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Ch 39 - The Mark of the High Father
🕑 Added 2025-06-09 16:53:50 +0000 UTCAnd then, in a voice so quiet it almost bypassed sound, I felt Tekla’s words brush against my consciousness. “High Father… please. Bestow upon us Your mark.”
What am I supposed to do now - describe a symbol? Brand her forehead with my mark?
For a moment, I hesitated. I hadn’t exactly planned this part. But then a thought surfaced, one I’d shelved before because it felt too uncertain.
Back when I was human, I used to read mythology. A lot of it. Mostly the dead ones, the ones no one believed in anymore. I didn’t care much for modern religions. But the ones buried by time, I could absorb like stories. Pieces of broken faith, twisted into symbols and rituals.
And some of those stories stuck with me.
Gods, when they wanted to speak without speaking, didn’t always send fire or flood. Sometimes they just… showed things. Visions. Dreams. Moments that carved themselves into the soul and stayed there like a scar. And now, I was going to try doing exactly that.
I’d thought about this before, sending Tekla a vision of the world I wanted her to help me build, but I hadn’t dared. Back then, I was too afraid of screwing it up and shattering the image I’d worked so hard to project. But now, after everything, after all the times we’d connected, I felt ready. Or at least, confident enough to risk it.
I started simple - just the crimson oak tree symbol, the same one I carved into Avenor’s shield. But it felt hollow, too simple. Just a mark without a story. And marks without stories never make a strong impact.
So I gave it meaning.
I imagined a fortress - massive, gothic in its design, looming over the land like everything around it was under its protection. Its towers rose into a bright sky, its walls etched with crimson runes that pulsed faintly. Velmoryns in full heavy armor patrolled the ramparts, their steps carrying the confidence unknown to their race before. Above them flew banners bearing the crimson oak, their edges following the wind that carried no sound.
Then the view shifted inward, narrowing to the heart of the keep. There, beneath an arched stone ceiling, stood a new Crimson Guardian, taller than the one the tribe knew. Its branches stretched toward the sky, casting shadows across the stone. Hundreds of Velmoryns knelt in a circle around it, heads bowed in reverence.
But one figure stood apart.
Tekla.
She wore a flowing white dress adorned with crimson threads that shimmered as she moved. In her right hand, she held a staff - modest, but unmistakably divine. She raised it slowly, and the Guardian responded, its leaves beginning to fall one by one. Each leaf glowed faintly, descending in a spiral, as if blessing her.
That was the vision I prepared. Not just a symbol. A future I wanted the Velmoryns to strive for.
Once it felt complete, I tried to send it.
I didn’t just push the image into her thoughts. I focused on the connection between us and tried to transfer it whole, as if pressing the entire dream directly into her mind. The bond stirred, barely, and then steadied. But just in moments, her star in my divine realm changed.
It brightened first. Then it swelled, pressing against itself like the power inside was trying to break through. It looked like a flower bud straining against its skin, moments before it blooms.
Tekla trembled.
She dropped to her knees, nearly knocking over the basin of blood beside her. Her whole body shivered, not from fear nor pain, but from something far deeper. She wasn’t overwhelmed in the way someone panics. She was submerged in it, like she couldn’t hold back the flood of what she’d just experienced.
The other Velmoryns rushed toward her. Some called her name, some just stared, unsure of what they were seeing. Mirion reached her first, kneeling beside his daughter, gripping her shoulders with trembling hands. Tekla's body followed Mirion’s pull, but her head hung forward, hair falling like a curtain, unmoving.
Shit. Did I hurt her?
I’d thought it went well. I’d felt the vision land. But the longer she stayed motionless, the more doubt crept in. I’d expected her to cry, maybe fall to her knees again, whisper something about divine beauty or fate. But not this. Not silence.
“Tekla, are you well?” Mirion asked, his voice trembling, one wrong word away from breaking. He pulled her gently into his arms, like he was afraid she might shatter in his hands.
He kept holding her like that, checking her pulse and her breath, trying to mask the growing panic behind careful motions. But it kept building, until he couldn’t hide it anymore.
Anger lit in his eyes as he looked up toward the sky, locking eyes as if he could see me through the Window.
“If…” He didn’t get to finish.
Tekla’s hand pressed over his mouth, stopping the words before they left. Words that would’ve forced my hand.
“Don’t,” she said. Just that. No explanation. No softness.
She pulled away from him and straightened, though her balance wavered slightly. Her eyes still looked unfocused, as though she wasn’t entirely back yet, caught between what she’d seen and what was in front of her. Emotions fought for space on her face - anger, joy, disbelief… but joy won out in the end.
She turned a cold glance toward her father, then walked forward without a word. All around her, Velmoryns stood frozen. Some weren’t even breathing to maintain the complete silence.
Tekla reached for the basin. The anger had left her completely now, replaced by something bright and colorful. She dipped two fingers, index and middle, into the blood, pressing the remaining three together in a gesture of reverence. Then she turned to Roy’s corpse.
Her gaze shifted to Vivien. It lingered for a moment, like she was trying to show her something. Then she turned back to Roy and marked his forehead with two strokes - a vertical line, and then a curved shape arching over it like a canopy. A tree. My Oak Guardian.
She moved from one body to the next, repeating the symbol for each of the eight remaining fallen. Still without a word. Still without meeting anyone’s gaze.
Even the mourners stayed quiet. No wailing, no whispers, not even a shuffle. They watched every motion, every breath, knowing that once she finished, she would explain. They needed to know what had taken the priestess, what she saw, why she returned looking as if she’d been reshaped.
And finally, after the last mark was drawn and the last soul entrusted to me, Tekla turned to face them.
“High Father showed me a vision,” she said, her voice steady, but carried by something deeper than sound. “He does not wish us to continue like this. He showed me the future He wants for us, and it was glorious.”
Her eyes swept over the tribe, one by one.
“We were meant for more. We would have had more, if not for th…”
She stopped herself, just for a second. Her joy faltered as anger stirred again - this time more wild and deep, but she pushed it down. Taking a breath, she gathered herself and kept going.
“We must follow His will. We should not expect Him to save us every time we stumble. It's already a disgrace that He had to intervene to stop those filthy creatures from killing us. We cannot be weak and still demand His strength. If we claim to serve Him, we must do more. We must be more.”
Her voice cracked from the weight of it all. Emotion surged, unfiltered. She didn’t fight it. If anything, she enjoyed the euphoria she was feeling.
The silence didn’t last long. It broke with a single voice, high-pitched and raw.
“Praise be to the God of Velmoryn!”
All eyes turned. Mel stood there near the corner, one small hand pressed to her chest, tears streaking down her cheeks, flushed and swollen from crying.
“Praise be to the God of Velmoryn!” someone also shouted.
Then another voice joined in.
And another.
One by one, the chant echoed across the grove, soft at first, then louder, steadier, until it became a chorus.
But this time, it wasn’t just noise. I felt it. Every word, every voice, they weren’t just repeating empty praise. I could feel the pull of it, the connection with each of them strengthening in real time. Their faith surged, and I let myself enjoy it, let myself bask in the sound of devotion that no longer felt fragile.
But then my divine realm stirred. A new crimson star began to form beside Tekla’s. It was smaller, weaker… but a star nonetheless.
I wasn’t startled. Not anymore. I had grown used to my divine plane changing recently - how it shifted with the growth of my power and the ties I held with them. I focused on the new light, watching it take shape. The connection wasn’t complete yet, but I already knew who it belonged to.
Mel.
A child who had stood her ground when monsters charged the village… who had dared to ask for a blessing from the priestess, and now had broken the silence to cry out my name when no adult dared.
If I had been a more generous god, maybe I’d have blessed her right then. But I wasn’t. Every point of divinity mattered, and I needed them for the tribe. Still, I couldn’t help but check her status window.
Her attributes were as plain as I expected, below Bronze rank, nothing remarkable. But her devotion was 80/100.
It all made sense.
The first star to ever appear in my divine realm had belonged to Tekla, whose devotion had crossed eighty. Roy’s had followed soon after, formed the moment he pledged his soul to me, then the Crimson Guardian, with its absolute loyalty. And now Mel’s star followed.
Maybe high devotion and trust are what link a soul to a god. A vow, even unspoken, that ties them to me.
I wasn’t sure of the mechanics yet, whether it was pure faith or something closer to a subconscious contract, but I knew one thing for certain: these stars were souls. Literal, tangible pieces of them inside my divine realm. And if I chose, I could erase one without a drop of divine energy.
The bond between god and believer is deeper than I’d expected. I’m certain I haven’t seen the full extent yet. Maybe, when my rank rises…
Still, the thought brought some satisfaction. My grip over the tribe was tightening. Slowly, yes, but it was happening. Even if I couldn’t save all of them… Even if I lost nine Velmoryns… Even if Roy’s death still stung, in his place, the Oak Guardian had awakened. And with it, protecting the tribe would be far easier from now on.
My attention returned to the procession.
Each body was carried by four Velmoryns, hoisted gently onto their shoulders, heading toward the burial grounds where nine graves had already been prepared.
But Velmoryn graves were nothing like what I’d imagined. There were no carved stones or name plaques, no keepsakes left behind. Instead, each grave site had fruit trees growing from the soil.
To them, the soul was everything - personality, thought, memory. The body was just a vessel, something temporary, meant to be returned. So when they buried their dead, they planted fruit seeds alongside the corpse. Eventually, one seed would sprout and grow, nourishing future generations.
It was their way of honoring the dead, letting the body become something useful one last time.
“I don’t care that everyone thinks your soul is gone…” Vivien whispered to Roy’s corpse as they were about to lower him into the grave. Her voice was soft, full of resolve. “I’ll raise our child the way you would have wanted. And when he’s strong, when he’s ready, I’ll find you again.”
She kissed him one last time, just like she had in the moment I first saw her. There was no doubt in my mind: no time, no god, no death could make her call another man her own.
She was the first to leave, after one final prayer asking me to watch over Roy’s soul. She thanked Tekla quietly and then walked toward her home.
But just as Vivien’s life was about to change, so too would the tribe’s.
It’s time I started making real changes around here.
