The Zarynthian Tribe continued their lives, their faith unwavering despite the passage of ten long years. For most, their daily routines revolved around the shrine, the offerings, and their god. But cracks of doubt had begun to form in the hearts of a few, whispers that the chieftain, Tovik, worked hard to dispel.
Leon lay still on the stone altar, his breathing steady but his eyes closed. The golden light of the shrine bathed his form, and though he had grown older in the past decade, his youthful features still bore a serene, almost divine quality.
Yet deep inside, Leon was anything but serene.
In the stillness of his body, Leon listened. The villagers' voices had become his constant companions, their words shaping the only reality he knew. He heard the faint footsteps of children running near the shrine, their laughter like echoes of a world he couldn't touch. He heard the songs of the elders as they made offerings, the crackle of the fire as food was cooked and shared.
And then there were the stories.
"Great Relethis," an elder began one evening, her voice trembling with reverence, "when I was a girl, my father told me how you cast down the stars to guide our ancestors. Your light became their beacon in the darkest nights."
Leon inwardly sighed. Another star story. Are they all like this?
Another elder, a younger man with a deep, booming voice, added, "And your wisdom, great one. You taught the first Zarynthians how to speak to the wind, to understand its whispers and use it to carry their voices across the forest."
Leon mentally groaned. Do I look like a weather god?
Despite himself, Leon couldn't help but feel a strange fondness for the villagers. Their devotion, though misplaced, was genuine. They told these stories not out of obligation but out of love, a love that was pure and unwavering.
If only they knew, Leon thought. If only they realized I'm just… me.
As night fell, the shrine grew quieter. The villagers returned to their homes, leaving only the soft glow of lanterns to keep the darkness at bay. Marion appeared shortly after, carrying a jug of something that smelled faintly of fruit and herbs.
He plopped down beside the altar with a sigh, his patched robes rustling as he settled in. "Another day, another round of endless praise for you, kid," he muttered, glancing at Leon's still form. "You've really got them wrapped around your finger, you know that?"
Leon listened, as he always did.
Marion took a swig from the jug, grimacing at the taste. "Ugh, this stuff gets worse every year. You'd think they'd learn how to ferment properly by now."
The summoner leaned back, resting his elbows on the stone floor. "So, where was I? Oh, right. I was telling you about the duke. Did I mention he had a mustache that looked like two dead squirrels glued to his face? Anyway, there I was, halfway through my pitch about the goddess's 'healing powers,' when he suddenly pulls out a—"
Marion paused, shaking his head with a chuckle. "You don't care about that, do you? Not that you can even hear me. Probably off in some divine dream, doing godly things."
Leon wanted to laugh. If only you knew I've heard every ridiculous story you've told. And that I remember the 'dead squirrel' mustache from the last three times you mentioned it.
Down in the village, the atmosphere had shifted subtly over the years. Though the majority of the Zarynthians remained steadfast in their faith, there were those whose patience was wearing thin.
One evening, as the villagers gathered around a communal fire, whispers filled the air.
"Do you think he'll ever wake up?" a young woman asked, her voice barely audible.
An older man frowned, stirring the pot of stew in front of him. "Don't speak like that. Tovik says the great Relethis will awaken when the time is right."
"But it's been ten years," the woman pressed. "What if we've done something wrong? What if the ritual wasn't enough?"
Across the fire, another villager added, "I've heard stories from other tribes. They say their gods walk among them, guiding them. Why is ours different?"
The murmurs grew louder, drawing the attention of an elder who sat nearby.
"Enough," the elder said firmly, his gaze sweeping over the group. "Doubt is a poison that spreads quickly. Do not let it take root in your hearts. Our god will awaken when he is ready. Until then, our faith must remain strong."
The villagers nodded reluctantly, though the unease lingered.
The next day, Tovik gathered the villagers near the shrine. His tall frame and commanding presence drew their attention immediately.
"My brothers and sisters," he began, his voice steady and authoritative. "I hear your doubts, your whispers. But I remind you: Relethis is an eternal being. Time flows differently for him than it does for us. Ten years to us is but a single heartbeat to him."
The villagers murmured in agreement, some bowing their heads in shame.
"Our duty," Tovik continued, "is not to question but to prepare. When Relethis awakens, he will need us to be ready to serve him. Do not let doubt cloud your devotion."
The crowd bowed in unison, their faith seemingly restored—for now.
From his place on the altar, Leon listened to it all. The villagers' doubts, Tovik's reassurances, Marion's grumbling—it all blended into the strange rhythm of his existence.
He no longer felt anger or despair at his situation. Instead, he felt a quiet acceptance.
This is my life now, he thought. Listening. Waiting. Watching them live.
But even in his stillness, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt. The villagers had poured their hearts into their faith, believing him to be something greater than he was.
I wonder what they'd think if they knew the truth, he mused.
That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Marion returned to the shrine with his usual jug of brew. He sat beside the altar, his shoulders slumped and his expression unusually somber.
"You know," Marion began, his voice quieter than usual, "it's not so bad here. The food's decent, the people are nice—if a little too obsessed with you. It's just… this isn't what I wanted."
Leon listened intently, sensing something different in the man's tone.
"I wanted freedom," Marion continued. "I wanted to travel, see the world, make my own rules. Instead, I'm stuck in a forest with a god who doesn't even wake up." He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "I guess we're both trapped, huh?"
Leon felt a flicker of understanding. For all his grumbling and antics, Marion wasn't so different from him. Both of them were caught in circumstances beyond their control, waiting for a future they couldn't predict.
As the days turned into weeks, the elders continued their visits to the shrine, their stories growing more elaborate with each passing year.
"Great Relethis," one elder said one afternoon, kneeling beside the altar, "your strength is unparalleled. They say you tamed the winds with a single word, bending them to your will to protect our ancestors."
Leon wanted to groan but resisted. More wind stories. Wonderful.
Another elder added, "And your compassion, great one. It is said you once wept for the pain of the world, and your tears became the rivers that nourish our lands."
Leon's thoughts were tinged with amusement. If I ever wake up, the first thing I'm doing is correcting these stories.