#faerran

An idea which considerably irked some of the more conscious passengers of the fleet. Whispers and discussions of the right to embark on inhabited land in such numbers, wonders of what made it any different from invasion. There was a lot of time ahead of them in the journey from continent to continent, with plenty of time to mull over the complex issues at hand.

Ferranne, however, was bored of discussing it and tired of thinking about it. There seemed no point to it. There was no changing the direction of the Alliance or the Horde, their decisions now set in motion like landslides unleashed after a storm. The ground underneath both sides had been weakened for years. He had expected something like this to happen eventually.

He never expected himself to be caught up in such, however. For a while he had prided himself on staying out of such large conflicts, but in the wake of the Cataclysm, it was difficult not to see war itself as another natural, primal force. He had failed to bring life to so many places, to preserve it in others, always finding destruction one step ahead of him. He finally had begun to wonder if there was any use in fighting it.

And that was how he found himself on this bulky, swaying mass. He had been enlisted to help with things he had honestly lost track of by now. Mending the injured, scouting the unknown, tending to the land for some project, even helping to restore what he heard called a “jade forest”. It was honestly all a blur that he had just agreed to for no real reason. He just didn’t see a purpose in saying no anymore.

Soon enough, he found himself on a supply ship with a job suited to both his druidic talents and his increasingly reclusive preferences. Possibly the most boring thing in the Alliance fleet, there wasn’t much to do or see on the ship. Lagging behind the main force and distantly flanked and followed by escorts, it wasn’t likely to see any action at all during its long journey and its crew mostly kept to itself, used to long journeys ferrying things they never had to even look at.

But what for most would be an exercise in boredom, for Ferranne was instead peace. He considered himself lucky to be assigned to such a ship. His task was menial at best, but suited him. All he had to do was ensure that everything in his compartments was safe and tended to, half of which took care of itself. The massive cases of botany equipment, herbalism tomes, and other paraphernalia in the lower compartments were barely even his concern. The compartments were reinforced and the containers would not budge even in the worst of storms. For those to be endangered, the ship would have to be sinking. Instead, the real bulk of his work was directly above him in the rear deck.

Laying on his back and staring at the ceiling, he stretched out on a large rug in one of the smaller compartments where he had stashed his few belongings and just let the time pass. In some ways, he felt like he was in a time capsule, no longer part of the world or time itself but just existing in a bubble. Some part of him whispered that it was no real way to live, not for long, but he enjoyed it nonetheless. This job was all he needed for the time being.

Getting to his feet, he climbed halfway up the stairs, pausing with practiced balance when the ship tilted with the waves. Proud to have at least kept his sea legs all these years, he waited out the rocking of the boat and strained to listen. Voices and footsteps were always going back and forth above deck, but were distant, kept mostly to the fore of the ship. Beyond that was the same slow hush of water and creaking wood. The rear deck was, as usual, left alone.

Stepping up the last of the stairs and to the deck, his eyes were greeted by a flood of light from the windows stretched all along the rear of the ship and a blur of a new color, different from the endless brown of wood below deck. Instead, all around him was green.

In pots and windowboxes and hanging bowls were plants of all sorts, littered across the entire rear deck. Very little else occupied the room save for some small tables and stools. This was his real job, the real reason a druid like himself was assigned to a supply vessel. Not just to babysit boxes any deckhand could keep an eye on, but instead to ensure that all the crates of soil samples, pouches of seeds, and carefully secured plants made it to their destination. For the duration of his journey across the ocean, this was all that really mattered to him.

The large windows let in as much light as possible and he would open different ones to control the flow of air. There was no lack of sun for most plants in the deck, but when a few looked to struggle he would move them outside, to another set of boxes on the top deck. Carefully rotating them over time, they would all get the attention they needed.

His talents as a druid were barely even needed, his knowledge of herbalism and botany more than enough to ensure his seaborne garden could thrive. It was almost encouraging to be back to basics, to not feel so reliant on the nature magic that he had been struggling so much with ever since awakening from the dream. While magic had felt off to him, almost out of range some days, nothing could take away the simplicity of gardening, even on a boat.

A flash of yellow caught his eye. The sun came through the window and hit a windowbox of goldthorn, illuminating it as if to bring attention to the curling in its barbs. That was definitely a difficult one. Goldthorn needed something more like marshland to thrive. Fresh air and sun wouldn’t be able to solve as many problems as it did for the others, even if it didn’t need the exact same environment.

He gave himself a few long minutes to think, absentmindedly pushing fingers through his hair. It just needed a little more moisture in the air, more humidity. Thinking first to put it near the engine room, he knew that would just starve it of sunlight. Thinking of what compartments were below him, a possibility flashed through his mind and instantly made him smile.

Carefully pulling up the goldthorn’s box, he carried it down below deck, watching each step on his way lest the ship lurch and send thorns right into his chest. He brought it to a small room in the back, one where a pipe that safely carried away steam from the engine passed through. The room was essentially just a mechanical access point, something only ever used in case of repairs. The side of the pipe had a small release valve where sometimes it would let excess steam out to ensure there was never too much pressure, making the small enclosure very humid.

He normally hated being too close to the room, but it was perfect. The humidity. The space. It even had a nice enough window to provide enough sun for the goldthorn. His stubborn little charge now had a much better home.

“Well now at least someone will enjoy all that steam.” He said aloud, carefully petting at a low hanging bramble.

Noticing the way the sunlight came into the back compartment, he briefly wondered about the time. Sunset would be in an hour or so, but that was all he could surmise. He had already lost track of how much time had passed on the ship, how many weeks it must have been.

Faerran sat alone on the second floor, peering at the different corners of the room as it was lit by hanging lanterns, bright and freshly lit. Various corners of the room were in use for supplies, storing anything from ingredients for the cooks below to surplus for the campaign. It was easy for the conflict to be the first thing in his mind, but he pushed it away, curious at the sight of something tucked away towards the back, where most would not be looking.

A collection of unassuming pottery and other items, put away just at the end of the light’s reach atop several boxes. They at first just seemed like they were left there carelessly, but the smoothed out tapestry they were organized neatly on showed they were left there to be found and the lack of dust showed they were used often. Makeshift tables and other places to keep items were common on the Isle, with more people and possessions there with the losses of so many temples and other places making for more than there was room for at times.

With no one else around to question him, he stepped back and reached for one of the lower hanging lanterns, carrying it over for a better look. As the light washed over the corner, the objects atop it reflected back at him and he could not help but smile.

The craftsmanship of the objects was immediately recognizable, though they were all from different places. A tea set centered between two teapots, both of which did not match the set. Some bowls and a plan off to one side. Two matching vases off to the other. The materials were varied, from simple polished stone to porcelain to what he could only guess was ghost iron. They were all from different places.

One teapot, its ghost iron faded from use, looked to have been from a farmer from the Valley. The vases were painted pottery from the Temple of the Jade Serpent, art of Yulon gracing their sides. The bowls were in some ways crude, but still beautifully crafted with their etchings of the Black Ox, showing the telltale signs of Townlong’s sturdy folk. The porcelain teacups showing careful blue patterns on their rims, a sign from the Temple of the White Tiger.

They all told stories, all precious in their mere presence, that these were things some saw fit to keep with them, to carry to another continent as reminders of home, of what they were fighting for. But other stories lingered within, glimmering in the dancing light of his lantern as he set it down to get a better look.

They were all, every single one of them, broken; though that was more appropriately said in the past tense. They had been broken, but since repaired. Mended carefully, colorful streaks in their materials where their sundered parts had been rejoined. Ghost iron had been carefully filled with trillium, swirls of black and white amidst faded silver. Stone had been sealed with jade, bright green streaks curling up the sides. Porcelain had been joined with gilded lacquer. All of them put back together with something meant to call attention to their damage, to their impermanence.

They fought to retain these objects, just as those who owned them had fought to survive. And, fittingly, these showed their own scars, just like the many who had survived.

Survived the Legion. Survived the Sha, the Klaxxi, the Mogu. The Pandaren were survivors. They knew the importance of scars and the frailty of life. They knew the strength in things that were rebuilt. And there was a lesson in that.

There was always a lesson with Pandaren. They kept their lessons with them, all around them. Even in something as simple as a teacup. Even after being broken, there was still life and value here, in everything, no matter how small. He learned this lesson in his training, as the masters sat him and others down to slowly make such restorations as one of their tasks. It was easy to wonder how such a thing could benefit a monk, but they never would tell it to students.

They didn’t have to. In time, everyone learned. The patience built from the slow and careful pace and time spent putting one single object back together. The keen eye and steady hand developed in joining and securing every piece. And most of all, the importance of the bright colors settling into every crack, holding each piece together. The value that remaining in anything that might be considered broken.

“Nothing is lost unless you let it be.” Lessons of memory and tradition were passed down amongst the Pandaren, but so was history, even when it carried pain. This didn’t even need to be told. After days spent working on them, seeing even something like a teacup come together once more, strong and whole again, was inspiring, the lesson learned silently.

Carefully trailing a fingertip along the edge of one of the bowls, he felt the slight shift in texture where one material blended with the other. His mind was flooded with similar memories, of carefully finishing a restoration, checking that each join was smooth but strong. He came to see himself in every one, each restored object sharpening his mind as the calm grew, gaining solace as he learned hope from each rejoined piece and the ability to do so with his very hands.

The memories of the time before his training crept in, remembering the tailspin he found himself in as his druidic ability dwindled underneath doubts. He was turbulent, lost feeling so many things about the holes in himself, whether they were real or perceived. But now, the damage and breaks, were restored, filled with something else.

Through the sundered objects they had restored, but did not hide the faults in, they had showed him the beauty not only retained but gained in having a deeper meaning by showing its past. The scars were part of a story, they had meaning; and that meaning was important and beautiful.

The gaps being filled were not just function, they were art. To cover them as if it had never been broken hid the lesson, the story.

The breaks in himself that were filled was his story. The holes in his druidism were filled with the colors of being a monk. That mixed nature brought him a deep comfort, made whole through the marks of what had filled the gaps.

Carefully looking over the restored objects laid out one last time, he picked the lantern back up and nodded. There were no longer two parts, pieces of druid bonded with a lacquer of monk. There was simply one whole, one him. His monk training had brought together the pieces of his druidic talent, but in that bond, he was more, overflowing and connecting with life, to restore and weave however he could.

It came at a price. He should have expected that. Everything came at some sort of a price. It had to. But the power he had used to make his home what not his. It was no gift. It was not given to him, but lent. And he was not the one in control.

The voice of his old master echoed as he recalled the misshapen and twisted forms of his rescues. The petals gaining strange patterns and dark blotches, the stems curling at strange angles and gaining thorns, vines gaining a mind of their own and digging into sheer stone. He had been warned.

“This land has power within its very heart.” He was told. “And it will speak to you. It speaks to all of us. When we sleep, when the clouds are dark. This land tests us.”

He had always taken his master’s words as fable, as parable. The warning itself a mere lesson. It was far more literal than he ever wanted to believe, even as someone who had listened to the land for millennia. He had forgotten the simple truths from all of his days as a druid. He had forgotten to listen.

To the land. To his teachers. Even to his instincts. All he listened to was his longing, the emptiness in his heart that told him to erase, to mold, to change the world and retreat from it.

Finally unable to run a single moment longer, he stumbled and fell to his knees. He was a fool and he knew it. He thought making a home for himself meant he could finally stopped running, but he had never stopped. He may have stopped moving, but he was still running from the world, from reality. He was hiding.

Hiding from everything that had pained him, torn away at him, taken away from him. He wanted to never lose again. He watched so many things burn… The Sundering. The Cataclysm. Hyjal. Even the simple boat that had taken him here. The entire world smelled like fire.

He just wanted to breathe. Was that so much to ask? Struggling to fill his lungs as he had run an unknown distance for an unknown amount of time, all he could do was try to breathe. He had lost again.

Another home had to be left behind as his arms still stung, remembering as vines turned against him and tendrils of dark energies reached to hold him, to keep him in the lair he had fashioned for himself. It didn’t want him to leave. It needed him. But he had gotten away, refusing its supposed “gift”. And now left without a home once again. No place to call his own.

Or so he thought.

As the blood rushing through his ears pounded with echoes of a quiet voice, a familiar whisper telling him that he can always run but he can never get away, another sound caught his attention. Soft but quick, a pattering. Something was rushing through the woods, quickly approaching him from behind. He was too tired to be threatened, merely digging his hands into the dirt and readying himself for anything.

Expecting an enemy, he looked behind him only to find simple crane running towards him. Dashing quickly along the road, his eyes followed, watching the innocuous creature. As it passed him, carrying his eyes back to the road before him, he found himself face to face with an unexpected figure.

At least twice his height and flickering with bright red light, the visage of a large crane stood in the middle of the road, staring directly at him. Time froze as another voice spoke to him, one that was lighter, calmer. He had heard it before in dreams and its sound drove away the other voice that had followed him from the ruins.

“Why do you run like my children do?” The crane asked.

Ferran found himself short on breaths. He understood the question was more than just his current predicament. He ran for more than to just escape the Sha. “Because there is nothing for me.” He replied, his heart pouring out without another thought. “Everything behind me is gone. Why not run? I keep losing everything. It’s hopeless.”

“Is it?” The crane spoken with notes of curiosity and knowing. “You have run so much and for so long. How many times have you run not from danger or loss, but from fear? From failure?”

The question dug into him. He had left more behind than just losses.

“You seek so much from yourself. But you have been carried forward by such a simple desire.” The red crane’s voice softened, emitting the energy of a wide smile despite its form. “You seek to cultivate, to care for. You have merely lost the way of how. But it is not a lack of ability. A nightmare of despair has taken root within you.”

“But what else is there to do? I have tried everything.” Ferran founds his fingers digging into his palms as he gripped the dirt beneath him. “All I can do is run. I can’t stop.”

“I never asked you to.” The crane replied, a hint of joviality in his voice. “I asked you why.”

Tears formed at the edges of his vision, blurring it as he could no longer bear the sight of bright white and red feathers any longer. He had so many questions, so many things to say and ask as his heart felt ready to burst with fear, and doubt, and despair.

“Do not run away, looking back over your shoulder.” The voice rose with a challenge. “Run towards. Chase. Create the destiny you seek.”

“But where? Run to where?” Ferran asked, his voice breaking as he finally looked back up. But instead he saw nothing before him, the middle of the road empty once more. Slowly getting to his feet, he stumbled forward towards a single bright red feather. He reached down and took it, contemplating it and the figure it had apparently come from.

The Red Crane… He was unsure what had just happened and as his mind wandered, he finally found himself able to breathe. Exhaling slowly as the breeze whipped around him, he let go of the feather and watched it spin and curl as the wind carried it away. Following it slowly, his eyes were drawn to something in the distance.

A tall towering structure with a statue atop it. Silhouetted in the midday sun, he barely made out the shape of a crane. He gasped. In all of his running, he had lost all bearings of where he was until that moment. The Temple. It was still a long ways in the distance, but he could make it there before nightfall.

Questions instantly rose in his mind. Would he be accepted there? Was this even what he wanted? His legs didn’t care for any answers, already pushing him forward and dashing off of the road in the direction of the temple.

That road was mere days away from the chance to walk them, but his mind could no longer wait. His spirit could not bear to be tethered to a simple tarp hung from an even branch to protect him and his supplies from the elements. He began to walk.

The firm undersides of his sandals left no footprints as he followed the road, taking in the sights as the dirt gave way to stone. The haphazard pavement was worn from traders and troops alike having made their way over hundreds of times, but this was not what caught his attention, nor the shape of the land flanking it or the distant trees.

The struggling weeds and sprouts, pushing between rocks and cracks within the paved road, held his gaze. He counted them as he walked, watching as every step seemed to invigorate them, creating small blooms as more pushed upwards to meet him. They brushed against his feet, seeking to follow him on his journey.

As more began to rise up from the road beneath his stride, he was no longer traveling south. He was traveling inward. An unnatural breeze swept in from all directions, kicking up dust until it swirled and became dirt. Rocks began to turn over and sink into the path as it slowly disappeared, overtaken by grass from every crack and it spread toward the horizon.

The breeze became gusts, carrying clouds in to envelop the sky, covering the sun until everything was cast in an even, pale light. The overcast was not gray, but green as sprouts from the ground rose to match and surpass his own height, making stalks and vines, arching over the now unmarked path, leading him forward with a quiet invitation.

Blossoms of every color stretched from the green around him, greeting him with morning yawns and sighs of dew. For him, it may have been time to rest, but along the path he was now taking, it was time for something else to wake. The road ended just ahead, the arching vines leaning into each other like an embrace over an ellipse of swirling mist. The wind brushed locks of his white hair across his cheeks as he smiled at the familiar window of green with hints of purple and infinity.

He was at his destination; the beginning of his chance to wander. The entrance to his true homeland. His chest was filled with warmth, his spirit flourishing as he took the final, yet first steps into the cure for his need to walk, anywhere as long as it was for miles.