A stillness spread through the righteous, a suffocating silence that spoke louder than any murmur could. Heads turned, eyes widened. Even Tabitha, ever-stoic and unflappable, stiffened. Her lips parted slightly, as if to speak, but the words never came. For a heartbeat, Baruch dared a glance in her direction, catching the flash of something in her gaze—surprise? Pity? Or was it contempt? It was gone too quickly for him to grasp, leaving only a knot of regret in his chest.
“Do not burden yourself with blame.” Diurnix's gaze, on the contrary, softened, and as if in response, the tight knot in Baruch's chest began to unravel. “You have worked no less than others. Yet, there are things beyond our control.” The Celestial paused, a subtle hesitation clouding his face, as if touched by some unspoken guilt. “Despite this, you remain gifted and faithful, Baruch. I will not abandon you.”
Baruch bowed his head in humility, his thoughts steadying as the Celestial’s words washed over him.
“Tell me, Baruch,” Diurnix continued, his tone carrying both a command and an unexpected permission. “What is it you desire? You have earned the right to ask—cast aside your doubts.”
The druids had always believed that true service to the heavens demanded more than mere obedience—it required a stripping away of earthly desires, a ruthless purging of any attachment to the heart or flesh. Baruch had learned those lessons well. They were etched into him, carved deeper than any scar. To want was to stray, to stray was to sin. And though he stood now on the cusp of leaving this sacred place, its laws still bound him. The teachings of the forestborn were not so easily shaken off. They clung to him like a second skin, a cage of duty and discipline. Yet here, beneath the towering boughs and the watchful eyes of the heavens, these very heavens granted this humble horned man the permission to desire.
‘Is this a test from the heavens, or have they truly granted me this right?’ His thoughts churned, but his eyes betrayed him, flickering once more toward Tabitha. ‘Can one be forgiven for asking more than they’ve been given?’
Baruch’s mind grappled with the tension of his inner struggle, the teachings of the forestborn clashing against Diurnix’s words. Obedience, he had always believed, meant suppressing all worldly desires. Yet now, it seemed, obedience required him to face them. The very idea seemed blasphemous, yet the Celestial’s command pulled him toward an acceptance that felt both forbidden and inevitable.
Ironically, in his obedience to the heavens, Baruch found himself betraying their very essence. Each step he took to cast aside his doubts was tainted with a sting of self-reproach. Finally, despite the guilt weighing on him, his sincerity broke through the haze of hesitation.
Slowly, he knelt. His horns grazed the stone floor as he bowed low, his voice emerging as a whisper from deep within.
“I have one desire,” he whispered, a silent plea through clenched teeth.
It was unforgivable—to appeal to the heavens not with gratitude, but with greed. Judging gazes fell upon him, but Baruch felt none of their weight, his head bowed beneath the enormity of his own guilt.
“Look up, Baruch,” Diurnix’s voice, calm and patient, urged him onward. Reluctantly, he obeyed, raising his eyes to meet the Celestial’s gaze.
“Tell me what you want,” Diurnix repeated, a hint of paternal care softening his tone. “I will gladly help you, my young friend.”
A sly smile curled at the corners of Diurnix’s lips, as though he had anticipated this very moment.
“My desire is to assist Tabitha in her service to you,” Baruch finally said, his voice quiet, barely daring to utter the words.
For a fleeting moment, Baruch saw something unexpected in Diurnix’s eyes—a flicker of pride, as though the Celestial had foreseen this very confession. The slight curve of his lips, the subtle amusement dancing in his gaze, reminded Baruch of a father watching a child take their first steps. Yet beneath this pride lay a deeper bond—a quiet solidarity, an unspoken understanding that traversed the chasm between their worlds.
“You’re right, Baruch,” Diurnix said with a widening smile. “Tabitha may indeed need assistance.”
With a small approving nod, the Celestial shifted his gaze toward the druidess. “Do you accept Baruch under your command?”
The whole affair was as preposterous as it was improper. Tabitha, like every other soul in the chamber, had been molded by decades of life and nearly as many years of relentless service to the temple. Surprises were a luxury long banished from her life, and emotions were trained to lie dormant beneath an unyielding exterior. Yet, in these past few minutes, she had felt the stirrings of indignation more times than in the last several decades combined. And now, despite her honed composure, a brief crack showed—a subtle tightening around her eyes, the slightest furrow of her brow. Just as quickly, however, she smoothed over the fracture in her mask, bowing her head with practiced grace.
“I will accept any help if it serves your will, Adon,” she replied, voice steady, though the words tasted bitter on her tongue.
“So be it. I will be grateful for your help, Baruch.” Diurnix declared, his voice taking on an unexpected solemnity. “Is there anything else you desire?”
Baruch shook his head, almost childlike in his response. “No, your greatness. I dare not ask for more,” he replied, his words drenched in a simple, naive gratitude.
Diurnix nodded, his expression softening into a gentle smile. “Then I shall take my leave.” With one last satisfied glance, he turned, his form shimmering as it dissolved into the air. The room seemed to exhale as the Celestial vanished, leaving behind only a trace of light that lingered momentarily before fading.
“May Unia be with you,” his voice echoed, even as he disappeared completely.
For a moment, Baruch allowed his gaze to linger on the fading traces of light, the last remnants of the Celestial’s presence dissolving into stillness. But the peace that Diurnix had left behind was fleeting.
He felt it almost immediately—Tabitha’s gaze. It pierced him with cold, unforgiving judgment. When he turned to meet her eyes, there was no understanding, no warmth. Only sharp disdain, bordering on disgust.
Baruch did not flinch, though the weight of her judgment pressed down on him. He accepted it, embraced it even, as a man might welcome a long-expected punishment. There was no room for pride here, only the stark reality of his own weakness laid bare.
Her attention shifted before the silence became unbearable, drawn away by the voice of another druid.
“Prophet Tabitha, what should we do with these chairs?” the druid asked, his hand running across the stone seats Diurnix had left behind.
“Leave them as they are,” Tabitha said, the unquestioning certainty in the Celestial guest’s authority ringing through each word. “The heavens have decreed it.”
“As you wish, honored one,” came the humble reply, followed by a deeply understanding nod, as though some revelation had been reached.
Baruch's eyes shifted to the chairs—odd, colorful, inappropriately idle, completely misplaced in the sacred temple. ‘Could it be… Has Adon Diurnix forgotten about these chairs?’ The thought flickered in his mind.
Baruch was quite possibly right. While the earthborn saw order in Diurnix, the other Celestials, well aware of his mischief, knew him as chaos—cunning and unpredictable. Even the Primordial Mother could not foresee his actions. A being of immense power, Diurnix often disregarded the rigid rules that governed even the Ancient Forest. Where others bowed to tradition, he danced around it, bending it to his will. He was a force of nature in his own right.
Among the druids, only a few had the potential to one day become like Tabitha, bearing the power of the Celestials. In that sense, Baruch was indispensable, just like the others designated as "the blameless" who had gathered in the temple. They were the chosen few, the ones who might one day ascend to the role of prophet, their lives dedicated to maintaining order among the races. It was a sacred duty, one that demanded purity of mind, discipline, and unwavering loyalty.
Baruch could have followed this path. His loyalty had never faltered; his resolve had never weakened. He was disciplined, patient, and above all, faithful. If it had been any other Celestial, one bound by the rules of the earthly realm, Baruch could have continued his path in peace. He would have suppressed his feelings, as he had been taught to do. Years of discipline had taught him how to bury even the deepest desires. He would have done what was required—served, obeyed, without ever touching the edges of what was.
Without Diurnix's intervention, Baruch would have spent his years in silent service, never knowing what it meant to love and be loved, to want something for himself.
He would serve. He would remain loyal. Yet Diurnix had paved another path for him, and Baruch remained grateful for it, even in the final, painful moments of his existence.
Baruch’s loyalty changed its shape—and in doing so, has shaped those around him. His unwavering devotion to Tabitha, though unreciprocated at first, eventually inspired a love in her no less strong than his own, and that love gave birth to a new life.
His once firm belief in the baseness of mankind evolved into a willingness to give his life, without hesitation, for the sake of an ordinary villager. His tenacity has become a foundation on which Tabitha leans, his strength inspired confidence in the young and inexperienced Raquel, and his wisdom will echo in every action of Rigel.
The humble existence of this druid—his quiet care for those around him—will ultimately play a role in the fate of Unia that surpasses the one of any prophet.
I proclaim it now with all the fire in my soul—the arrogant bird was wrong. Baruch mattered. His life, his deeds, his sacrifices will not be allowed to slip into the silent abyss of forgetfulness. I will carve his story into the finest parchment, burn it into the marrow of my memory, and let no man or god deny it. He was a righteous druid, a creature of weight and meaning, and he was.
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