Elian entered the village with cautious steps.
The houses, though humble, were beautifully crafted — their walls of white stone, their roofs of thatch and shingle shaped like the waves of the sea.
Crimson and gold banners fluttered from balconies. Children laughed in dusty streets.
For a moment, it seemed to him a place of peace.
But as he walked, the truth unfolded.
Eyes turned toward him — curious, suspicious, some even hostile.
He understood why: his robe was tattered, stitched together from forest cloth and animal hide; his feet were bare, his beard unkempt.
To them, he must have seemed a vagabond, a beggar, an outcast.
He tried to smile, but the people turned away.
Whispers followed him, incomprehensible in a tongue foreign and sharp.
He could understand nothing of their words, but much of their faces — fear, disdain, pity.
The deeper he went, the darker the village became.
In narrow alleys, he glimpsed the broken and the lost: girls no older than children offering themselves for coins; men with hollow eyes bartering their souls for drink.
At the edge of the market square, he saw a man beaten by guards clad in black and crimson, his cries drowned by the laughter of passing nobles.
He passed a shrine where men bowed to idols of beast and flame, offering blood sacrifices as the air thickened with the stench of burnt flesh.
And through it all, Elian walked in silence, his heart heavy. His soul cried out within him:
"O Lord, how great is the fall of man. Teach me to be Thy hand in this place."
The rain began again — sudden, fierce. It drummed against the stones like the march of armies.
Seeking shelter beneath an archway, Elian noticed a figure huddled near a barrel of refuse.
A child — thin as a reed, her hair tangled, her feet bare and bleeding.
She wore little more than rags, her skin smeared with the grime of the streets.
Her eyes — vast, empty pools of sorrow — stared at him, unblinking.
For a moment, neither moved. The rain fell between them like bullets.
Elian knelt, extending his hand — open, empty.
"Come with me" he said softly
"I will not harm you."
The girl flinched, ready to flee. But something in his gaze — gentle, unwavering — held her still.
Slowly, warily, she reached out, her fingers trembling as they touched his.
A holy bond, wordless but binding, was formed.
They left the village together. He did not know her name; she could not know his.
Their words were meaningless to one another — but hunger, cold, and need spoke plainly enough.
He led her back towards the forest, away from the corruption of men, into the embrace of the living wilds.
There, he taught her, by gesture, example, and prayer.
He showed her how to fashion snares, to track, hunt, and to find water.
In return, she slowly teached him how to speak their language.
She pointed to herself and said "Lysa."
She pointed to the fire and said "Feorin."
To the trees: "Syril."
To the stars: "A'len."
And so he learned — word by word, piece by piece — until their conversations grew from gestures to broken phrases, and from phrases to stories.
Through tearful whispers one night, Lysa told him her past.
Her parents had been peasants, crushed beneath the taxes of the lord who ruled the village with iron and gold.
When they could no longer pay, the guards came.
Her father was taken in chains; her mother died soon after of sickness and sorrow, her dignity stolen by forced shame.
Lysa had wandered ever since, surviving by cunning, theft, and submission to those stronger than herself.
No one had wept for her. No one had prayed for her.
Until now.
Elian wept for her that night, silently, his tears hidden by the dark.
Every night, they sat by the fire, and Elian began to teach her the simple rhythm of prayer.
He placed his hands together in front of him, eyes closed, his voice soft but filled with reverence.
"This is how we pray" he explained.
"Not to demand, but to open ourselves to the will of God."
Lysa watched, puzzled.
Her fingers fiddled with a twig she had found, but her eyes were fixed on his hands.
"You speak to God, not as a man, but as a child who speaks to a father"
Elian continued.
"You say 'Father, I trust in You' and in that trust, we find strength."
He opened his hands, palms upward.
"God is everywhere, Lysa. In the wind that blows through the trees, in the fire that warms us, in the rain that gives us life. He created all things."
Lysa frowned, trying to understand, but she said nothing.
"God does not live in idols or statues. He is within us all. We carry His breath. Every tree, every bird, every stream is a reflection of His love."
Elian closed his eyes and began to pray aloud, his voice rising softly into the night sky.
"Father, I thank You for the life in this forest, for the food that nourishes us, for the safety of this place. Teach me Your will, guide me, and help me to guide others in Your name."
Lysa stared at him, unsure.
Her thoughts were jumbled, and she could not yet grasp the meaning of his words.
But she felt something — something warm, something peaceful — rise in her chest.
Elian opened his eyes and smiled at her.
"Do you see, Lysa? This is prayer. It's not about asking for things, but about giving thanks. It is about surrendering ourselves to God's will."
The next morning, Elian woke early.
As he stood and stretched, he turned to Lysa, who was still lying on the ground, watching him with those same empty eyes.
He knelt beside her and placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Now, it's your turn. Let us pray together. You can speak to God, too."
Lysa hesitated.
She tried to remember his words, the gesture he had shown.
She placed her hands together awkwardly, her fingers trembling as she whispered "God... help me."
Elian smiled gently, nodding. "Yes, Lysa. That's the beginning."
Days turned into weeks.
Lysa learned the rhythm of prayer, and her heart began to soften.
Slowly, she began to pray, to trust in something greater than herself.
One evening, as they sat by the fire, Lysa whispered
"I want to learn more. What... what else does God want from me?"
Elian paused, his gaze thoughtful.
"God wants you to know that you are never alone. Even when you feel abandoned, He is with you. He will guide you, if you ask. But He also wants you to love others, just as He loves you."
Lysa looked at him, confusion still clouding her eyes.
"How do I love?"
Elian's voice was firm, but kind.
"It is not always easy. Love is giving without expecting. It is forgiving when others hurt you. It is showing kindness, even when the world is cruel. That is how God loves us."
Lysa nodded slowly, but she still didn't fully understand.
Then, one day, Elian led her to the edge of the forest and stopped beside a river.
The water flowed peacefully, reflecting the blue sky above.
"Look at this river" Elian said, pointing to the stream.
"God's love is like this water — always flowing, never ending. It gives life to everything it touches. That is how we must love."
Lysa stared at the river, watching the water move past her.
She reached out, touching it gently with her fingers.
"I think... I understand now."
"Good. Keep that love with you, Lysa. It will carry you through the darkest times." Elian smiled.
Days passed, and as they continued their journey through the forest, Lysa's spirit began to heal.
Her laughter returned, soft and hesitant at first, but it grew stronger with each passing day.
Then, one night, as Elian knelt to pray, a quiet voice spoke in his heart — not his own, but a voice far greater.
"Elian."
His heart skipped. It was the voice of God, clear and tender.
"Make for her a sign of My love" the voice instructed.
"Take what is given by the earth, and with it, fashion a cross. It shall be a token for her, and a shield against the darkness."
Elian rose, his eyes filled with reverence.
In the quiet forest, he gathered materials — a branch from an ancient tree, its wood pale and pure.
He carved it with care, whispering prayers as he worked. His hands were steady, guided by the voice of God.
When the cross was finished, Elian turned to Lysa, his heart full of peace.
He knelt before her and placed the small, simple cross into her hands.
"Lysa" he said softly "this is from God. A reminder that He is always with you."
Lysa looked at the cross, confusion in her eyes.
But as she touched it, she felt something stir within her.
It was as if a veil had been lifted, and she understood the weight of the gift she had just received.
Her eyes met Elian's, and without a word, she pressed the cross to her chest.
As she did, a quiet strength filled her.
The bond between them, now sealed with a token of the divine, grew deeper; pupil and master.
And together, they prepared for the journey ahead.
For though the village was but one stone in their path, their mission — to spread love, to heal — had only just begun.