As remembered by the Greens

  Gather around, children. I shall recite the origins of our holiest of holy—Gru Noblemind.

  Hush now. Let the trees listen and weigh our words.

  Fold your voice to the soil.

  Breathe like the bark.

  Listen like the leaves.

  In the first silence—before cities, before the fall, before even names—

  the forest dreamt a man and grew him. But first, it needed the seeds of his life.

  From the burning vines, it took the ashes as compost.

  From the floating Sparkling-Lilies, it took the light.

  From the rivers, it took the water.

  And from the forest beast, it took a heart.

  A spirit of the Deep Green rose anew from the soil,

  stepping into the fresh air of the clearing.

  And the forest asked the spirit,

  “What shape shall you take?”

  For the spirit was as leaves blowing in the wind.

  The spirit replied with a voice cool and weightless, like the whisper of wind between the roots.

  “The forest wolves have a guardian in the spirit of the canine.

  The forest birds have a guardian in the spirit of the wind.

  The forest itself protects all else that lives with it in harmony.

  As such, I shall take the shape of man.

  For they lack the sense to listen to the forest,

  and I shall be the forest’s voice to them

  and protect those that live as one with the wild and the root.”

  “I shall be the forest. I shall be man.”

  And there, the first and only spirit to choose the shape of man became a dryad.

  For us.

  And the forest said, “This is good. You are surely a spirit of noble mind.”

  And the dryad said, “Call me this great father, for you bless me. Know me by Gru Noblemind.”

  And the wind stilled.

  And the petals turned to face him.

  And the forest remembered it's Prince.

  After the forest dreamt him into form,

  Gru could have raised a castle of wood and vine,

  could have summoned roots to build towers that touched the stars.

  But he did not.

  Gru could have raised a castle of dirt and bark,

  but chose not to.

  Instead—He left the forest,

  walking far and wide to find Man and learn from them.

  “For to help someone,” he said, “you must know them.”

  He wandered the world,

  stopping in villages and towns along the way.

  He walked for forty days and forty nights,

  not in straight lines, but in circles and careful paths,

  until he one day came to the village of Myrsport.

  There, he stayed for a time.

  He shared his knowledge of the Before-Time—

  the glowing tablets, gifted by the forest which remembers all.

  He helped build great halls and quiet places,

  always for others, never for himself.

  But he never stayed.

  He never let anyone grow close.

  When one town was safe, he left for the next.

  He became a myth in motion.

  The people named him as they pleased:

  Guardian of the Lost.

  Hermit King.

  The Rooted Flame.

  And when his walk was done,

  he returned to the forest.

  There, in the hollow at the base of a great tree,

  he made his true home.

  He lived alone, but never apart.

  The forest was his breath.

  The knowledge his fire.

  Still, the people came to him—

  in famine, in sickness, in confusion—

  and Gru listened.

  He turned no one away without hearing.

  But those who came with falsehood in their hearts,

  those who came to take,

  those who came with cruelty in their breath?

  They were never seen again.

  The forest does not forget.

  And neither did he.

  Seasons passed, and with each one,

  the petals fell earlier and earlier.

  The rivers ran thin.

  The birds flew farther before returning.

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  The beasts no longer came near man.

  The balance was off.

  For Gru loved man so deeply,

  he had begun to forget the forest.

  And the great tree whispered in the leaves:

  “It is time. Time to come home.”

  Gru heard the wind’s words and rose from his tree.

  In the clearing, where the roots once first called him,

  a great unlit pyre formed—woven of bark and vine, soft and waiting.

  He wore no crown.

  Only a burial shroud—folded like a poncho, kissed by moss and memory.

  As he stepped forward, a merchant boy of the Tekniak came through the trees,

  hoping to ask for a favor of knowledge.

  “Master Gru,” the boy asked,

  “where are you going, dressed in such a way?”

  Gru smiled gently, and his voice carried like still wind through high branches:

  “My time here is done.

  My father yearns that I return.

  Man has taken much from me—and from the forest.

  I must go back and regrow.”

  “But shall you return, my lord?” asked the boy.

  Gru looked to the branches, then to the boy.

  And with the weight of peace, he answered:

  “When forests burn, growth always returns”

  Then he lay down in the center of the pyre.

  And with no spark from hand or flame,

  it ignited itself.

  No cry. No scream.

  Only silence, and wind.

  The boy returned to Myrsport.

  He told them what he saw.

  And the people gathered—

  from the stone homes he helped raise,

  from the paths he once walked.

  They came with drums, and garlands, and tears.

  They came not to mourn—

  but to honor a life well lived.

  Each year since, they return to that place,

  to the Festival of the Petals,

  when the blossoms fall early, and the air smells of ash and joy.

  And in the clearing where the pyre once burned,

  they sing the name that never dies:

  Gru Noblemind.

  The Listener. The Builder. The Root Returned.

  As men forgot,

  the Greens formed to remember.

  We held high the values Gru taught long after his death—

  honor, balance, humility before the wild.

  We guarded the Pyre. We spoke in leaves.

  We remembered.

  But time devours all memory.

  And so we, too, became twisted.

  A mockery of our duty.

  A shell of the forest’s truth.

  But the forest never forgets.

  And through the wisdom of our beloved Gloria,

  the green flame flared higher then ever—

  for she found the resurrected Gru,

  wandering, searching for his way back to us.

  Two centuries lost.

  Two centuries trying to hear the forest whisper his name again.

  He came not in fury.

  He came in humility.

  He came in root and silence.

  The high priest of the Greens, grown fat on power,

  denied him.

  Tested him.

  Fought him.

  Gru did not strike back.

  Instead, he walked to the Ever-Burning Pyre,

  the same fire that took him once before.

  And with a word,

  he receded the flame

  and stepped into the hollow heart of ash

  where memory sleeps.

  There,

  he reclaimed the tablets of Before—

  his knowledge, his duty, his right.

  And the forest trembled.

  And the vines bent low.

  And we remembered.

  And we rejoiced.

  But not all rejoiced.

  For as Gru searched through the centuries,

  a life he once held slipped further into silence.

  And a wife he once cherished turned to shadow.

  She craved power,

  and with her ambition poisoned his brother-in-bond.

  Together, they turned on him—

  not with war, but with the offer of betrayal wrapped in love.

  Gru lifted not a hand.

  But the forest did.

  The traitors were turned away.

  Their names swallowed in bark and stone.

  The trees remember them,

  but speak them to no one.

  And so, justice drew blood.

  But balance draws fire.

  The Blinded Ones,

  who wore reason like a crown and saw with eyes not their own,

  whispered wistful words,

  and declared Gru a heresy.

  The Greens stood unsure.

  The Priests—mute and lost.

  But the forest remembered.

  And it answered.

  Roots rose.

  Sky turned green.

  Machines cracked like dry wood.

  And screams echoed for twelve days.

  No bodies were resurrected.

  No names were recorded.

  Only the moss knows what fell.

  And so Lord Noblewind,

  and blessed Gloria,

  retreated to a place unseen.

  The forest opened it for them—

  a hollow of warmth, of life, of forgotten light.

  Some say it was a cave.

  Others say a garden beneath bark.

  And there did Gru and Gloria

  explore the miracles of growth.

  On the third day, they emerged.

  Changed.

  They found at the edge of the clearing

  a demon in the guise of a bird.

  Its wings silver,

  its voice soft with venom.

  It sang sweet nothings and barbs in equal measure.

  Gru did not fight.

  He listened.

  He answered.

  And in doing so,

  he bound it to him—not with chains,

  but with knowledge.

  It follows still.

  It watches.

  It has not struck again.

  And on the day after,

  Gru stood before the great tree,

  and he spoke aloud for the first time in an age.

  And the forest answered back.

  From that moment,

  they were not two.

  They were one.

  Only through knowing Gru Noblemind

  Can you ever know nature of the Forest.

  And the peace within.

  That is the version they teach at the Festival of Petals.

  But you must remember—and I, Archivist Tasch, shall remind you.