God’s Tree

A circle of runes carved into the floor around the dais lit up, casting beams of soft light into the air. The runes weren't words—they were memories themselves, waiting to be fed.

Argolaith felt the ancient call more clearly now.

Yuneith could not survive on magic or blood alone.

It needed his journey.

His struggles.

His truths.

Each memory would weave into the roots, healing the fractures, binding Yuneith's spirit back together.

A voice, older than the temple, brushed against him like a distant breeze:

"Offer the moments that shaped you.

Offer the moments that scarred you.

Offer the moments that define you."

And so he did.

He reached inward.

The first memory he gave was simple, but pure—the moment he left Seminah.

The cabin door creaking closed behind him. The weight of the storage ring gifted by Athos heavy on his belt. The endless horizon stretching before him.

The mix of fear and excitement.

He had nothing but a dream.

Nothing but hope.

The runes nearest him absorbed the memory, flickering silver, and a root shuddered, pulling tighter into the dais.

The second memory flowed unbidden:

Meeting Kaelred on that long journey up the freezing mountain.

Two strangers, blades drawn, distrust thick between them.

Two survivors choosing—against reason—to walk the same road.

The awkwardness, the rivalry, the slow bond of loyalty forged in fire and cold.

He offered that too.

A second pulse of light raced through the temple. More roots grew, threading upward like skeletal arms weaving themselves whole again.

Argolaith gritted his teeth as he reached deeper.

He offered the first trial—the moment he bled beneath the ancient branches, struggling to prove himself before a sacred power that saw everything he was and everything he was not.

The moment he realized he wasn't chosen because he was strong.

He was chosen because he refused to break.

The roots drank in that memory hungrily, binding another crack in the earth.

He gave the memory of when he learned Malakar's true past.

When he realized that even those born in darkness could choose their own way.

That no destiny was written in stone.

Only chosen.

That belief flowed into Yuneith now, a golden thread in the silver weave.

More roots burst from the dais, curling around broken pillars, steadying the crumbling ceiling as if holding the temple itself upright.

Finally, Argolaith offered the most recent, raw truth:

Standing in the mist-choked basin, feeling the wounded heart of Yuneith call to him.

Choosing to bear it in his arms.

Choosing to fight, to endure, to carry—not because he was told to, not because he sought reward—

But because he chose to.

Because he would not leave it behind.

The memory blazed out from him, a wave of light so strong it pushed even Kaelred and Malakar a step back.

The roots answered.

The roots sang.

The fragment of Yuneith, cradled within the dais, pulsed with a new, vital strength.

The wound carved into its bark flared silver—

And began to heal.

Argolaith opened his eyes, gasping for air.

He was kneeling on cracked stone now, his palms burned faintly where they had touched the bark. Wisps of silver energy curled from his fingertips.

Yuneith was no longer broken.

It stood, small but whole, at the center of the dais, its young branches reaching upward, each leaf shimmering like a star plucked from the night.

A voice—calmer now, older than mountains—spoke into his mind:

"You have given of yourself.

You have fed my roots with truth.

You have carried me from darkness."

"Now… take my gift."

One of the roots unfurled and offered itself forward—

A single drop of lifeblood, glowing like molten crystal, suspended in the air.

Waiting for Argolaith to claim it.

The single droplet of lifeblood floated before him.

It shimmered with a brilliance that seemed too pure for the shattered world around it—light and memory and promise, all condensed into a bead no larger than the tip of a finger. And yet Argolaith could feel its weight.

It was not merely sap.

It was not merely magic.

It was the essence of Yuneith—the will of a sacred tree that had endured exile, betrayal, and near death. And now, by his hands, by his journey, it lived again.

Kaelred and Malakar stood quietly near the entrance of the dais, watching without a word. Thae'Zirak sat still and proud, his scaled form outlined by the rising light from the restored roots. None of them interrupted.

This was Argolaith's moment.

He reached into his storage ring with steady fingers and withdrew a rune-etched vial, identical to the ones he had used before.

Crafted from the memory-silver of Morgoth's elder veins and sealed with a sigil of binding flame, it was designed to hold what no ordinary container could withstand.

The vial shimmered faintly in his hand.

The droplet of lifeblood pulsed once—

—and lowered itself gently into the opening, as if accepting the vessel without resistance.

A soft flash of light filled the air.

The vial sealed with a click, the runes along its sides glowing faintly for a moment before dimming, preserving the precious cargo within.

Argolaith stared at it for a long moment.

Three other vials already rested in his storage ring, each carrying the lifeblood of trees that had tested, judged, and ultimately accepted him.

Now, this fourth vial joined them.

Four trees.

Four paths.

Four burdens.

He slipped the vial carefully into a hidden pocket inside the storage ring, feeling the familiar weight settle against his soul.

And when he turned back to the others, his blue eyes burned with quiet resolve.

"It's done," he said, voice low but firm.

Kaelred smirked faintly, though exhaustion still clung to the edges of his posture. "I was starting to wonder if you were going to marry the tree instead."

Thae'Zirak rumbled with amusement, a low chuckle vibrating through the air.

Malakar inclined his head slightly. "You have done what few ever could."

Argolaith tightened the strap of his sword across his back.

He looked out beyond the shattered pillars of the ancient temple, toward the endless horizon, the mountains, the unseen lands still cloaked in mist and mystery.

The road was not over.

If anything, it had only grown steeper.

There was still one more tree.

One final fragment of himself he had to find and claim before he could even think of awakening the magic that slumbered in his blood.

He turned back to them, shoulders squaring against the fading light.

"It's time to start looking for my fifth tree."

Kaelred groaned theatrically. "And here I was hoping for a day off."

Argolaith smiled slightly.

"There's no time to waste."

The sacred trees had waited long enough.

The lifeblood pulsed against his chest, each vial a silent promise.

Soon, he thought.

Soon, I will be whole.

And together, with the people who had chosen to walk beside him, he stepped out into the unknown once again.