God’s Tree

The broken forest was silent except for the sound of slow, steady footsteps.

Argolaith led the way, the dormant form of Yuneith cradled carefully in his arms. It pulsed against his chest—not heavily, not as a burden, but alive, faintly warm through the fabric of his armor. Every so often, the tree fragment shivered, as if reminding him that it still breathed. That it still hoped.

The others followed closely.

Kaelred's daggers were sheathed, his hands shoved deep into his cloak pockets as he trudged through the cracked soil.

Malakar walked a few paces to Argolaith's left, his violet eyes distant, as though weighing every step against memories only he could see.

Thae'Zirak, in his smaller form, padded silently alongside them, tail flicking through the mist.

There was no mistaking it.

The air had changed.

The land itself felt… heavier.

Not with fear.

But with meaning.

Every step was a promise to something older than words.

For a long time, they said nothing.

The only sound was the crunch of broken earth beneath their boots and the faint, living hum of Yuneith's core.

But after a while, Kaelred broke the silence, his voice quieter than usual.

"So," he said, kicking a loose stone. "We're carrying a literal chunk of memory back to a place none of us were ever supposed to find."

Argolaith chuckled under his breath. "Sounds about right."

Kaelred smirked, but it faded quickly.

He stared at the horizon, brow furrowing.

"You ever wonder what we're going to be like after this?" he asked. "I mean… people don't just walk away from things like this unchanged."

Argolaith adjusted his grip on Yuneith, thinking.

"I don't think we're meant to stay the same," he said quietly. "We're meant to grow. Just like this."

He tapped the root gently.

"And sometimes growth hurts."

Kaelred didn't answer right away.

But his shoulders relaxed a little.

As if he needed to hear that.

Later, as they crossed a dry riverbed where once living streams had flowed, Malakar spoke.

"Do you know," he said, his voice low, "that once, in the forgotten parts of Morgoth, there was a belief? That carrying something sacred changed the carrier forever?"

Argolaith glanced over. "Changed how?"

Malakar walked slowly, his robe dragging over the dusty rocks.

"They believed that the soul and the burden fused together. That you could no longer separate the bearer from what he bore. If you carried a tree's heart, you would grow roots of your own. If you bore a relic of fire, you would burn forever inside."

Kaelred grimaced. "Sounds lovely."

Malakar smiled faintly. "The old beliefs were not concerned with comfort. Only truth."

Argolaith shifted Yuneith carefully in his arms.

"I don't mind," he said. "If carrying this means changing… I'll take it."

Malakar nodded once. Approvingly.

Quietly.

As they climbed a slope of jagged stone, the basin far behind them now, Thae'Zirak spoke for the first time in hours.

His voice was a rumble, low but clear.

"You do not realize," he said to Argolaith, "what it means that it chose you."

Argolaith raised a brow. "I'm starting to get the idea."

The small dragon snorted. "No. Not fully."

He hopped onto a boulder ahead of them and turned, staring down with molten gold eyes.

"Trees of memory do not choose by strength. They do not choose by destiny. They choose by trust. They trust you to bear their pain. Their hope. Their failures."

He leaned forward slightly.

"And not to break."

Argolaith stopped walking for a moment.

The weight in his arms—Yuneith's living hope—felt heavier.

But not in a way that bowed him.

In a way that lifted him.

He smiled, just a little.

"I won't break."

The root pulsed warmly against his chest, as if it heard.

The sun dipped low on the horizon as they traveled, painting the sky in bands of copper and violet. The world stretched out before them—silent, wounded, ancient.

And Argolaith walked.

He didn't ask the others to help him carry it.

He didn't need to.

This was his burden.

And his honor.

And though every muscle burned, every step pressed harder into aching joints—

He would carry Yuneith all the way back.

To its home.

No matter how far.

No matter what waited in the dark corners of the broken world.

He would see this through.

He had to.

The final stretch of their journey unfolded under a sky cloaked in the colors of twilight.

The land around them, once broken and wounded, seemed to hold its breath as Argolaith and his companions approached the ancient temple where Yuneith had once thrived. The ground grew smoother, the air cooler. Even the battered trees along the path bowed slightly as if offering silent reverence.

Argolaith could feel it now—stronger with every step.

The bond between him and the living fragment of Yuneith pulsed steady and sure against his chest, like a second heartbeat. It was guiding him forward, not with force, but with quiet trust.

The others remained close.

Kaelred occasionally looked toward the horizon, hand resting near his daggers, but there was no tension in his movements now—only readiness.

Malakar was silent, his long cloak trailing behind him like a shadow stitched to the ground, violet eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

Thae'Zirak, ever the sentinel, walked at Argolaith's side in his small form, tail curled slightly with contained energy.

They moved not as fugitives or hunters—

But as bearers of something sacred.

The temple came into view at last.

It rose from the earth like a sleeping beast, half-consumed by moss and mist. Towering spires broken by time leaned against one another for support. The great archways still stood, but vines wrapped around the pillars, reclaiming the forgotten artistry for the wild.

And yet—

It was beautiful.

Argolaith stopped at the threshold.

The temple pulsed faintly in response—recognizing the presence of what it had lost.

The shattered gates before them, carved with faded runes of root and flame, shifted.

Not opened by mortal hands, but by something deeper.

The doors groaned, and the path inside cleared.

No voice welcomed them.

No force urged them forward.

Only the silent request of memory—

Come home.

Argolaith stepped through, carrying Yuneith across the threshold.

The interior of the temple was darker, but not oppressive.

Stone walls rose high overhead, latticed with the shapes of roots and branches carved into every surface. Strange crystals embedded in the floor gave off a soft, cold light, illuminating a single dais at the center of the vast hall.

It was there—the place where Yuneith had once anchored its roots.

Argolaith could feel it through the soles of his boots.

A wound.

A yearning.

A place still reaching for what had been torn away.

He walked slowly toward the dais.

Kaelred and Malakar stopped at the edge of the hall, giving him space without a word.

Thae'Zirak lowered his head respectfully, golden eyes half-shuttered.

At the center of the dais lay an indentation—a cradle carved into the stone itself, rimmed with ancient runes so worn that only a few still glowed faintly.

Without needing to be told, Argolaith knelt.

He placed Yuneith's living fragment into the cradle.

The moment he did, the air shifted.

A faint pulse of green and silver light spiraled upward from the roots, weaving into the ceiling, casting shadows that moved like ancient spirits across the walls.

And then—

The first root unfurled.

It grew slowly, reaching outward, anchoring into the runes.

But it was weak.

The fragment needed more.

Argolaith stood back, breathing heavily from the long journey.

Malakar approached carefully, studying the growing roots.

"It will not heal on its own," he said quietly. "The fracture runs deeper than just the bark. You must mend its memory."

Kaelred frowned. "How exactly is he supposed to do that? Stitch it back together with good intentions?"

Malakar's gaze did not waver.

"No. With himself."

Thae'Zirak spoke as well, voice low and rumbling.

"The tree gave him its trust. Now it needs his strength. His will. His life, if necessary."

Argolaith's hands tightened into fists.

He knew what they meant.

It wasn't enough just to carry it.

He had to give something of himself to it.

His memory.

His strength.

His resolve.

A bridge between the wounded past and the waiting future.

He stepped forward again, kneeling beside the fragment.

Placing both hands against its bark, he closed his eyes.

And without fear—

He opened himself.

The temple fell into silence so profound it seemed to reach beyond sound itself.

The only movement was the faint, trembling growth of Yuneith's newly forming roots as they spread outward from the cradle in the dais, weaving themselves into the cracks of the ancient stone like careful, patient fingers.

Argolaith knelt before it, hands pressed flat against the bark of the wounded fragment. He could feel its pulse faintly now, struggling, reaching—not for water, not for sunlight, but for meaning.

For memory.

A faint whisper touched the edges of his mind.

Not a voice.

A feeling.

Feed me.

Kaelred and Malakar stood back in the shadow of the temple's ruined pillars, their forms blurred by the rising glow.

Thae'Zirak coiled nearby, silent, unmoving, golden eyes reflecting the weaving streams of faint silver light that began to rise from the base of the altar.

Argolaith closed his eyes.

And gave.