Faith is earned 3, p.36
Faith is Earned 3, page 36
The God wavered. Luke felt it clearly, felt the hesitation of a will that once commanded Faith, yet now trembled at the edge of choice. Fear threaded through divine thought, fear sharp and heavy, and yet within it lay the glimmer of possibility, of a solution kept buried.
What are you thinking, old man?
Xelreth’s voice returned, grave and slow.
Our bond shines bright, stronger than I ever dared dream, yet the strength of this depth bears danger. Times like this reveal the peril of such closeness. You pry into thoughts that I would have sealed. You pull truths I would have locked away.
Luke’s eyes blazed with demand.
“Then unseal it. Speak what you would fear and share the solution you dread. Dangerous or not, say it.”
The realm grew hushed, the green heavens above dimming for a breath. The World Tree loomed, its roots thick with silence, waiting, and Xelreth’s voice lingered at the edge of revelation.
I have kept my gaze not only upon Ischaratot but also upon the one who coils most tightly around its fall. I have watched the strands of Faith twist, I have traced them as they bent through the hands of [Priests] and the mouths of [Zealots], and I have sought to uncover the reason why Alhmzoum yielded so easily when we pressed upon the city. I expected fury, resistance, teeth bared at every corner, yet I found instead a retreat that seemed deliberate.
Luke straightened, brows furrowed, the thought rolling heavy across his tongue.
“Did he declare it lost?”
A ripple of humor, bitter and sharp, ran through the God’s answer.
Do you believe his pride would bend so far as to declare surrender?
“Fair point.”
At first, I thought he merely gathered his strength elsewhere, that he left only tokens to hold the city while he rallied his armies in silence. I was right, yet the truth ran deeper. I paid dearly, through strands of Faith and through favors I would have kept for darker days, yet I uncovered whispers of the truth. His greatest allies, the strongest among his pantheon, maintain repositories of Faith stored within their temples, each a reserve for crisis. Their combined reserves glitter, yet still they pale beside the hoard that Alhmzoum himself holds.
Luke’s chest tensed, curiosity sharpening his voice.
“What do you mean by repository?”
Enough Faith gathered into one place reshapes the world. The same way a [Blacksmith] who climbs to heights few can reach may hammer a blade that cleaves magic itself, enough Faith may take shape as relics. Sometimes weapons, sometimes trinkets, sometimes… sanctuaries. Holy Sites.
“You mean like temples?”
A temple channels Faith, yet a Holy Site houses it. A temple is a riverbed, yet a Holy Site is a reservoir. I believe Alhmzoum wove his greatest design through such a place, using accumulated Faith to draw the ambient tides of the world and chain them into his grasp. It is why he towers even without Ischaratot, why his power floods wider than his [Priests] alone could offer.
Luke frowned, a thought burning through his mind. The victory they had scraped in the city felt suddenly small, one step across a road that stretched into miles.
Xelreth sensed the doubt and pressed his answer.
You still believe the effort wasted? Hear me then. Seizing Ischaratot forced him to bleed. His reserves lie beyond, in sanctums thick with Faith, yet if he must draw upon them, then he has grown desperate. Desperation itself is wound enough. Yet more, those reserves may serve other ends. He may channel through them to strike back at the city, to choke its people until their Faith bends once more. He may weave other designs, and so the place demands our attention.
Luke’s eyes sharpened, his mind falling upon the threads quickly.
“I see. If we strike the site, if we shatter it or seize it, we wound him and perhaps release what he bound. Perhaps the rivers of natural Faith return to flow.”
Xelreth’s tone remained steady, though sorrow flickered beneath.
To strike such a place would indeed wound him. His pride already cracks, his teeth grind in silence, and a strike here would cripple him further. Yet the rivers will not free themselves so easily. They have been bent too long, the channels too deep. A blow may break chains, yet roots long pressed into place do not spring free at once, not from just that.
Luke felt the heaviness settle again. It was never enough. Alhmzoum must fall, the Mind God must break, yet before that Luke saw only one need, the salvation of the World Tree. He thought it at Xelreth, every word he refused to voice spoken across the bond instead, hoping his patron would taste the truth behind his silence. Help them. Heal this one. In doing so we gain not only daughters of wood.
We would gain a God older than cities, a God who will owe us, perhaps fight beside us.
A chuckle rumbled across the divine air, warm and edged with steel.
You need not persuade me, Lucian. I see the same road. This plan I speak of may serve both ends at once. The pantheon bent the rivers, yes, yet the old ones are not powerless. If they stood closer together, if their crowns touched, if their roots intertwined, then they might bend the tide themselves, hold it against the grasp of usurpers. In ages past that is why the new Gods cut them down, scattered them, left them lonely. So long as each stands alone, they starve. Together, they would still sing.
Luke’s brow furrowed, uncertainty spilling through.
“That may be so, but what use is such truth to us now? The nearest of them lies far beyond seas, beyond continents. You cannot mean to bring one here.”
Xelreth’s answer struck like a bell.
Not bring. Grow. If we strike the Holy Site, if we seize the Faith held within, then part may fall into my hands, part may flow toward our allies, yet part may be used upon the soil itself. With such a flood, a seed may become a trunk, a sapling may become a World Tree. One more, close enough for crowns to brush, for roots to mingle. Two trees together, pulling rivers back, forming a web of the old Faith strong enough to resist even the Pantheon’s chains. The old one lives, the new one rises.
Luke’s eyes widened, breath rushing sharp. Astonishment struck first, then a rush of wild enthusiasm.
“That’s it! That is the path. That is what we must do, yes. Strike the site, grow the tree, save the old one, and bleed the usurper, all at once. That is the plan, Xelreth, that is salvation! Thank you!”
His God halted him with a word, tone stern.
Possibility, Lucian. No blessing yet. You speak as though the path were already walked, yet the path bristles with thorns. Alhmzoum no doubt guards his site with fury, no doubt twists it with every power he commands. To step there is to march into peril. To walk this road, I would demand assurance. I would demand a promise from the old one, and I would demand more detail than fervor. Plans alone cannot fell such prey, and we do not even have a full plan yet.
The World Tree stirred and reminded them. A pulse rolled through the forest realm, sorrow thick with sap, and Luke felt dismay seep into his marrow. The vision came swiftly, cutting like grief. It showed the truth plain, roots withered, bark cracked, sap drained, and Irota’s face pressed tight with exhaustion.
A dryad’s presence always bound tree to heart. For a new World Tree to grow, a dryad must be present, and Irota had already spent herself. She had poured every drop of her essence into this trunk, stretching her life far beyond its span, unable to part from it even for a day. If she left, she would soon die.
Just as well, even if Irota could somehow leave, after using so much Faith to host Luke and Xelreth in its divine space, the World Tree would most likely not be able to survive long without the dryad. Such an attempt would mean the end of at least one, but probably both of them.
Luke’s throat closed with sorrow. His voice came softer than before.
“Then it cannot be… Forgive me, I did not see the risk. I am sorry.”
The sorrow pressed thicker, but before grief could smother them, Xelreth’s voice cut through again, sharper, clearer.
I may hold a solution.
◆◆◆
Outside the World Tree, Clef leaned lazily upon a stone, his eyes fixed upon the entrance with a curiosity that sharpened every heartbeat. Irota still spoke quietly with Radiante, his voice low and full of questions, while the dryad answered with gestures broad and words polished as amber.
Clef straightened suddenly, eyes widening, a grin stretching across his face as though he had just spotted mischief ready to bloom. But confusion soon followed.
“Yo, look, here they come. …uhm… hey, granny? Is that your kid?”
Irota turned sharply, her eyes narrowing, Radiante leaning forward as well, his hair gleaming like dawnfire.
From the arch stepped Luke, calm, silent, a smile flickering across his lips as though he carried a jest too heavy to share. Yet he did not walk alone. Beside him moved a figure new and supple, bark-skin smooth and fresh, eyes gleaming with light unbroken by centuries. A young dryad, graceful, her steps light yet purposeful.
Luke stopped a few feet away from them, now grinning, but she walked past him without pause, her gaze fixed on only one, her lips trembling, and her eyes brimming with tears that glittered like morning dew.
She stopped in front of Clef, her stare never breaking.
“Papa!”
Chapter 39
The royal hall crowned the heart of the great settlement, a chamber carved into the highest boughs of the colossal tree whose roots reached the sky itself. Columns of living wood spiraled upward, luminous with veins of sap that glowed like captured sunlight. Petals drifted through the air with every sigh of the wind, scattering a scent as sweet as ripened fruit. Upon the dais of interwoven roots sat the regal three, Lorynth, Sylvara, and Thalyen, each upon a throne grown from the same trunk yet shaped by different moods of nature. Lorynth’s seat bloomed with curling vines, Sylvara’s shimmered with silver leaves, and Thalyen’s bore the mark of thorn and blossom twined together.
Before them stood the strangest gathering ever to grace their chamber. Luke held his posture straight, his hand resting against the pommel of his sword, his presence steady as stone. Radiante stood beside him, radiant indeed, the glimmer of his hair turning the very light inside the hall into a play of colors. Irota hovered near, eyes glistening with happy tears that caught and refracted the glow. Tilda, the ever-disciplined captain, had forgotten her composure entirely, her mouth half open as she tried to make sense of what stood beside her. And Clef, ever the jester in divine farce, simply grinned, though awe flickered behind the grin, because even he had not expected this outcome.
He was currently being hugged in the arms of someone who towered over him, a figure shaped of bark and flesh, graceful yet newly born. The barkling who once clung to his horns had become something else entirely, a young dryad whose hair shimmered like spring leaves brushed by dawn. She had announced her name moments earlier with pride and music in her voice. Clefa Jr.
My life is never getting any less weird.
The name still rang through the chamber, and the memory of it made Clef’s grin widen as he squirmed a little within her embrace, though she only pulled him closer, her affection fierce and absolute.
Luke had stood through battles and miracles, yet this left him silent. Words felt small before what had unfolded. He could hardly fault the regal three for their astonishment.
Lorynth, the eldest by bearing, found her voice first, her tone rich as rain over bark.
“Is this truth, Irota? Tell us plainly. This barkling, this child… has become a dryad? A true one? Has a miracle truly descended upon us?”
Clef puffed his chest with theatrical pride.
“Damn right, your royal greenness, look at her! Finest dryad you’ll ever meet, you know?”
Irota lifted a trembling hand toward the new dryad and bowed her head.
“A miracle indeed. The God we serve has blessed us, though there was more than one hand at work.”
Her eyes turned toward Luke with a glance filled with gratitude and quiet awe, the kind reserved for those who have walked through divinity and returned changed.
Sylvara leaned forward upon her throne, leaves whispering beneath her movement.
“Then we rejoice! A new dryad after centuries. Such a birth renews more than faith, it renews the soul of our people. This demands celebration!”
Thalyen, whose throne carried the balance of thorn and flower, spoke with gentler warmth.
“Little one, you shall have a home beside Irota. A grand abode of your own among the upper boughs, close enough to learn the wisdom of the elder, for youth and age must share breath when the forest seeks renewal.”
Clefa lifted her head from Clef’s shoulder, her green-gold eyes bright with emotion.
“Thanks, but I’ll go with Papa.”
Silence followed, heavy enough to bow branches.
Lorynth’s lips parted in shock, Sylvara’s eyes widened, and Thalyen’s hands stilled upon the arms of her throne. Irota pressed a palm against her brow, equal parts exasperation and amusement, and when she lifted her gaze again, she found Luke’s eyes upon her, steady and understanding. She inclined her head, pleading quietly for order.
Luke stepped forward, his voice calm but carrying weight enough to still the air.
“After my audience within the World Tree, a plan has formed, an accord between the God who dwells within it and the one I serve. I come now to speak it.”
Irota straightened and lifted her hand for silence.
“The truth of his words stands beyond doubt. The World Tree itself spoke to me and confirmed every syllable. What he describes and what follows are divine commands. Prepare yourselves, daughters of bark and leaf, for the first time in uncounted years, we march toward battle.”
The hall rippled with gasps. Tilda flinched as though struck, and even the guards stationed near the doors forgot discipline, their eyes wide with disbelief. The three upon the thrones froze in unison, the echo of the word battle hanging like thunder before a storm.
Luke exhaled softly. A part of him wished that Irota had let him deliver that revelation with a gentler hand. He raised a palm, tempering the storm before it broke fully.
“Perhaps we should begin with the brighter tidings.”
He turned toward Radiante, motioning for him to step forward. The half-elf smoothed his hair with an anxious flick, his usual composure wavering in a way Luke had rarely seen. The radiant man drew in breath, squared his shoulders, and began to speak with all the grandeur that his kind of drama could muster.
“My radiant ladies, and you who dwell within this blessed hall, I come not to bring shadow upon this light. I have wandered long and far, seeking purpose, seeking meaning in the songs of mortals and the whispers of Faith. Yet within these walls I have discovered the melody I never knew I sought. The love you offered, the devotion you showered upon me, each gesture, sincere, pure and untamed, has touched the hollow places within my soul. Irota herself assured me that such feelings bloom from truth, not enchantment. In this I have found what I yearned for across every road: a family born of choice rather than demand, affection rather than duty. Here I see children yet unborn who will carry laughter where once only loneliness grew. Here I will remain and nurture the generations to come.”
His voice broke and his composure became less sure. Luke knew that Radiante had that speech prepared, but it seems emotion made the half-elf speak with his true self as well, for more words came. Unsteady, yes, but they came from the real Radiante, not the icon he had created for himself.
“If you would have me… I… I would have you. I spoke the truth when I told Tilda of what I envisioned. I feared back then… but not now. I see in you my true family and I would wish nothing more than to hold grandchild after grandchild on my knees, for all of my years to come.”
His words filled the hall with a light almost visible, and though the regal three still reeled from the earlier pronouncement, slow smiles began to bloom upon their faces. For a heartbeat they appeared again as the triumphant rulers of a realm that had found renewal.
Lorynth inclined her head.
“Then our hearts swell with joy. Remain with us, half-elf, and know that you shall never walk without kin again. A family waits, vast enough to fill an age with laughter. Love will not run empty here.”
Radiante’s lips parted in relief, his eyes shimmering as weight lifted from his shoulders. He seemed uncertain of what paths awaited, yet certain of his place upon them. The eternal wanderer, the son cast adrift, had at last found where his heart would rest.
Clef leaned closer to Luke, muttering under his breath, loud enough that several nearby nymphs heard and tried to smother their giggles.
“Lucky bastard. I’ve been at orgies before, dude, but none with that ratio. One guy, ten thousand nymphs? That’s, like, a festival and a half. Still, I’m glad he’ll finally figure out how fatherhood works.”
Luke gave a sidelong glance.
“You’ve been a father for three days.”
“Shut it, broody. I’m already ‘Papa’.”
Clefa stuck out her tongue at Luke, her withheld laughter visible on her face. Luke sighed inwardly at the sight.
A dryad with Clef’s spirit. Somewhere, the God of Revelry is laughing his ass off.
Radiante lifted his chin again, regaining the flow of his speech.
“An accord also stands between our God within the roots and my Goddess above. Nitaratta, Lady of Beauty and Love, beheld what had unfolded around her cherished follower and smiled upon it. She approves the union, she blesses the love that shall rise within this forest. Yet she holds care not only for joy but for balance. After counsel with the World Tree, we reached an agreement. My gifts, my Skills of charm and heart, shall pass into our children, yet they shall touch outsiders only when both Nitaratta and the World Tree deem it wise. Thus, love shall never turn to conquest.”
Luke allowed a quiet smile. The measure struck him as perfect, clever mercy wrapped in prudence. His respect for the Goddess rose with each word. Through Radiante, yet another divine ally had joined their hidden network, a gentle one perhaps, yet strength often hid in gentleness.
