Baruch's will, a fortress of resolve that had been forged through decades of grueling training and prayer, a relentless shaping of both mind and body, seemed unbreakable. Yet here, in this sacred hall, surrounded by those he had come to know as comrades, his usual calm faltered. His hands, usually as steady as the earth itself, betrayed him with the slightest tremble, a motion so minute it could have been mistaken for a trick of the light. His eyes, typically focused and clear, now flitted across the faces of the gathered druids, only to linger for a heartbeat too long on Tabitha, who sat at his right.
The contrast between them was stark. While Baruch's humble reverence made him seem smaller, Tabitha remained poised, her serenity unshaken. She appeared as if carved from the very stone her knees pressed against, making it no longer distinguishable where she ended and the temple began. She belonged here in a way that Baruch could only dream of.
The druid's eyes kept drifting back to the druidess, drawn like a moth to the flame. It was a respect built over many years and something else—an emotion buried so far within him that he barely recognized it anymore.
But as his eyes lingered on her once more, that familiar sensation surged within him—an awe that bordered on fear, a reverence that commanded him to look away. He quickly averted his gaze toward the heart of the temple, where the sacred tree, revered by all forestborn as the Mother, stood, just as the air around it began to shift.
The air thickened, quivering as if disturbed by an invisible hand, rippling like the surface of a pond touched by a stray breeze. Light began to bend and break into intricate patterns and reflections, as if it had suddenly lost its constancy. The once sharp contours of objects softened, blurring into fluid silhouettes that seemed to melt like wax under an intense heat. Even the sounds of the temple began to fade, filling the space with a silence that was anything but peaceful.
In that moment, when the world seemed on the brink of dissolution, a presence emerged—a being of such overwhelming power that its arrival was not simply an appearance but a declaration of authority over existence itself. The very air that had trembled and distorted now stilled, as if bowing in submission to this force, returning to its former state.
Unlike the druids who knelt in solemn reverence, their heads bowed in submission, this figure had not merely earned nature's favor—it had bent the natural order to its will. Its presence was as oppressive as it was soothing, marked by a soft smile.
Diurnix. The Celestial. This name was whispered in countless legends, yet above all, he was remembered for that smile—a gesture so compelling it could dispel even the deepest darkness.
Diurnix was not as towering as the tales often suggested. He was merely two heads taller than a mortal man, yet he seemed to loom over them all, commanding an ineffable respect and fear, akin to that felt by a son before a loving yet stern father. Chosen for their righteousness and elevated beyond ordinary mortals, the few hornbearers gathered here appeared as mere children before him. His slender form was draped in a mantle of fabric that clung with fluid grace, adorned with intricate patterns that caught and played with the light at every subtle movement.
With hands folded within the wide sleeves of the robe, Diurnix's posture was flawless, as straight as the ancient trunks of the forest that surrounded them, his movements radiating a grace akin to the dance of leaves in the wind, each step deliberate. As he approached the majestic throne that awaited him, he paused, his gaze shifting, not to the seat of honor, but to the statue standing beside his own—Uriphel, the Bringer of Words, one of his heavenly kin.
Like her brothers and sisters, Uriphel possessed the gift of celestial speech—a language inaccessible to any mortal. This language was unique; it required neither sound nor gesture, conveying thoughts and emotions directly to any being, whether two-legged or beast, near or far.
The legends of Unia whisper that Uriphel adored communication. Her heart beat in harmony with every soul that offered her an engaging conversation. She could spend days and nights weaving discussions with mortals, covering everything from the mysteries of nature to the deepest dreams of their hearts. One day, driven by her insatiable desire for connection, she decided to create a language that would unite all mortals, so that everyone, regardless of their race, could communicate as freely as she did.
On the peak of the highest mountain, for a hundred nights, she wove one letter after another, crafting them from threads of her curiosity and inspiration, while the air from her lungs infused each letter with sound until an alphabet finally emerged. But the final task proved to be unresolvable to her alone. With the letters before her and the sounds bestowed upon them, Uriphel struggled to find the right combinations to create worthy words. None seemed perfect to her.
Then she turned to her comrade, Diurnix, for advice. With his characteristic spontaneity, he took all the letters in his hands and scattered them on the ground: "Place the closest letters together, and words shall form of their own accord." The first was "Unia," followed by "sky," and the third, "earth." One by one, the combinations of letters gained meaning, and soon a whole dictionary appeared. For a hundred days, she whispered the words of the newly created language, weaving them out of the echo of her heart and the depths of her soul. Carried by the winds across the world, these words reached every mortal, offering the chance to cooperate instead of waging war.
For a moment, as he gazed upon the statue, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Diurnix's lips. It was a gesture filled with nostalgia, a shadow of ancient memories that danced across his features. Then, instead of reaching the throne, he turned from the statue to face the gathered druids.
"Your presence honors me. Thank you for heeding my call." Diurnix spoke, his voice a melody of warmth and mischief. His words, unlike those of most heavenly beings, were not spoken in the mother tongue but in Unian, a tribute to the creation of his old friend. This small gesture, reflecting the celestial's willingness to stand alongside mortals, did not go unnoticed by those present.
Yet, as his gaze swept across the hall, a brief shadow of displeasure flickered across his ethereal face. He stood still, his hands remained hidden beneath the fabric, but the dim torchlight, which had cast long, reverent shadows, suddenly brightened, flooding the hall with illumination and revealing every detail of the space and the faces of those present.
"That's better," Diurnix remarked, the shadow of his earlier displeasure fading, his expression softening into a familiar smile once more. His voice, warm and inviting, spread through the chamber. "It is only fair that I see the faces of those who have gathered."
He continued to survey the assembled righteous druids, his expression thoughtful, eyes sharp, absorbing every detail without haste. Under this watchful gaze, the very stone beside each druid softened and rose, reshaping itself into elegant chairs cushioned with living grass, vibrant and green. "Sit, please. Such formality need not strain you," Diurnix's tone, though friendly, carried the undeniable authority of one whose will could not be questioned.
The hornbearers hesitated, casting uncertain glances at one another; to sit upon a luxurious throne in the presence of the God-sent was an unthinkable blasphemy. But they knew better than to question the Celestial. Slowly, they settled into their new seats, one by one, until all were seated. Diurnix's smile grew, a gesture of satisfaction as he descended the steps to meet his subordinates. This gesture of warmth, however, went unnoticed by Baruch, whose head remained bowed in deep veneration, hands crossed over his chest.
The silence in the hall walked alongside Diurnix's own, that same reverent stillness that shrouded every appearance of the Celestials. It was so vast, so profound, it felt as though it had weight—a silence that spoke loud. As the barely audible steps drew nearer, the quiet in the hall deepened, thickening with the muted sounds of stifled breath. Although Baruch couldn't see him, he still sensed the palpable shift— a presence that didn't rely on force but on quiet authority. It wasn't noise or movement that marked the Celestial's approach, but the stillness itself.
Then the steps stopped. A chill spread through the room, growing, like the gradual embrace of twilight drawing the room into darkness. In that instant, Baruch felt the heaviness of a thin, bony hand on his shoulder. Despite its delicacy, the touch carried such immense pressure that even the hardest diamond might crumble beneath it.
A subtle stiffness settled in Baruch, his body instinctively tensing under the sheer force of the palm that had once brought an end to all wars, causing even the fiercest to lay down their swords. The air thickened with unspoken judgment, and Baruch felt as though the world had shrunk to just the space between himself and the celestial being.
At last, Diurnix's voice rose—not harsh, but calm and gentle.
"You have come far since last we met, Baruch."
Though the words carried a quiet potency, they brought a warmth that gently unraveled Baruch's unease.
The druid released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The tightness coiled around his heart unwound, replaced by a deep, disarming gratitude that stitched together the cracks in his composure.
"I am grateful for your kind words, Adon," he murmured, his voice steadier now, as though Diurnix's words had granted him permission to breathe again. "I will remain faithful to my path, as always."
Diurnix inclined his head—a gesture so slight it nearly escaped notice—but his gaze stayed fixed on Baruch, eyes narrowing with a glint of quiet skepticism. It was subtle, yet unmistakable, a keen edge creasing the corners of his eyes. "Yet," he murmured, his voice a soft whisper of doubt, "something within you holds fast, unchanged."
Before Baruch could fully grasp the meaning behind the words, Diurnix's attention shifted seamlessly to the druidess beside him, leaving Baruch with a quiet sense of uncertainty.
"Tabitha, I sense that you are ready," Diurnix declared.
All those present knew it could not be otherwise. Having perfected herself, she had long awaited the moment the heavens would call upon her. Baruch's eyes, however, widened briefly, betraying a flicker of surprise. It was an emotion quickly buried beneath the layers of discipline he had honed over the years, though a hint of unease still lingered on his features.
Her response came as anyone would expect—firm and clear. "Yes, Adon."
"However, this is not related to the usual prophetic vigil. This is more of..." Diurnix began, but a fleeting pause disrupted the fluidity of his words—his gaze drifted, just for a heartbeat, to something significant, yet far away. For that fleeting moment, the ever-cheerful mask slipped, revealing a shadow of loneliness—a longing that leaves dark stains on the celestial canvas. "A personal request. There will be no shame in declining, Tabitha. This is not what you have spent your life preparing for."
The reply was immediate. "It would be my greatest honor to carry out any command you give, Adon," she declared. Her tone, though reverent, carried a tranquility that almost undermined the solemnity of the moment.
Diurnix studied her for a moment longer, his gaze probing for any trace of hesitation. Finding none, he continued, "You will need to leave your home and live in the Golden Valley, among humans. Extend your hand if you are certain of your decision."
Tabitha extended her hands, palms open and unwavering. To her, this was not a choice but a destiny, a path carved by the will of Unia itself.
Diurnix nodded, approval gleaming in his eyes. The air above the righteous druidess's hands shimmered, like starlight gathering into a single point. Slowly, from this glowing veil, an amulet materialized, its surface reflecting the sky's hues, descending gently into her open palms.
"This amulet will allow you to draw as much of my essence as you need at any moment," Diurnix explained, gratitude touching his features. "Use it as you see fit."
"I will wield this boon solely for good, Adon Diurnix," Tabitha vowed, her fingers closing firmly around the amulet.
The Celestial's lips curved into a smile, a gentle expression that carried the weight of eternity. "I know, Tabitha," he said, his voice filled with a quiet pride. "Take all the time you need to prepare yourself. Do not rush. When you are ready, call for me, and I will hear you—wherever you are."
"Yes, your radiance." The druidess' voice betrayed nothing, though a flicker of excitement stirred beneath her impenetrable exterior. The amulet gleamed with an ethereal light, pulsing in time with her quiet determination.
Baruch's face remained a mask of calm, so composed one might mistake it for indifference. Yet, in the presence of a Celestial, no feeling, however small, could remain hidden.
"Baruch," the Celestial's voice rang out, stripped of its usual warmth. "What is your purpose?"
The answer came without hesitation, as though the answer had been carved into his very bones. "To serve the heavens and protect Unia." It was the creed of those called "blameless," the vow each present had taken decades ago.
Diurnix's focus remained fixed on him, but there was a change this time. His thoughts didn't echo through the chamber; they were soundless, formless. "You are honest with me, Baruch, but not with yourself."
The words were not recognized by anyone but Baruch. It was an invitation, a summons to a private conversation between two hearts and minds.
"There is something else within you—just as deep as your righteousness, perhaps more so, and perhaps directed toward someone." The Celestial's gaze, though casual yet meaningful, shifted to Baruch's right.
Baruch's gaze followed Diurnix's. Yet again, it rested on Tabitha. Despite the silent bustle nearby, she, who transcended the desires that bound other mortals, sat, distant and detached, her eyes long freed from any earthly attachment. To Baruch, she was the embodiment of the path he had long sought to walk, the ideal he had always aspired to. And more. She was someone he wanted to walk that path alongside.
"You will never cleanse your mind completely." The silent voice concluded.
Baruch's eyes, like those of a child seeking comfort, lifted toward the sacred tree—a venerable presence whose ancient branches stretched skyward, forming a living monument to the divine. Beneath its vast canopy, only the chosen were permitted to stand—those deemed worthy by the Mother herself. To serve in this hallowed space was the highest honor a druid could attain, a privilege beyond measure and a gift bestowed by the heavens.
And yet, despite the grandeur of the temple, something inside Baruch shifted, a pressure he could no longer deny. For almost a century, he had been taught that desire was a fleeting indulgence, a poison to be purged. Every teaching of the forestborn had woven itself into the fabric of his soul, each lesson a warning against the perils of worldly longing. To seek more than what the heavens had bestowed was to falter.
But now, here, in the shadow of the sacred tree, the certainty he had lived by began to fray. 'How could I dare want more than this?' The question clawed at him, gnawing at his resolve.
'What are worldly desires compared to the will of the heavens? What is the fleeting pull of the flesh compared to duty?' The answers, once so clear, now eluded him. Where reverence had once bowed his head, now conflict clouded his thoughts.
To cast aside all worldly desires was the sacred duty, not just a rule but an oath binding his very soul. Baruch had spent most of his life purging every stray feeling, casting aside all longing, leaving no room for anything but the will of the heavens. For decades, he had fought. For decades, he had failed. The quiet, unspoken truth was that he had betrayed that sacred vow every time his gaze lingered a moment too long on Tabitha, every time a sliver of yearning slipped through his prayers. And now, he faced the harsh truth: this weakness cannot be purged. He was a stranger here, an outsider in a place that had once felt like home.
Baruch closed his eyes, a pang of disappointment welling up—not in the heavens, no, never the heavens—but in himself. When he spoke, his voice was steady despite the turmoil beneath. "I understand, Adon Diurnix. I do not belong here. I must leave the temple." He didn't need to say it out loud, not really. The Celestial could pluck thoughts from minds like fruit from a tree. But saying it was a confession, a brand he placed upon himself in the presence of his peers, each syllable a lash of shame he felt he deserved.