—DREAM—

My slumber shifted, giving way to a vast, green landscape. The meadows were lush, the canopy of trees swaying in the breeze. The air thick with sweet incense. It was the world as it once was, before my time. I felt the familiar warmth of our Patron Saint drape over me, and unbale to resist, closed my eyes. Soon, Gaelmar’s figure formed from vapor. He towered over me, his ivory robes brilliant in the sun. With him here, the shadows retreated. His kind eyes crinkled–his statue in the altar did not do him justice.

I squinted and noticed a change in his appearance. “You look younger now.” In his last vision, his form was that of an older man, the age of Ealhstan, when Ealhstan stopped aging. His beard was shorter now, the color of summer earth.

"Do I?” Gaelmar asked, “I confess I do not know what form I will appear to be in my memories.” He shrugged and set his shoulders, about to address me. “Ryne," Gaelmar's voice resonated through the dream, rich and deep, echoing like distant church bells. "You have done well. I hear my name uttered from the lips of our people. As well as the names of my comrades.” Then Gaelmar looked down, appearing bashful.

“What?”

“It seems… quite vain of us, of me, to be honest. Now that I speak of it so loud.”

I understood him. If people strung my name with their prayers, I’d be uncomfortable as well. But it needed to be done. For his name held hope and hope had power in these grounds. “Is it enough?” I asked him. “Are the prayers enough?”

Gaelmar smiled. He nodded. “See for yourself, little monk.” His form rippled, along with the vision he was showing me. The cloud turned dark and grey and obscured the sun. The grass wilted, the tress shivered as the harsh cold wind sheared them off their leaves. Darkness and miasma crept towards us.

But Gaelmar smiled and offered his hand, which I took. “Pray with me.”

Our hands glowed, and as we uttered our prayers, his voice solid, full, and firm. I watched the thick black mist lift away from a considerable stretch of the dark forest, a short distance from the Kent settlement. It swirled and parted, revealing the land’s true nature that had been obscured.

Gaelmar showed me what it once was: a beautiful meadow teeming with flora. The vision blinked, reappearing and disappearing. The grass swayed in an invisible breeze, and wildflowers bloomed in springtime and summertime colors. Then the moon chased the sun away, and under the moonlight, their petals glowed faintly. The vision pulsed, revealing its current state—a gray landscape still needing to be awakened by my blood. A black obelisk stood on its edge.

When we were done, I felt Gaelmar shiver behind me and saw that some of the color had gone from his face. He looked like a fading candle, his power spent. Still, he smiled at me. “The prayers you have collected can dispel the miasma and restore another portion of the land."

I looked at the new area that was given to me. It was small, like the portion of fertile land in the granges where we could plant our crops. I frowned.

Gaelmar tapped my shoulder. “Do not be discouraged. Little by little, you have made progress. The crops. The infirmary. Your friends. Your prayers, combined with your own essence, have broken the chains that bound it. Look upon the reward of your labor.” His hand motioned to the miasma-less meadow.

It was still lifeless, but I knew that I simply needed to carry his flame–the kindflame fueled by the hopes of the people–and his influence will activate the land. I closed my eyes, taking comfort in Gaelmar’s words. He was right. It was minimal, and the Unending Chaos would have laughed at us if it had a mouth, but progress is still progress. Crops and flowers grow from once-dead soil. People have basic food. The dark forest was moving. All it needed was a little more work. I imagined Wilbur bent over alchemical concoctions, saw Woodrow and Claude tending to the fields.

As if sensing my thoughts, Gaelmar patted me, whether it was for comfort, or for a job well done, I was not sure. "Thank you, Brother Ryne. May you be ever steadfast.”

Gaelmar’s form began to dissolve into the mist, his presence fading as I felt myself waking. "Remember," his voice lingered softly, "the land reflects the hearts that nurture it."

As Gaelmar’s spirit vanished, the waking world pulled me from his vision. I awoke with Ember staring down at me. I scratched her head and stretched, groaning as my arms went over my head. I walked through the cloistered garth toward the nave and cracked open the church door. I looked at Ember. “You ready for a walk?”

—MEADOW—

The meadow stretched out, a dull lifeless gray, devoid of the bright flowers from Gaelmar’s vision. I touched the grass as Ember sniffed it, paw up. Her eyes darted from me to the landscape, unsure. She whined.

“You’re right. The sheep won’t even touch this. They might as well eat mud. But we’ll soon fix that.”

The black obelisk loomed at the edge of the meadow. I strode towards it, my robes rustling softly on the dry grass. They still smelled faintly of Wilbur’s sweet-smelling flowers. He had offered to help launder my mud-stained clothes after helping Claude in the rain, but I insisted on doing it alone. I shivered then, my bare arms and chest covered in gooseflesh. Just as before, I pricked my thumb on the sharp surface of the obelisk and watched my blood rise in the air, swirling like water–the blood that contained all the prayers of the people of Kent–and igniting a great flame at its apex.

It was just like how the lake had awakened, its blue replacing the gray. The gray grass uncurled and waved in the breeze, turning a welcoming green. I slumped down, and the rest I had regained from sleeping was now spent. Ember plopped down beside me, offering her warmth. I hugged her close, pressing my cheeks into her softness. We watched the grass turn vibrant and I closed my eyes contentedly. Only a small area had been awakened by my blood, but it was enough for our sheep.

Stolen story; please report.

I arrived back mid-morning, calling Agate and Harlan’s attention. They must have been familiar with my expression by now, sensing whether it was grave or good, grand or minuscule.

“A meadow has revealed itself to us. We can take our sheep there to graze. All of us will go there later, once we’ve finished with our duties. For now, I must rest.”

I returned to the church, and leaned my weight on the doors. I stared at the pews and the statue of Saint Gaelamr standing at the altar. For a moment, there was quiet, and then the excitement. I knew the exact moment the news was shared with the others. Short cheers and gasps broke out. I smiled, closing my eyes and fell slowly on the floor, my head resting on my arms.

—CHURCH—

I never tired of Claude’s smile whenever I brought news of another miracle. Tonight, it was the same—his eyes bright with curiosity as the settlement stirred, torches flaring in the dusk, and villagers untying goats and sheep from wooden posts.

“Come,” I said, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Take Belle from her pen. Rothfield stirs once more.”

The last sliver of sunlight clung to the horizon, painting the sky with a bruised, violet hue. From the shadows of the crypt, Woodrow and Wilbur emerged, drawn by the villagers' excited murmurs. Woodrow grinned at the news; Wilbur’s brow furrowed in thought.

“Flowers once grew there,” I reminded Wilbur, nudging him. “Perhaps you could use them in your alchemy.”

Wilbur nodded slowly. “Perhaps. But the people are waiting for you, Ryne. Go ahead." He nudged me. "We’ll watch the monastery.”

I rejoined Claude outside the church doors and headed for the dark forest. Harlan and Agate joined us, villagers clustered behind them, torches flickering like stars in the dimming light. They parted as I led the way through the forest, their faces alight with anticipation. The trees stood in our way. I knelt down and felt the earth beneath my palms, and the earth rumbled. Voices murmured as the trees in front of us swayed and uprooted themselves, their roots twisting away until they revealed a new path from the monastery granges. I nodded back to the villagers, back at Claude, whose expression remained calm even after what he saw. They followed me through the darkness.

It was not long when we came upon the obelisk, its flame casting an amber glow over the meadow, drenching the grass in a light that felt like a second sunset. The villagers gasped, and the parents failed to catch the children as they sped off to touch the grass. The sheep, sensing safety but still uncertain, pressed against their keepers.

Belle, ever curious, darted forward and sniffed the ground before tearing into the grass. Her approval was all the other sheep needed—they rushed after her, bleating in a frantic tumble to graze. Laughter bubbled from the villagers as they ventured onto the meadow, their awe spilling into quiet conversation.

Harlan peeled off his boots, wiggling his toes in the grass. “Agate, you should try this!” Before she could respond, he performed a clumsy cartwheel, earning chuckles and applause.

“The fool,” Agate muttered, though her smile betrayed her affection as she moved to organize the shepherds fanning out into the field.

“Stay close to the flame!” I called, my eyes on Claude as he followed Belle. His gaze met mine, and I noticed the basket of tools in his hand.

“Why bring all that?” I asked, stifling a laugh.

Claude shrugged. “You never know what lurks in places once shrouded in mist. I’m here to help.” He set the basket down and watched the sheep settle, his quiet dedication warming me more than the obelisk’s flame.

“I know,” I replied softly.

As the night deepened, the flame flickered—a subtle warning. A chill brushed the nape of my neck. I called out to Harlan and Agate, and they herded the villagers back, the sheep brimming with energy. Once we returned to the monastery, I instructed them on the rotation of grazing and fishing. Harlan and Agate nodded at me, promising that they will keep their people in check. I was about to turn when I saw one of the older women utter Saint Gaelamr's name. The crowd followed suit, giving thanks to the Patron Saint of Outcasts, the Wielder of the Kindflame. And I felt my own flame warm. I thought about retiring for the night, but, when all the other villagers slept soundly, and when Claude had returned home to his cottage, I ventured into the darkness, and went to the lake. With this new power, I offered my blood at the obelisk, sustaining its flame with prayers. Then, back at the crypt, I collapsed, dreaming of nothing.

The meadow, slowly recovering, would soon be ready again. When it did, Claude and I brought the villagers and their flocks to graze, the sheep and goats boudning up and down the path. One evening, after a day spent watching the sheep, Claude and I thought to prepare a meal made of potatoes, fresh vegetables, and fish. I did not know who came up with the idea, only that we were looking contentedly at the ram approaching Belle. We shared a look, and must have felt hungry, and then a report of the new harvest in the fields thanks to Wilbur's potent fertilizers and Gaelmar's kindflame. And then we saw the portbale brass pot one of the villagers carried.

Claude took charge, slicing and stirring with practiced ease while I filled wooden canisters with the food. The smell drifted through the air, drawing smiles from the villagers, who stretched out on the grass, contentment etched on their faces. Just as we finished, Woodrow appeared from the forest, Jerome at his side, carrying woodpipes. The children’s eyes lit up, their attention immediately drawn to Woodrow’s flame-colored hair.

“Evening, Ryne,” Woodrow greeted, his voice warm. “Heard about your success. Thought I’d bring music." He noticed I looked aorund behind him. He shook his head. "Wilbur’s away experimenting.”

Claude looked up from the pot, intrigued. “You play woodpipes?”

Woodrow set them down, smiling. “Any requests?” The villagers called out familiar tunes, and Claude, after some thought, suggested, “The Song of the Young Crow.”

Woodrow’s gaze flicked to me, then back to Claude, and he began to play. The melody was haunting—both tender and cold, like a lullaby sung to the dying embers of a fire.

Claude leaned close, his voice a whisper. “It’s about a crow trying to be something it’s not. It envies the dove’s voice, the owl’s feathers. In following them, it forgets its own song.”

I glanced at him, the words lingering like a shadow. “Good thing we’re not crows.”

Woodrow’s fingers danced over the pipes, the tune carrying across the meadow, threading through the villagers like a soft breeze. As we finished supper and sat together, the air felt lighter, a rare moment of peace.

“You’re perfect,” Claude murmured, eyes on Woodrow. “Do you think the world is kinder to people like him?”

I nodded. “Maybe. But he’s had his share of troubles.”

The night deepened around us, but for once, there was no sense of danger. Only the warmth of the fire, the quiet companionship of friends, and the steady song of the woodpipes. In that moment, the meadow seemed truly alive—not just with sheep and flame, but with the gentle hum of something reborn.