Darkness.
Soft, warm, endless darkness.
That was all she knew at first — the still, tender quiet beneath the soil. Around her, the world hummed faintly — the whisper of worms shifting through loam, the rhythm of rain sinking deeper, the heartbeat of roots that had lived here long before her.
She slept within it, small and unformed, a child of worlds older than this one. The last memory of her mother, Frindle, lingered like a lullaby woven through her sap:
> "Grow where kindness lives, my little one. Grow where hearts remember to give."
And so she dreamed of that — of light, of laughter, of hands that planted her gently.
She remembered the touch of the crow-man, ancient yet kind. His hands had been sure but careful, pressing her into the soil with reverence. Then came the voice of the farmer — calm, steady, filled with quiet warmth. His words carried no command, only promise.
> "Then she'll be safe here."
Safe.
That word wrapped around her like sunlight through the clouds.
She began to stir.
At first, it was only a tremor — the faintest pulse through her seed-shell. The earth was rich here, alive in ways she'd never felt before. The soil carried laughter, sweat, patience. It was land loved — turned by hands that asked nothing in return.
That love flowed into her.
It came through every grain of dirt, through droplets of rain that seeped downward like lullabies. And beneath it all, she felt something more — a rhythm unlike any natural current. The faint, steady hum of magic.
The Farmer's Magic.
It was gentle and unhurried, like sunlight stretching after dawn. It carried care — the devotion of one who nourishes rather than takes. When it brushed against her, she felt seen. Not as a tool, not as a treasure — but as life.
Her roots reached out timidly, tasting the soil. Each inch deeper filled her with more of that warmth. She absorbed it — the strength of the crops, the contentment of the animals, the heartbeat of the farm itself.
And she felt joy.
With each drop of rain that kissed the earth, she grew a little more. Her shell cracked, not in pain but in release — and a spark of green unfurled into the world.
Her first leaf touched the air.
Cold. Wet. Wonderful.
It tingled with energy — the same golden-green warmth that her mother once carried. She could feel the rain sliding across her leaf, feeding her. She could hear the song of the farm: the low murmur of a bull, the laughter of a stream, the content sigh of a sheep in sleep.
The Farmer's presence brushed her again — his magic like a steady heartbeat, always tending, always nurturing. When his hand neared her soil, she felt his soul — patient, curious, kind.
She reached back in her own way — not with words, but with the faint shimmer of light in her veins.
I am here, she whispered, though her voice was only wind through leaves. And I will help you grow too.
The earth pulsed in answer.
So she drank deeply, absorbing the life around her — not greedily, but carefully, like savoring something sacred. Her roots entwined with the land, gently guiding the flow of energy, mending tired soil, soothing restless worms.
Every creature that neared her made her heart flutter.
The cow's gentle presence was warmth.
The bull's watchful strength was comfort.
The dog's laughter — pure joy.
She loved them all.
And through them, she understood her purpose. She wasn't merely a seed meant to grow tall; she was meant to nourish. To return the love given to her, to make this land bloom brighter, richer, kinder.
By dawn, she had grown — no longer a seed, but a sapling. Her bark shimmered faintly, gold and green entwined. Her veins pulsed with quiet life, like a heartbeat shared with the farm.
When the Farmer's hand brushed her trunk that morning, her leaves trembled in recognition. His magic touched hers, and for a brief, luminous moment, she saw him — the one who loved the land enough to awaken it.
In her young heart, she whispered a vow only the soil could hear:
> I will make your kindness bloom. I will grow strong for you, for this land, for all who live upon it. I am Verdalis — child of Frindle, seed of worlds, and sapling of the Farmer's dream.
The wind carried her promise through the fields, and the earth answered with a sigh — a living harmony beneath the sun.
And Verdalis, the young world-sapling, smiled in her quiet way — her leaves glimmering like newborn stars.
The sun slipped beyond the hills, spilling its last gold into the clouds. The farm quieted — not into silence, but into the soft breathing of life at rest.
Verdalis swayed gently in the evening breeze. Her leaves caught the final light like lanterns, pulsing faintly with gold-green veins. Each shimmer was a heartbeat — her heartbeat — slow, steady, alive.
For the first time, she felt the night.
It wasn't empty darkness as it had been when she slept beneath the soil. Now, it was rich — full of whispers. The hush of grass bowing beneath the wind. The creak of the barn's wooden bones. The steady rhythm of the Farmer's breath inside his home.
Everything here was alive.
Her roots reached deeper into the soil, brushing against the threads of life that wove through the earth — worms turning loam, the roots of vegetables stretching thirstily, the deep pulse of groundwater humming far below. The farm was a tapestry, and she could feel each strand.
And through it all, she sensed him.
The Farmer.
His magic ran through the soil like warm light beneath her roots. Not fierce or commanding like the gods' divinity — but gentle, human, patient. It didn't demand. It nurtured.
Where his hands had worked the earth, she could feel traces of that care — calm, devoted, endlessly giving.
It was a kind of love she had never known from mortals before.
In that warmth, she grew still, listening.
The animals were dreaming.
Through the roots and grass, she could feel their spirits flickering in soft colors — Brontus's dreams strong and steady, like the sound of distant thunder; Maphala's warm and golden, filled with meadows and sunlight; Aeris's drifting like clouds, her fluffy mind a haze of comfort; and Sol's — bright, bouncing, glowing like sunlight through a window, chasing joy itself.
Verdalis felt their dreams touch the soil and drift through her — like tiny, glowing seeds of feeling. She let them flow through her roots and trunk, cherishing each one.
And then she felt another presence — vast, quiet, serene.
Above the dreamscape of the farm, a soft peace blanketed everything. It wasn't the Farmer, nor beast nor earth. It was divine.
She could not see him, but she knew the name whispered by the stillness itself: Umbravil, god of night, rest, and dreams.
His presence brushed her leaves like a sigh, cool and calming. Verdalis, though divine herself in the smallest way, bowed inwardly — her sap humming in reverence.
You rest beneath my peace, the feeling seemed to say. Grow gently, child of another world. This soil welcomes you.
And so she did.
Through the night, she drank not only water but feeling — the serenity of Umbravil's veil, the heartbeat of the farm, the faint glow of the Farmer's care that lingered like sunlight even in the dark.
At one point, she felt him stir in his sleep — Roland — and through the soil's memory, she caught a glimpse of his dream:
fields endless and bright, a harvest without end, laughter echoing through the wind.
It was a dream of hope.
She wanted to help him reach it.
Her young magic flickered instinctively, pulsing through the ground. The vegetables in the field sighed in their sleep, leaves turning faintly toward her energy. The soil brightened beneath the surface — just a little — and the tired roots felt soothed.
The effort left her weary. Her sap slowed, her leaves drooped slightly. She was still small — barely born. But she smiled within the hum of her essence.
When dawn came, mist curling like silver ribbons around her trunk, the first light touched her crown — and she shivered awake, full of new strength.
She had survived her first night.
She had shared dreams with the land.
And she had begun to love the Farmer as he loved the earth.
> "I will grow strong," she whispered to the morning air. "I will feed his hope, as he feeds this world."
The sun rose over the horizon, and the dew on her leaves gleamed like stars fading into day.
Verdalis, child of Frindle, sapling of the farm, greeted the dawn with quiet joy — her roots deeper, her heart brighter, her purpose clear.