The Blackwood in early summer was a living pulse, its rhythm thrumming through the earth like a heartbeat echoing in my chest. The air hung warm and heavy, thick with the sharp tang of pine sap, the sweet breath of honeysuckle, and the faint musk of damp moss, weaving a tapestry of scents that grounded me in this moment. Trees swayed under a sky brushed with golden clouds, their leaves whispering secrets of the world beyond, a world teetering on the edge of hunger and greed. Our oak hollow, where Elara and I had carved our interlocking spirals, stood as a quiet sanctuary, but tonight the Weaver Clan's central clearing was alive with the glow of the communal fire, its light dancing across woven tents, weathered faces, and the glint of knives and tools tucked into belts. I was nine, Elara eight, and the vision from spring—a future where a starving mob tore through the Blackwood if I lingered too long—clawed at my mind, urging me to act. My Bible, its leather cover rough under my fingers, held the English words I'd scrawled at seven, drawn from Hebrew texts I'd pieced together in my first life: stories like Lot's in Genesis, Noah's Ark, the Golden Rule, and calls to justice, not divine commands but lessons in reason, action, and balance. The clan spoke the same tongue I'd learned as a child in the Montala-controlled land, a language of sharp vowels and flowing rhythms, but my Bible's English was a code only I could read fully, though Elara's sharp mind caught fragments, her green eyes tracing words like threads in her woven map.
Elara stood beside me, her green eyes bright with quiet resolve, reflecting the fire's glow like emeralds catching light. Her woven map, tucked in my satchel beside the Bible, pulsed faintly with her aether, its silver threads a subtle magic, the only one we allowed in this grounded world. The spirals from our shared birthday hung in the hollow, their aetheric warmth a vow we carried here, to the firelit clearing where the clan's gazes—curious, wary, skeptical—met mine. Elder Mara sat near the fire, her silver braids glinting, her hands steady on a half-woven net, her eyes softer since our last talk but still guarded. Taryn, the young hunter, leaned on his spear, his sharp grin softened but lingering like a challenge. Bren, Fael, Elder Toren with his weathered staff, and weavers like Lira with her dye-stained hands and Syla with her quick fingers watched, their faces a patchwork of hope and doubt. Young Kael, barely older than Elara, clung to his mother's side, his wide eyes catching the fire's glow, while an older hunter, Rhea, her hair streaked with gray, stood at the clearing's edge, her gaze sharp. The Blackwood's aether stirred, a subtle magic urging me to weave the clan's strength with my Bible's lessons, translated into our shared tongue.
I stepped into the firelight, Elara's presence a steady warmth at my side, and opened my Bible to Genesis 19, its English words a translation I'd crafted from Hebrew, a labor from my first life's restless mind. "Clan of the Blackwood," I began in our tongue, my voice clear despite my youth, "I've warned of storms—famine, greed, a world breaking beyond our trees. My vision showed a mob, driven by hunger, tearing through our home, not by fate, but by choices we fail to make. My book, written in a tongue only I read fully, holds stories to guide our actions, not to force belief. Tonight, I share the story of Lot, from Genesis, a man who faced a city broken by its own sins, a lesson for us in this world as real as ours."
The clan's murmurs hushed, the fire's crackle a soft underscore as I leaned closer to the pages. I read from my Bible, translating the Hebrew of Genesis 19 into English, then into our shared language, my words a deliberate cadence: "My book says, 'The outcry against Sodom and Gomorrah is great, because their sin weighs heavy' (Genesis 19:13). Sodom was rich, its granaries bursting, but its people hoarded food while others begged, drove travelers away with curses and fists, and chased selfish desires that broke the bonds of kindness. Another book, Ezekiel, says of Sodom: 'She and her daughters had pride, excess of food, and prosperous ease, but did not aid the poor and needy' (Ezekiel 16:49). Their greed, cruelty, and pride poisoned their city's heart. Lot, a man living among them, welcomed two messengers sent by the Architect's balance, offering them food and shelter despite the city's hostility (Genesis 19:2-3). But Sodom's men gathered, a mob at his door, demanding to harm the strangers, their shouts like a storm (Genesis 19:4-9). Lot stood firm, offering his own safety to protect his guests, but the messengers shielded him, urging him to flee. They said, 'Rise, take your wife and your two daughters who are here, or you will be swept away in the city's ruin' (Genesis 19:15). Lot hesitated, torn by the life he knew, but the messengers pressed him, and he fled with his family. As they ran, the city burned behind them—sulfur and fire, the cost of its sins (Genesis 19:24-25). But his wife looked back, yearning for Sodom's false comforts, and became a pillar of salt (Genesis 19:26). Lot and his daughters reached a cave in the mountains, surviving, but in their fear, his daughters believed no men remained to carry on their line. They said, 'Our father is old, and there is no man left to come to us as is the way of the earth. Let us give our father wine to drink, and we will lie with him to preserve our father's seed' (Genesis 19:31-32). They made Lot drunk, and each lay with him, unaware in his stupor, bearing sons from their desperate, flawed choice to endure (Genesis 19:33-36)."
I paused, letting the translated words settle like embers among the clan, their faces caught in the fire's glow—some wide-eyed, others frowning, a few whispering. Elara's green eyes flicked to the Bible, catching words like "Sodom," "flee," and "salt," her partial understanding a quiet bridge between my English text and the clan's shared tongue. "This isn't about a god's anger," I said, holding the Bible high, its leather warm in my hands. "It's about choices we make in a real world. Sodom fell because its people chose greed over sharing, cruelty over kindness—sins we see in the Montala Church's tithes, stripping farmers bare, stirring hunger that could drive a mob to our gates. Lot chose action, welcoming strangers, saving his family, but his daughters' choice, driven by fear, was flawed, teaching us to act with clear minds. Another lesson in my book, from Matthew, says: 'Whatever you wish that others would do to you, do also to them' (Matthew 7:12). From Isaiah: 'Learn to do good; seek justice, correct oppression' (Isaiah 1:17). And Proverbs says, 'Whoever is generous to the poor lends to the Lord' (Proverbs 22:9). We must act, not wait, to strengthen our clan."
Elder Mara's hands stilled on her net, her eyes narrowing but softer now, her weathered face reflecting the fire's light. "A heavy tale, Elias," she said in our tongue, her voice low and measured. "Sodom's greed and cruelty sound like Montala's collectors—villages left bare, as you say. Lot's hospitality, his flight, I understand, but his daughters' choice unsettles me. How does this guide us? And we can't read your book's strange words—how do we trust it?"
I knelt beside her, Elara mirroring me, her green eyes steady, her presence a quiet anchor, her woven map's aether a faint pulse in my satchel. "Lot's daughters acted out of fear, thinking their world was gone," I said, translating my thought. "Their choice was wrong, but it teaches us to act with clear minds, not panic. Lot's actions—welcoming strangers, fleeing to save his kin—are what we follow. Your net, Mara, tears because it fights the river's flow, like Sodom's greed fighting human bonds. Let me show you a better way, rooted in reason." I traced the net's fibers, letting a trickle of aether highlight its weak points, a subtle magic enhancing what any weaver could feel as tension. "Weave like tree roots—small, tight loops, sharing the strain. It's practical, like the Golden Rule I shared, treating the net as you'd want it to hold for you." The technique was simple, no miracles, just a pattern anyone could learn.
Mara's fingers followed my guidance, weaving with decades of skill, her loops tighter, more balanced. I let a faint aetheric pulse deepen her sense of the net's strength, a realistic enhancement. She tugged it, and it held firm, stronger than before. Her lips twitched, a grudging respect in her eyes. "This holds better," she admitted. "Like Lot's choice to flee, acting to save what matters. But nets won't stop a mob—what more does your book offer?"
Elara leaned in, her voice soft but clear in our tongue. "I saw 'flee' and 'salt' in his book," she said, her green eyes bright with conviction. "The words are strange, but they're true, Mara. Elias shows us how to act, like Lot saving his kin." Her partial reading, catching English fragments, lent weight to my translations, her trust a bridge for the clan's understanding.
I nodded to Elara, gratitude warming my chest, and turned back to Mara. "You're right—nets alone aren't enough. Lot's story teaches us to prepare, to share, to stand together. Another tale in my book, of Noah, who built an ark when others scoffed: 'Make yourself an ark of gopher wood; make rooms in the ark' (Genesis 6:14). Noah acted before ruin came, and we can too—strengthen our stores, share our hunts, weave our defenses. Isaiah's call to 'seek justice' and Proverbs' generosity mean we protect our own, not just ourselves." My words were grounded, no promises of divine salvation, just practical steps for a clan facing real threats.
Taryn, watching closely, set his spear aside, his sharp grin fading to curiosity. "And hunting?" he asked, his voice lighter now. "Lot ran from ruin. How does that help me track deer?"
I met his gaze, the Blackwood's aether humming in my veins, a gentle magic grounding my words. "Lot acted to protect life, like Noah's preparation," I said. "You hunt by tracks, Taryn, but deer move with the forest's rhythm—wind shifts, leaf rustles, the pause before they pass. Feel that rhythm, like Noah's work." I let aether subtly amplify the forest's natural sounds, a realistic sharpening of senses, not a miracle. Taryn's eyes widened, catching the shift, his head tilting as if hearing the Blackwood's pulse. "That's reason," I said. "Not worship, but truth you can test. Tomorrow, watch the forest's signs, not just the ground."
He nodded, his skepticism easing, a faint grin returning. "I'll try it," he said, his voice thoughtful. "But I don't read your book's tongue, and I don't need to. Show me more of this rhythm, and I'll listen."
I smiled, the firelight warm on my face. "You don't need to read it," I said. "These stories—Lot's flight, Noah's ark, the Golden Rule, seeking justice, sharing generously—aren't about belief or English words. They're about real choices. Lot's daughters chose survival, but their fear clouded their judgment. Noah built to protect life. The Golden Rule and Isaiah's call push us to respect and protect each other. Believe or don't, but act with us, for the clan."
The firelight flickered, casting long shadows as the clan listened, their murmurs a mix of thought and doubt. Bren nodded faintly, his fingers tracing the knots I'd taught him, now stronger. Fael leaned forward, his eyes sharp, perhaps seeing the forest's rhythm in my words. Lira, her dye-stained hands clasped, spoke up, her voice hesitant but clear. "Your story of Lot… it's like our elders' tales of villages lost to greed. But what if we fail? What if the mob comes, like in your vision?"
I turned to her, Elara's hand brushing mine, her aether a quiet pulse of support. "Lot failed too," I said, my voice steady. "His wife looked back, his daughters chose poorly, but he acted to save them. We'll fail sometimes, but the Golden Rule—do to others as you'd have them do to you—means we try again, together. We strengthen our nets, share our hunts, build our stores. That's how we stand against the storm." My words carried the weight of my first life, a mind ended by a crash, and the false reality where I was a threat, alone against a system. Here, with Elara, I was more—a weaver of truths, not for worship, but for action.
Elder Toren, his staff tapping the ground, stood, his voice rough but measured. "Your tales are vivid, Elias, but our ways—nets, hunts, shared meals—have held for generations. Why heed your book's stories, even if you speak them in our tongue?"
I met his gaze, the Bible's weight grounding me. "Because our ways, strong as they are, face a world breaking under greed, like Sodom's fall. I saw it in the Duke's Keep—farmers thin as reeds, children begging, all from Montala's tithes. Lot's story shows what happens when greed festers: homes lost, lives broken. Noah's ark shows preparation saves lives. Isaiah's call to justice and Proverbs' generosity push us to protect the weak. My book's lessons, translated for you, call us to act with reason, like mending nets or hunting smarter." My words were grounded—no miracles, just human choices and their real consequences: hunger, greed, survival in a world as real as the Blackwood's soil.
Syla, the quick-fingered weaver, spoke, her voice soft but curious. "Your book speaks of sharing, like our clan's ways. But how do we prepare for a mob when we're few?"
I nodded, the fire's warmth steadying me. "By acting together, like Lot welcoming strangers, like Noah building before the flood. We share our food, teach our skills, fortify our clearing. My book says, 'Learn to do good'—start small, like stronger nets, but grow to protect all of us." I turned to the clan, their faces a tapestry of doubt and dawning trust. "We're not Sodom. We share, we act, we endure."
Rhea, the older hunter, stepped forward, her gray-streaked hair catching the firelight. "Your stories ring true, Elias," she said, her voice steady. "I've seen Montala's collectors, heavy-handed, leaving villages bare. But your book—does it speak of fighting, if the mob comes?"
I opened my Bible, its English pages catching the starlight, and translated another piece. "It speaks of balance, of acting before ruin comes. Like Noah, who built when others laughed, or Lot, who fled when others stayed. Isaiah says to 'correct oppression,' to stand against wrong. But Proverbs also warns, 'A soft answer turns away wrath' (Proverbs 15:1). We prepare to defend, but we act with reason, not rage. We share, respect, prepare—truths you can test, like a net that holds or a hunt that feeds us." I paused, looking at Rhea and the clan. "We're not Sodom. We build, we protect, we stay whole."
Kael, the young boy, tugged at his mother's sleeve, his voice small but clear. "Will we have to flee like Lot?" His mother hushed him, but her eyes met mine, searching for an answer.
"We won't flee if we act," I said, my voice carrying to Kael and beyond. "Lot's story, Noah's ark, the Golden Rule, Isaiah's justice, Proverbs' wisdom—they're guides to build, to share, to stand together. The Blackwood is our home, and we'll protect it, not with prayers, but with our hands and minds." The clan's murmurs grew thoughtful, some testing nets, others whispering of hunts or stores, the seeds of action taking root.
Elara spoke, her voice clear in our tongue, her green eyes fierce with conviction. "Elias showed me the forest's rhythm," she said. "Like Lot, he acts to protect us, not with prayers but with truth. I've seen his book's words—'flee,' 'ark,' 'justice,' 'share'—and though I don't read them all, they're true." Her partial reading, catching English fragments, strengthened my translations, her trust a beacon for the clan.
As the clan dispersed, some lingering to ask more, Mara tested her net again, its strength a quiet proof. Taryn shifted, his spear resting easier, his eyes on the forest as if seeking its rhythm. Lira and Syla whispered, their hands moving as if weaving stronger patterns. Kael's mother nodded, her fear easing, her hand on her son's shoulder. Rhea lingered, her gaze thoughtful, as if weighing my words against the world she'd seen. The Blackwood's pulse was steady, a song of balance, and I felt its alignment, not as worship but as reason made real.
Elara and I returned to the hollow, the spirals glowing faintly above us, their aether a soft hum. The night air was cooler now, the stars sharp overhead, and I felt the weight of the clan's trust, fragile but growing. "You reached them," Elara said, her voice soft but proud, her green eyes catching the starlight, her hand in mine. "With Lot's story, Noah's ark, all of it."
"Not alone," I said, my throat tight. In my first life, I'd been a solitary mind, ended by a crash. In that false reality, I'd been a threat, alone against a system. But here, with Elara, I was a weaver of truths, translating my English book into our shared tongue, building a foundation for a kingdom not of temples, but of choices. The vision of the Blackwood's fall lingered—Montala's greed, Valerius's schemes, the hunger beyond—real storms driven by human hands, not divine will. We'd face them with nets and spears, with reason and action, guided by Lot, Noah, and the lessons of my book.
I opened my Bible, its pages catching the starlight, and read to Elara in our tongue: "The Architect judges us by what we build, by choices like Lot's—welcoming strangers, fleeing ruin, protecting kin, acting with reason." She nodded, her aether weaving with mine, her green eyes steady, the spirals swaying above—a vow of action, of truth, of us. The Blackwood's heart beat strong, a foundation for a future rooted in the lessons of Genesis, as real as the earth beneath our feet.