I remember the sound of my brother's voice the way some recall the shape of their first home: perfectly, eternally. Firius was our glade’s true heir, a prodigy among the gnome Song Weavers. When Firius sang, the sap in the ancient Whisper Oaks pulsed with palpable life. When he and I sang together, a bright, complex braid of tenor and baritone, we could mend a broken branch or coax a stubborn stream back to its rightful course.
"Our purpose is not just to sing, little root," he once told me, tracing the fine lines in the earth before us. "Our purpose is to listen. Nature provides the melody; we are merely the chorus."
Our glade was guarded by this chorus, safe and vibrant, until the Shadow Blight crept in. It was a malignancy that did not kill with fire or axe, but with silence.
It muted color, stole scent, and threatened to sever our ties with the sacred trees.
The elders wept. The traditional songs, those of healing and cleansing, offered only temporary relief. The Blight was too deep, too patient. They determined only the Counter Song would suffice, a powerful, forbidden work of magic that drew pure life force from the singer to create a wall of resonance.
Then barely more than a fledgling woodsman, I pleaded to share the burden. But Firius, calm and resolute, tied me to a root deep within our family dwelling. "This one is mine, Ionis. This is the only way the song will be whole."
I watched through the narrow, high window. I saw Firius stand beneath the oldest, blackest Whisper Oak, lift his head, and begin to sing. It was not the familiar, joyful sound of our youth. It was a sound of desperate, burning effort, raw and demanding. I felt the song trying to rip itself from my chest, but the knots held, and my own voice was trapped, a pathetic, strangled sound drowned out by my brother's power.
The Blight retreated, curling away like smoke from a flame. The Whisper Oak, saved, began to shimmer.
But when I finally broke free and rushed to my brother’s side, Firius was not triumphant. His eyes were wide, clear, and perfectly empty. He hummed, yes, but only the faintest, formless melodies, like the ghost of a song searching for a missing word. The power had shattered the structure of his mind, leaving only the sound.
My loss was twofold. Firius was gone, replaced by a gentle, wandering shadow who now spends his days petting Mr. Fluffy (my panther companion) or standing motionless, gazing into the trees. And I myself am silent. I can speak plainly enough, trade weather reports, and offer simple greetings, but when I try to channel my craft, to sing a healing chord or weave a guiding note, nothing comes out. Just the whisper of dry air. The silence feels like the sound of my own soul being scrubbed clean.
The elders praised my loyalty. "Firius saved us," they told me. "You must accept his great sacrifice."
But I knew the truth. My silence was the price of my inaction. I had been present, yet powerless.
I carry the weight of my brother's loss and my own guilt, clinging to the only hope I have left: that the Hidden Ones, the ancient, primal spirits of the wood, might hold the key. I believe that since they are the residue of ancestor magic, they might remember the original songs, the song before the sacrifice, and possess a cadence strong enough to mend a soul, and perhaps, restore my voice.
I carry my burdens, but I listen. I am always listening, seeking a note that only the broken can hear.