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Ralir wasn't supposed to go to the Grandfather Tree on his own.

The Barrens weren't safe. You are young, said Father, eyes skittering past Ralir's curiously cocked ears and all the way down to his hooves, tapping at the ground underneath, as was Ralir's habit. You have not yet received your Gift.

Father knew things, despite that he never left the Homewood anymore. He knew about the metal corpses twisted and tangled in the Ruins of Erli, the building-skeletons with rust streaking down their spines, rattling with ominous despair as some poor noul's unsuspecting hooves tested for stability and found nothing. He knew about the heavy air of the Blackbriar Bog settling into your lungs, turning you rotten from inside out, and the black mire of its water, settling in your fur with nefarious resolution until it started to fall out. He knew about the Barrens, how they reached into your throat and pulled out all the water, hoarding it in scorched hideouts that vanished the next time you came by, and turned you dusty and grey, desperate for shelter from a vain sun that refused to turn itself down. Father had said the Barrens would greet him by showing off the skeletons of all the comrades whose footsteps you'd fallow.

Father knew things, but Ralir was smart. He couldn't miss his yearmates and their new gifts, the way a new Vivify might say, cocksure and satisfied, that there was someone listening now, right over there, and hide her mirth when she was right, or the way an Atmos' long mane fluttered in the wind every time he talked. They'd gone to the Grandfather Tree, and they'd come back.

Not everyone does, Father had said. And Ralir did not remember his mother's laugh, or the boisterous swing of his uncle's tail, but he did remember the buck who'd taught him, when he was a yearling, to pry a sprout from the ground so it could grow somewhere it had space without snapping its fine, delicate roots. The buck whose name no one said out loud anymore.

And Ralir had seen his father worrying, late at night. Counting all the little foals in their neck of the Homewood every morning, and making marks in the ground for every day since their neighbors had ventured forth, only to wipe it away with his sad smile and relieved brows the evening they finally returned.

So he had to do it well. "You'll come with me," he told Father. "You remember the way." He prepared, too: bundling herbs and nuts, drying mushrooms and fruit, practicing walking back and forth across the meadow with stones tied to his shoulders until no one could deny that he was strong. He bartered desperately to get two large, pale cloths, to hide them at least a little from the sun's burn. His friends left and came back, one after another.

It's not that far, they said, marveling at the stockpile he and Father had been creating. You're not going exploring for a month. Wouldn't it be best to share those nuts around?

But Ralir and Father - neither of them had anyone else left to worry about. So Ralir would wait, so that Father could follow and feel reassured.

They set off with other nouls, walking known paths, taking rests to ease the exhaustion. An Atmos made sure they didn't grow too parched; a Botany helped refresh their leaves so they were strong and nourished on their journey. No one grew too tired, or encountered a predator. They made it to the tree and parted amicably, the others off to do work, Father and Ralir to sit at the edge of the long white roots and wait.

There were other nouls here. Grandfather Tree was beloved. But Ralir did not stray from Father. "Sit here," he said, ushering Father to a particularly large root with no regard for the shrieks of foals playing hero just to their left. Father sat with the tree's ancient wood as support, his old knees almost creaking.

Ralir settled in next to Father, and he waited.

Father had told Ralir so many things about Vykeli. It was a broken place, and the lush greens and comforting shade of the Homewood were a precious exception.

He'd never said anything about how he'd gotten his Gift. Ralir was no skeptic: of course he'd seen other nouls fresh with power. What did sitting in the shade of this tree do that no other tree could?

Now that Ralir was here, of course, he could have no more doubt. It really was large: just its roots dwarfed Father and Ralir both. He looked up and up and up and could not spot where its large, sturdy branches began to bud off into leaves. His breath caught in his throat, and as it did, he felt the chatter and stomps of the foals fade into nothing. This was a place of power, he thought. The trees of Homewood, though they'd withstood much, would look like squirrels next to this one.

He could almost see them now: the old red river gum he passed every morning with its hollow that housed brightly-colored beetles and, sometimes, a very loud bird; the stately willow whose wide branches and dense shade made an excellent resting place for stories, the thorny little bush that the mischievous squirrels liked to escape to once they'd made off with one of Father's favorite nuts. Home really was small and weak next to the Grandfather Tree.

Ralir closed his eyes and shook his head. That should come at no surprise, he told himself. The Grandfather Tree was older than any noulicorn anyone knew, and it had been just as strong and wise and benevolent before the invaders had ever set their vile eyes upon Vykeli's clouds. Now: it was better to be clear-headed, wasn't it? Ralir didn't really know what to expect from the Grandfather Tree's evaluation. Would it talk? Would he know what to do? How long would he need to wait here, in the icy rain, for -

Wait. The Grandfather Tree was certainly magical, but it didn't rain in the Barrens. Was some Atmos pulling a prank? Father's bones wouldn't withstand that, not now. Ralir tossed his head again, letting his eyes blink open into a glare. There were nouls who thought his father was useless, that he'd given up, that a young, strong buck like Ralir shouldn't waste his tim -

That was not the Grandfather Tree. That was Ralir's red river gum, over there, and the willow, with its whippy branches being pulled to the side by a wild wind. Now that he was thinking about it, Ralir, too, was being besieged by some unfamiliar gale, and the rumble of thunder followed a bright crackle of light. Next to the thorn bush a wet squirrel, bedraggled and shiny, was struggling to navigate the thick mud around its ankles. What was going on? Where was Father, and where were their supplies?

For a moment, struggling to his feet, Ralir panicked. He stumbled about by the thorn bush, using all his strength to pull his hooves from the mud so he could make his way around it. He'd never seen the Homewood in such chaos before: it was dark and wet and hard to see, and the chill bit through his meat and seemed to permeate his bones. He couldn't find Father. He didn't remember walking back, either, but clearly it was more important now to find shelter.

"Excuse me - " he said to the squirrel. "I can - " He dipped his horn down, and carved out a little space in the mud, though already it was sluicing back into place. "If you can find purchase on - on me, we can..." Where was Father? The willow was a bad idea right now, and so were trees in general, with the storm. "Let's head to the large rock, by those fallen logs," he decided. Wasn't that what Father would do? The space around the rock could make adequate firebreak, and they could huddle up under one of the overhangs.

They'd need to make their way over slowly, Ralir thought, but that was no trouble. Nouls did have a duty, Father always said, though the adage made his voice sound even more weary than it normally did. But this little act wouldn't hurt Ralir.

As they inched over, though, he realized that the squirrel wasn't the only denizen of the Homewood in need of help. He could spot birds too weighed down with water to take flight, and saplings bowled over by the wind. There was his neighbor's herb garden - Father looked over it whenever they went away - with their shallow roots wiggling in the air.

Those, he couldn't do much about. Besides, mint propagated fast, he reasoned, even as he winced at the sight of everything in disarray. With foliage, he could start anew, with some other seeds or perhaps even a branch, sometimes. A bird or a chipmunk might not reproduce without time to live, and they could help cross-pollinate and replant when the storm had been weathered. Decision made, he surged forward, feeling new strength in his legs now that he had some more confidence. "Head toward the big rock, with the hollow underneath it!" he found himself yelling, praying that his voice carried to those who might need it. "Stick together, and lay low, so the storms don't pick you! No, to the east - "

He could worry about Father, the Tree, his journey back later. For now, he had to worry about himself first, and those who he could help. There'd be no point in having Father without a Ralir to worry after.