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It surprises the tree to realize that Isopia had been keeping secrets from her best of friends as much as it does Zero; from his sudden, uncharacteristic silence, to the almost apologetic glance from Isopia, the oak has been around long enough to know the signs of mortal closeness that, in truth, was as distant as she was from the Sun’s filling light. So was the way of mortals, she had learned, each their own separate seed. No matter where they went, or from what sort of being they’d fallen, they remained encased in hard shells that made them irreparably lonesome individuals.
Seeds, like mortals, care little for aspirations to grow roots and become one with those around them. The only difference, as the oak had learned, was that the seeds never claimed to be concerned with growing at all, and that, interestingly, mortals seemed to fret over what sort of tree they might become, almost as much as they did where to plant themselves.
Though the Earth’s girl was slowly becoming encased in blooms and mosses, her temporary permanence in the clearing was still just a step away from ending; something about the illusion, however, was enchanting, especially now that the tree was looking upon it with her own eyes, and not spying through her roots. While Isopia wasn’t eternal like the mountains or trees, and was certainly lonesome within her mortal bindings, the oak would have it no other way. The distance between each of the God’s wandering creations paired with their constant search for the best place to root is what made them interesting. What made Isopia interesting, aside from her lineage and her seed’s nature, was that she, in particular, seemed to be more alone than most within an impossibly thick shell.
Even her answers are guarded, with only a single sentence derived from her own heart, the rest borrowed from the wisdom of her sire. The imagery, however, is something the living tree understands. Warmth rises in her spirit as she thinks of her friends, tall and proud about her, and how, once, they had been new and small, rising from the ashes of their ancestors. She hopes Isopia, too, can be the mother of a proud clearing, as much like a clearing, anyway, as meandering mortals could be.
"Why doesn’t Zèklè know of these plans?" is the next question the tree procures; the oak’s age has lent her a certain bluntness that sends her crashing through the polite dances of conversation. Besides, she can feel the world growing colder around the roots of the northern pines, a distant lullaby of a sensation that urges her to sleep. "He would help you, as would your other friends. Secrecy only serves its keeper."
Or is it that boy? The one with the white face and the burning gaze, and his earthen magic? The tree does not understand love, at least not in the romantic sense. Her partners surround her by the thousands, and she chooses no single one over the other. She’d not loved a single one more than she loved any other living thing, and her children stood watch over acres across miles; yet, because of love, Isopia’s only bloom was nestled among the nurturing roots of the forests of Helovia. Perhaps her ability to trust others had been buried with her own shattering of its rigid, golden promises that day…
These are mortal concepts, a seed’s thoughts, which the tree cannot understand, even though she tries.
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