The Shelter Tree

The world outside Eidath sleeps restlessly, tucked beneath skies that flicker with too many stars and too few answers. But beneath the old tree that houses the Shelter, the air is still. Holy. Time slows here, not because it forgets, but because it remembers. 

Liorael moves through the quiet like wind between chimes. She keeps her prayers hidden behind her breath. No one here knows her name, though the roots beneath her feet do. She sings softly to them when she sweeps the floor. 

“For the Light of YHVH is my shield, 
and His Breath my bread. 
I walk through shadow, 
but I will not be afraid.” 

She has been here long enough for people to stop asking where she came from. They only know that when she places a hand on the broken, something mends. 

Tonight, she feels the pull. The hum. The ache in the space behind her heart that always means the veil is thinning. 

And then—he walks in. 

Dust on his shoulders. Hood low. His presence bends the room subtly, like heat off stone. She does not flinch, but she steadies herself on the counter. 

Ashriel. 

He doesn’t remember—not fully—but his spirit jolts awake like lightning through old bones. His eyes find hers and hold. And behind his gaze, the ancient fire blinks open. 

Echad. 

He speaks not with words, but with knowing. A stillness so complete it leaves no room for fear. 

Behind him, unseen, two seraphim enter. Not physically—but through the gaps in time. They take position at either side of the entrance. Ashriel doesn't command them aloud. He never does. They serve because they remember, too. 

He approaches. Every step is a lifetime. 

“Liorael.” 

She exhales his name. A vow. A return. 

“You held the gate again,” she says softly. 

He nods once. “And you walked through.