Work Text:
The Forest Mystic scowled down at the scroll, then looked up at the burnt trees. The ravages worked by the plague of madness had scarred the land as well as their people. How many of her sisters had run wild, burning down the very forests that sustained their lives even as they laughed? How many of her brothers had attacked friend and foe alike, howling war cries with demented abandon?
There was nothing to be done about it. At least the humans had gone forth and, with Kupala's aid, aided their fallen god in passing out of this life. But without a god, what was their purpose? Without a purpose, how could they live?
Had she been alone, the despair might have driven her mad. But she was surrounded by her people, and any goal - whether it was truly attainable or not - seemed worth striving for. Setting her jaw, she raised her staff aloft and began the ancient chant, her surviving brethren chanting along with her.
The ravaged forest began to heal.