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

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The small boy turns, taking The Vine's hand in his. With a glance up at His face, they step in unison towards Andrews, who still cradles the motionless form of his friend, Vincent. The boy looks up at The Vine, who meets his gaze and nods. With a clear sense of purpose, the child extends his hand, his tiny fingers gently brushing Vincent's lifeless form. At his touch, Vincent's body starts to morph, a swift, miraculous change. Like the boy before him, Vincent transforms into a vibrant branch, mere moments passing before he bursts to life leaping up.

Vincent, now a branch full of vitality, turns to face Andrews. His voice fills the room, addressing his fellow Marine. "You were just doing your job, brother. You couldn't have known that it would end this way."

Vincent's eyes are wide with awe, disbelief and relief playing across his features. Slowly, he begins to rise, his movements sluggish as if he were moving through water. Setting his gaze on Vincent, he extends his hands, gently taking the newly-transformed form of his friend into his arms. Drawing back, Andrews looks into Vincent's eyes, the depth of his emotion evident in his expression.

"Semper Fidelis," Andrews whispers, the Marine Corps motto a sacred vow between them. His voice is choked with emotion, but his words ring out clear and true. Vincent returns his gaze, his eyes shining with the same fierce loyalty. "Semper Fidelis," he echoes, the bond between them unbroken, their pledge to each other as steadfast as ever.

The small boy then turns his gaze onto me. Without uttering a word, he reaches up, touching his forehead at the very spot where I had been wounded. Hesitating for a brief moment, I reach up, touching my forehead in the same spot. An electric jolt of energy surges through me followed by a gentle warmth that starts from that point of contact, spreading outwards, seeping into my wooden form. I can almost hear the splintered limb mending, the pain dissipating as the warmth grows.

One by one, the boy, Vincent, and The Vine extend their hands, joining them together in a tight circle standing in a quiet moment. Then, as suddenly as it had arrived, the warm light that had filled the room begins to grow. It swells, casting a soft glow that envelopes us all. It intensifies, growing brighter and brighter until we are no more than silhouettes against a backdrop of dazzling light.

Then, in the blink of an eye, the figures within the radiant circle disappear, swallowed by the blinding light. As the light slowly fades, Trose and I find ourselves standing in the middle of a remarkably different setting. Gone are the dusty plains of the Middle East that were our reality just moments ago. Instead, we are back in the Hall of Souls, a place that now seems more surreal than ever. I glance around, barely recognizing the grand hall that now stands restored to its former glory. There are no briar patches anymore, no remnants of the desolation that marked our previous visit. Everything seems bathed in a soft glow that paints the area with a serene aura. The intricate decorations adorning the walls and columns now stand out in sharp relief, their beautiful patterns and motifs casting fascinating shadows on the polished marble floor. The atmosphere is one of calm and tranquility, a stark contrast from the chaos we had left behind.

Trose slowly swivels, his gaze sweeping across the restored Hall taking in the intricate patterns adorning the walls and columns. His voice breaks the quiet. "This is how I remember it..."

I raise my hand, fingers brushing against the now rigged bark of my forehead where the child's touch had brought a miraculous healing.

I turned to Trose, brow furrowed like a knotted rope. "Hold on a minute!" I blurt, voice laced with confusion. "Did you see that? The Vine... what the heck just happened? Where'd He go?" My voice cracks, the whole situation so extraordinary it leaves me speechless. But weirdest of all, I feel... light. Like someone lifted a ton of bricks off my shoulders, even though things just went sideways.

Trose turns to face me, his expression softening with a compassion that seizes me by surprise. "Issac, we, at any given time, can summon The Vine. We can invite Him into those painful memories and ask Him to reveal to us where the healing is. This is not a matter of hollow faith but a resolute conviction, a belief that The Vine is always present, always ready to intervene in our moments of despair and pain."

I stood silent for a moment, absorbing Trose's words. My mind reeled at the implications of what he was saying. It wasn't just the reality-bending, miraculous events we had just witnessed, but the underlying truth in the conviction of his words. Could it be that simple? Could the healing we longed for, the peace we craved, really be just a call away? I thought about the countless times I had felt lost, alone, and in despair on the battlefield. Could The Vine have been there, waiting for me to invite him into my pain, my hurt, my memories? The concept was overwhelming, staggering even. But as I looked into Trose's eyes, I saw no doubt, no hesitation. Only a deep, resolute belief. His faith was unshakeable, his conviction unwavering. And in that moment, I realized that perhaps it wasn't about understanding, but about belief. About inviting The Vine into those places, our memories, our pain, and trusting that healing and peace would follow.

"Whoa..." I stammer, the weight of it all hitting me like a ton of bricks. But then, this crazy calm washes over me and it all makes sense. "The Vine... He was there the whole time, just waitin' for me to let Him in, to share the hurt and all that junk. It was on me to open the door, y'know, to let His healing light shine through."  A newfound sense of clarity paints my world in hues I never imagined. I look at Trose, my eyes welling up with a mixture of gratitude and resolution. This revelation doesn't erase the scars of countless battles, but it provides a path, a way to navigate through the hurt and toward healing.

Trose straightens up, and steps forward, his hand reaching out to smack my breastplate, the clang of metal echoing in the silent hall. "For Zion.". He looks me in the eye, a sense of urgency reflected in his gaze. "Now, we better get going. We have much news that needs to make its way back to Heaven's Landing." 

Navigating through the labyrinthine corridors of the Hall of Souls, we make our way toward the grand staircase, which now gleams with a renewed splendor under the serene glow that has bathed the entire hall.

As we approach the exit, Trose suddenly halts, his sharp eyes piercing through the darkness in the distance. Without warning, he spreads his majestic wings, casting a looming shadow over the polished marble of the grand staircase. With a mighty push, he takes off into the darkened sky, leaving me alone and bewildered in the archway.As we approach the exit, Trose suddenly halts, his sharp eyes piercing through the darkness in the distance. Without warning, he spreads his majestic wings, casting a looming shadow over the polished marble of the grand staircase. With a mighty push, he takes off into the darkened sky, leaving me alone and bewildered in the archway.

That's when I notice it. Just outside the temple entrance, the ground is littered with bodies. I squint, trying to make sense of the horrifying scene before me. And then, the realization hits me like a punch to the gut. The bodies are charred, still smoking from what appears to be a recent fire. My heart lurches in my chest, and without thinking, I break into a run, my armor clanging loudly with each desperate stride. The smell of burnt flesh reaches my nostrils as I draw closer, a grim testament to the violence that has transpired here. The bodies are those of Guardians, their once majestic wings now reduced to smoldering ashes. I fall to my knees, my hand reaching out to touch one of the still smoking bodies. The sheer heat radiating from it makes me recoil, the unspoken horror of what had occurred here fast becoming clear. This wasn't just a battle, this was a massacre.

Suddenly, I spot Trose among the bodies. He's clutching one of the charred corpses, his wings folded around him like a protective mantle. His body shakes with silent sobs, his grip on the body tightening as though he were holding onto a dear friend rather than a lifeless shell. As I approach, I overhear him questioning himself. "What were they doing here?" he mutters, his voice barely audible. "Why... why were they sent here?" His eyes are distant, lost in thought.

Then, as if hit by a lightning bolt, he stiffens. His hand, which had been gently cradling the lifeless body, drops to his side. His eyes grow wide, "They were messengers..." he whispers. He whirls around to face me. "Issac!" his voice punches through the desert sands. "This is a trap!"