The Elements of Zion: the Vine, the Branch, and the Thorn

Look Closer

Suddenly, everything goes dark. My legs give out under me, and I feel the harsh impact of the ground, the shadow of unconsciousness sweeping over me. After what seems an eternity, my eyes flutter open. The first thing I see is Trose, his face a mixture of worry and relief.

Trose, with a strength that belies his gentle spirit, pulls me to my feet. He steadies me as I regain my balance, a warm smile breaking across his weathered face. "Look at you boyo.".

In reflex, I look down, my eyes catching the sight of my newly transformed self. I am...a branch. "How... how did this happen?"

"Isaac, ye called on The Vine, and He answered. Do ye not remember the words of The King of Zion? 

The memory of His words echoed in my mind."Isaac, bearing fruit is only possible when you're connected with Me. As you lift the sword in My name, you become the branch. Remember that."

Suddenly a flicker of movement catches my eye. Pulling my attention away, I turn towards the source. There, peering out from behind a window is the little Iraqi boy transformed, no longer a mere skeleton but a living, breathing child. A pang of heartache hits me as I take in the terror reflected in his wide, innocent eyes. Can he still see The Destroyer that once threatened him, I wonder? His eyes flicker towards me, and for a heart-stopping moment, our gazes lock. Emotion wells inside me - regret, sorrow, guilt.

Suddenly, an unearthly shriek slices through the air, diverting my attention back to the battlefield. The thorns, once formidable and terrifying, begin to shrivel and shrink. Their monstrous bodies wither into grotesque parodies of their former selves, turning into nothing more than piles of ash. A harsh gust of wind sweeps across the desolate landscape, whipping the resulting black smoke into a frenzied dance. The little boy lets out a cry of fear, his face paling at the supernatural scene unfolding before him. With a final panicked glance in my direction, he turns and flees, disappearing from the window.

Black smoke billows upwards, swirling with ash. As it rises, the tendrils twist and turn, coalescing into a unified mass. It doesn't simply drift on the wind; it moves with purpose, guided by an unseen hand. "Where in the world is it going?". 

Trose's gaze mirrors mine, following the smoky trail. His voice dips low and solemn. "Ye answered that question yerself, Isaac. The Throne of Zion awaits them. It is the place of judgement. The King will pass judgement on the deeds of the fallen."

Unable to shake the image of the terrified boy from my mind, I glance back at the window once again. A magnetic pull tugs at my heart, compelling me to seek him out. I begin to limp towards the building. Behind me, Trose watches. Pressing forward, his voice echoes in the stillness. "Isaac prepare yerself. What lies ahead will be difficult, but necessary."

As I continue my approach toward the window, a searing pain suddenly shoots through my head like a lightning bolt. It's a harsh, unwelcome reminder of The Destroyer's brutal attack. My vision blurs and for a moment, the world around me spins in a dizzying swirl of colors. I stumble, the wound throbbing with an intensity that nearly brings me to my knees. Catching ahold of my senses, I lean against the rough exterior of the building, gasping for breath. The pain is a fiery brand, searing through my spirit, a relentless tormentor that refuses to be ignored. Fear creeps into my heart, but I push it away. I am here, and I've come too far to surrender now, even if every breath feels like a battle.

Gritting my teeth, I pull myself back up, the pain transforming into a dull throb in the back of my mind. The window is just within reach now, the glass cold and clear under my touch. There, frozen in time, is the scene I've been trying so hard to escape. Andrews is still cradling the lifeless body of Vincent, his face a mask of disbelief and despair. My heart clenches at the sight, guilt gnawing at my insides. But what truly breaks me is the sight of the mother. She sits hunched over the small, still body of her son, her whole body shaking with sobs of pain and grief. Her wide, horrified eyes meet mine, and I see in them an accusation that goes unsaid.

Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them away, my gaze never leaving the mother. My heart aches with the desire to reach out to her, to say something, anything, that could alleviate her pain. But I know that there are no words that can undo the harm I've caused. All I can do now is face the reality of my actions and ask for forgiveness.

Feeling a gentle hand on my shoulder, I turn to find Trose standing behind me, his eyes reflecting a depth of understanding that goes beyond words. He leans in, his voice a gentle whisper in my ear. "Isaac, where do you see The Vine in this memory?"

With Trose's question lingering in my thoughts, I return to the eerie tableau. My heart echoes with a plea for The Vine to reveal Himself, a silent call emerging. In response to my silent invocation, a glow slowly begins to emanate from the lifeless body of the boy cradled in his mother's arms. An anguished breath escapes me as I witness the spectral light growing in intensity, illuminating the once darkened room. Gradually, a vibrantly green vine starts to emerge from the child's form, its tendrils reaching out and weaving themselves through the room. Lush leaves and a robust stem form, starkly contrasting the grim reality of the scene. Recognition dawns in my eyes, and my breath catches in my throat. He appears amidst the suffering, the pain, and the loss.

As I watch, transfixed, the room fills with a radiant light. The glow intensifies, reaching out to every corner of the room, illuminating even the darkest corners. My heart pounds in my chest as a figure begins to take shape within the light, steadily growing until it takes full form. The Vine stands before me as I peer in through the window.

In a breathtaking display of gentle authority, the delicate tendrils proceed to lift the child, cradling him as if in a loving embrace. They carry him towards The Vine, who extends His hands to receive the lifeless little body. His touch is soft, tender, a poignant reminder of His love for even the smallest among us. As His gentle fingers brush against the child's skin, a profound and magical transformation starts to unfold. The child's form slowly begins to shift and change, his body gracefully molding into the semblance of a delicate, budding branch-A symbol of new life emerging from death, a mesmerizing sight embodying rebirth.

The Vine then lowers His hand, placing the newly transformed child-branch back on the ground. The room holds its breath, the silence so complete it's almost tangible. And then it happens - the branch begins to stir, to quiver. A moment of profound anticipation, and then the child is back, no longer a lifeless figure but a boy once more, animated with a vitality that lights up the room.

The boy, now pulsating with life, slowly rises and turns towards his mother. He steps toward her his movements are deliberate, and tender. He stops right in front of her, looking up at the face now streaked with tears of disbelief and relief. He reaches up, wrapping his delicate arms around her in a tight embrace. She clings to him, her sobs subsiding as she buries her face in his shoulder. The boy pulls back slightly, looking up at her with a serene smile. Then, with a solemn nod, he gently detaches himself from her and steps back. His silent farewell hangs in the air between them, a poignant echo of a bond that transcends this realm.