carved lines with trembling fingers as their meaning became clear.

“Breaking the cycle requires trust beyond sight,” he translated aloud. “Love must be chosen daily, not hoarded like treasure. Protection becomes prison when given without consent.”

These were Ashara's teachings on the bond between guardians and humans. Before her fall defending the northern groves, she had tried to share this wisdom with Thorne, warning of the dangers that came with protecting those we love too fiercely.

“You always tried to tell me,” Thorne murmured to the ancient carvings, acknowledging wisdom he'd been too stubborn to hear in earlier times.

“Talking to trees now?” Rowan's gruff voice startled him. His old friend emerged from the shadows, battle-worn but unbowed. “Or just avoiding the conversation we need to have?”

“Not now, Rowan.”

“Yes, now.” Rowan planted himself firmly in Thorne's path. “You're making his choices for him. Just as Marcus did to you.”

The words hit like hammer blows. Thorne wanted to deny them, to rage against the comparison, but he couldn't. The truth was too obvious.

“I'm trying to protect him,” he said weakly.

“By shutting him out? By deciding what he can and cannot handle?” Rowan's expression softened slightly. “I watched you suffer when Marcus did the same. Don't inflict that pain on Silas.”

“The things I've had to do, the choices I've made...” Thorne's voice broke. “How can I burden him with that?”

“Because that's what love is,” Rowan replied. “Sharing burdens, not carrying them alone. You taught me that, centuries ago.”

Before Thorne could respond, another alarm rippled through the forest. More attacks, more fires, more death. He moved to respond, but Rowan caught his arm.

“Fix this,” his friend said firmly. “Before it's too late.”

* * *

That night, as the forest settled into uneasy quiet, Thorne made a decision. The risk was enormous, but he couldn't continue this way. He needed to reach Silas, truly reach him, despite the distance and danger.

Dream walking required delicate magic under the best circumstances. Attempting it while maintaining the forest's defenses bordered on foolhardy. But desperation drove him forward.

He lay down in a protected grove, clutching Silas's hair token, and let his consciousness drift along the silver threads of their bond. The journey was harder than it should have been, the path obscured by his own shields and Silas's mental defenses.

When he finally broke through, he found himself in a mindscape of marble halls and golden chains. Silas stood at the center, wearing royal robes that seemed to weigh him down. Courtiers with blank faces whispered poison in his ears while shadow puppets danced attendance.

“Silas,” Thorne called, his voice echoing strangely in the dream space.

His lover turned, but his eyes were distant, clouded. “Who...?”

The lack of recognition cut deeper than any physical wound. Thorne reached out, trying to touch Silas's face, but his hand passed through like smoke.

“It's me,” he pleaded. “Remember us. Remember what we are to each other.”

Silas flinched away, the courtiers crowding closer, their whispers growing louder. Thorne felt the dream beginning to collapse, his own power insufficient to maintain the connection.

“Please,” he begged, pouring every ounce of love and longing into the word.

Something shifted in Silas's eyes. Recognition dawned, followed by desperate joy. “Thorne!”

The dream space transformed as their connection reasserted itself. The marble halls melted away, replaced by their familiar grove. Silas threw himself into Thorne's arms, solid and warm and real in the way only dreams could make possible.

“I thought you'd abandoned me,” Silas gasped between kisses. “The bond went so quiet. I couldn't feel you.”

“I'm sorry,” Thorne murmured, holding him close. “I thought I was protecting you.”

“From what?”

“From this.” Thorne shared flashes of memory: burning groves, dying spirits, impossible choices. “I didn't want you to carry this pain.”

Silas pulled back enough to meet his eyes. “That's not your choice to make. We're supposed to face these things together.”

“I know. I see that now.” Thorne pressed their foreheads together. “I've been repeating old mistakes, letting fear drive us apart.”

They clung to each other in the dream space, sharing everything they'd held back. The political machinations of the court, the constant battles in the forest, their doubts and fears and desperate hopes. The honesty was painful but cleansing, like lancing a festering wound.

“I miss you,” Silas whispered. “Every moment, every breath.”

“As do I.” Thorne kissed him softly. “We'll find our way back to each other. I swear it.”

The dream began to fade. They held on until the last possible moment, promising to maintain contact despite the cost. As consciousness pulled them apart, Thorne heard Silas's final words: “I love you. No matter what comes.”

Thorne woke to find tears on his face and renewed strength in his heart. The brief connection had restored something vital, reminding him what he fought for.

* * *

The morning brought terrible news. Sebastian's forces had arrived in earnest, not just soldiers but mages wielding binding spells designed specifically to capture spirits. Thorne recognized some of the techniques from ancient texts, forbidden magic that could tear spirits from their natural anchors.

“They mean to enslave us,” he realized with horror.

The evacuation of non-combatants became urgent. Thorne ordered all spirits unable or unwilling to fight to retreat to the deepest groves, places so old and wild that human magic couldn't reach them.

Many refused.

“This is our home,” a dryad insisted, her arms wrapped around her tree. “We won't abandon it.”

“You must,” Thorne pleaded. “What they plan is worse than death.”

In the end, he had to command them, using his authority as guardian to compel obedience. Each forced departure felt like tearing out pieces of his own heart. Briar surprised everyone by taking charge of the exodus, her usual playfulness replaced by grim determination.

“I'll keep them safe,” she promised. “You just keep the forest standing until we can return.”

The first wave of the attack came at midday. Human soldiers tested the defenses, probing for weaknesses. Thorne let them advance, conserving his strength for what he knew was coming. When the binding mages appeared, their robes marked with symbols that hurt to look at, he was ready with countermeasures learned from ancient battles.

But their power exceeded his worst fears. Shadow magic augmented their spells, making them exponentially stronger. The first binding net nearly caught him, only a desperate twist saving him from capture.

The battle became a nightmare of burning trees and screaming spirits. Thorne fought on multiple fronts, his form shifting constantly between warrior and healer. He saved what he could, but watched helplessly as binding spells trapped lesser spirits, turning them into unwilling weapons against their own kind.

A forest nymph he'd known for centuries attacked him with dead eyes, her water magic corrupted into acid. Thorne recognized her immediately—Silvial, who had once sung healing songs to wounded saplings and woven rainbows in the morning mist. Now her translucent skin had turned murky, her hair dripping with black ichor instead of crystal water.

She lunged without hesitation, fingers extended like claws. Where her touch landed, bark hissed and bubbled. Thorne caught her wrists, feeling the wrongness of her magic—what should have been life-giving moisture now burned like venom.

“Silvial,” he called to her, desperate. “Remember yourself. Remember the songs we shared during the spring floods.”

Her response was a shriek that could never have come from her true voice. The binding had consumed too much of her, leaving only a marionette wearing her face.

Thorne had no choice. He channeled pure forest energy through their connection, not to heal but to sever. The binding unraveled strand by strand, each thread of corruption screaming as it was torn away. Silvial's form flickered between corrupted monster and the being she had once been.

For a heartbeat, clarity returned to her eyes. “Free... us,” she gasped, before her body began to dissolve. Without the shadow's binding to hold her shape, she crumbled like flowers left too long in winter frost.

The nymph scattered into silver motes that were immediately devoured by encroaching shadows. Not dead, exactly—forest spirits rarely died in human terms—but scattered beyond the point where her individual consciousness could reform. A worse fate than death, in many ways.

Thorne stood motionless for a moment, feeling the loss like a wound. How many more of his kin would he be forced to 'save' through destruction?

The act left him feeling hollow, even as he continued to fight. Hours passed in a blur of violence and desperate defense. The forest burned around him, ancient trees falling to axes and flame. Each death diminished him, weakening the web of life that sustained his power.

Hours passed in a blur of violence and desperate defense. The forest burned around him, ancient trees falling to axes and flame. Each death diminished him, weakening the web of life that sustained his power.

Thorne faced the truth. They were losing. Despite the aid of allied spirits, despite his own considerable power, the combination of human ingenuity and shadow magic was proving too much.

He stood at a crossroads, literal and metaphorical. To his left, the path led to the heart grove where he could make a final stand. To his right, deeper into the wild where he might escape to fight another day.

Neither option felt like victory.

In that moment of despair, he felt Silas through their bond. Not the muted connection of recent days, but a full, blazing presence. Love poured through the link, along with strength, determination, and absolute faith.

Drawing on that connection, Thorne made his choice.

He released the restraints he'd placed on his own power centuries ago, becoming something more than guardian, more than spirit. His consciousness expanded to encompass miles of forest, every tree becoming an extension of his will. His physical form dissolved into pure energy, spreading through root and branch, leaf and bark.

The display of raw power forced Sebastian's mages to retreat. Binding spells shattered against his expanded consciousness, unable to contain something so vast. For a moment, he felt invincible.

Then the cost hit him.

The transformation burned through his life force at a terrifying rate. He could feel himself dissolving, becoming one with the forest permanently. There would be no return from this, no way back to individual existence.

But in that expanded state, he touched something deeper than personal survival. The original magic that created guardians flowed through him, power that predated the shadow entity itself. In that timeless moment, he accessed memories stored in the forest's very essence.

He saw the first betrayal between humans and guardians, not as history recorded it, but as it truly happened. Misunderstanding piled upon fear, fear breeding hatred, hatred spawning the shadow entity from the collective pain of both peoples.

The truth blazed through him: the shadow entity wasn't their enemy, but their creation. Born from the first broken trust, fed by centuries of conflict, it could only be defeated by healing the original wound.

With the last of his coherent thought, Thorne sent everything he'd learned to Silas. Images, knowledge, understanding, and desperate hope. Find Nathaniel. Unite the bloodlines. Heal what was broken.

The effort nearly destroyed him. Only by supreme will did he manage to pull back from total dissolution, gathering the scattered fragments of his consciousness into something resembling his former self.

He collapsed in the heart grove, more spirit than flesh, fundamentally changed by what he'd done. Parts of him remained merged with the forest, making him stronger in some ways but more vulnerable in others. He could feel every leaf, every root, as if they were part of his body. Because now, they were.

The Elder Willow's presence brushed against his awareness, weak but approving. “Now you understand,” she whispered. “What it truly means to be guardian.”

Thorne lay among the roots of ancient trees, watching stars appear through smoke-stained leaves. His message to Silas had been sent, the truth revealed. Whatever came next, they would face it with open eyes and honest hearts.

He clutched Silas's token, letting its familiar touch anchor him to himself. The battle wasn't over, but something fundamental had shifted. The path forward was clearer now, even if walking it would require sacrifices he couldn't yet imagine.

“I'm still here,” he whispered to the night, to Silas, to himself. “Still fighting. Still yours.”