Chapter Four: Swords
Rainy's Journal - Day 5
"The Faces in the Grain"
I remember them clearly—how the dark pressed in at the edges of my vision, how I’d lie awake, seeing too much in what others would call nothing. The grain in the wood. The tilt of shadow on stone. The way candlelight trembled on a wall. To others, these were harmless things. To me, they were alive.
Faces. Figures. Always there. Always watching.
They were rarely kind.
Even now, I don’t fully understand what they were—hallucination, spirit, imagination, warning. But I remember the fear, raw and sharp. Once I saw them, I could not unsee them. I tried. Gods know I tried. But they clung to me like a question without an answer. And I was so afraid.
I didn’t know if I could hold back the dark forever.
Back then, I often wished I could be someone else. Some other girl. One who didn’t see so much, feel so much. One who could sleep through the night without hearing whispers in silence. But that was never who I was meant to be.
And I see now—what I could not see then—that my mind wasn’t broken. It was searching. Constantly searching, endlessly noticing, drawing threads between things that others missed. It was exhausting, yes. Overwhelming. But it was also a gift in disguise.
That relentless sensitivity shaped me. It carved deep places within me that would one day hold compassion, story, vision. It taught me how to listen to what is hidden—how to name the things that linger in silence.
Even the shadows had something to teach me.
I never wanted the darkness. I feared it. But I also refused to let it be the end of the story. Even in the worst of it, I held to the hope that all this seeing, all this struggle, might have a purpose—that the ache itself might be a seed.
I still believe that. I believe the sensitivity I once cursed became the very thing that made me a Teller.
There is evil in the world, yes—but also great and good meaning, running like silver through the stone. I believe I was shaped to trace that silver, even when it runs deep.
The faces in the grain never left me. But they don’t frighten me anymore. I see them differently now. They are not my enemies. They are simply shadows on the path to light.
----------------------------------
Later that morning, when Rainy arrived in the village center, she settled immediately into the circle of wide-eyed children which had already formed, anticipating her arrival. She wrapped a worn shawl around her shoulders, letting its edges brush against the wooden floor, optimism dancing in her dark eyes.
"Alright, little ones," she began with a small smile, "let me tell you a story—one I dreamed about once, when I was your age. It’s a story of hope, courage, and a soldier who found something he didn’t expect."
The children leaned closer, captivated by the gentle rhythm of her voice, ready for another adventure. Rainy took a deep breath and began.
"It was nearly bird song time in the morning when I woke up that night," she said. "But this time, it wasn’t because of a bad dream. I wasn’t scared. Instead, my heart was racing because of what I’d just seen. It felt like someone had told me a story while I slept, and the ending... oh, the ending was so beautiful, it made me cry.
"In my dream, there was a soldier. He wasn’t a great warrior or a mighty general—just a man with a small, battered sword. It was rusty, chipped, and dull, but it was all he had. He lived in a place where it was always dark, a world scarred by war and strife.
"Somehow, this soldier found himself following a girl—a brave, mysterious girl who didn’t entirely trust him. She led him to an ancient chamber buried beneath the ruins of the battlefield. It was massive, empty, and silent, the air thick with dust and memories of loss and long-forgotten battles.
"'If you truly want peace,' the girl told him..." Rainy glanced from child to child, giving each an intense stare. "...'you’ll find it here. But if you’re untrue, you won’t make it out alive.'
"The soldier nodded. He did want peace. He wanted the fighting to stop, the suffering to end. So, he followed her down a crumbling staircase into the heart of the chamber. She stopped at a large, circular stone table and called out into the shadows.
"Three figures emerged from the darkness. They were warriors, just like him, each carrying a unique sword. Their eyes were sharp, their faces unreadable. The girl unsheathed her sword, and the soldier hesitated as she told him to do the same. His sword felt small and inadequate compared to hers—let alone the gleaming, intimidating blades of the others.
"But he did as she asked.
"The five of them stood around the table, their swords laid upon it in the ritual fashion for a truce. At first, they seemed unsure, moving their weapons this way and that. They lined them up, then arranged them hilt-to-tip, but nothing seemed right. The soldier grew nervous. Would they see his sword as too weak, too broken? Would they send him away?
"But then," Rainy said, her voice dropping to a whisper, "something incredible happened. As they continued to arrange their swords, they suddenly fit together, formed a perfect pattern. And as they did, each sword began to shine with an unearthly brilliance—even his old, battered one.
"The symbol that emerged was unmistakable; a star! Not a pentagram, It had six radiant points—two triangles imposed upon each other; one upright, the other downward. The five soldiers all stepped back nervously. The soldier’s heart raced. He hadn’t seen it coming. None of them had.
Rainy looked from face to face, "Neither did I" she said.
"A sixth sword had appeared to complete the star," she said softly. "It wasn’t any of theirs. It wasn’t old or worn. It was perfect—gleaming, strong, and full of light. And by being part of the symbol, it made all of their swords flawless as well. The soldier suddenly understood.
Rainy paused, looking again at each child in turn. Their eyes were wide, their breaths shallow as they waited for her to go on.
"The soldier felt his heart fill with joy, so much that he thought it might burst. He had come searching for peace, but what he found was far greater than anything he’d imagined. He found hope. He found the promise of a new beginning." The symbol wasn’t just a sign of unity. It was a message. The heir they had been waiting for—the one who would bring peace—had returned while they were unaware.
Rainy leaned back, letting the morning fire warm her face. "When I woke up," she said, her voice quiet, "I realized something. That soldier wasn’t just someone in a dream. He was me; it was me that didn't see it coming! And he’s you, too. We all carry swords—sometimes they’re small, battered, and rusty. But everyone of you have a sword right now that gives you the ability to see what is right. When we bring them together, when we trust in something greater than ourselves, even the weakest blade can shine like the stars.
"So remember, little ones," she finished, her smile soft but strong, "when the world feels dark, when you feel too small or too broken—there’s always hope. There’s always a greater plan, even if you can’t see it yet. Just like the soldier, you might be surprised by the ending."
The children sat in silence, the story sinking into their hearts. Rainy pulled the shawl tighter around her and gazed into the fire. Somewhere, deep within, she hoped her story had planted a seed of faith, one that would grow as bright as the swords in her dream.
Rainy looked around the circle, a mischievous glint sparking in her eyes as she surveyed the wide-eyed group of children sitting around her. For a moment, silence hung in the air, the kind that only comes after a tale that has everyone holding their breath. Then, with a sudden and dramatic gasp, Rainy leaped to her feet, sending her long braid swinging over her shoulder.
"You know what? I think it’s time to wake up those sleepy legs of yours! Who’s ready for the Wriggle?"
The children giggled, unsure but intrigued.
Rainy bent low, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It’s a very secret game passed down through generations of master storytellers. But shhh—don’t tell anyone, or the Wriggle Bird might come for us!"
She straightened up with exaggerated drama and began to demonstrate the rules: arms flapping like a bird, feet hopping side-to-side, and a silly wiggle of her head that made her braid swing wildly. "Now, the trick is to copy me exactly! And don’t forget the most important rule…" She paused, building suspense, before grinning wide. "You have to make the silliest face you can while doing it!"
The children burst into laughter as they scrambled to their feet, their giggles filling the air as they tried to outdo each other in their wiggling, wagging, and face-pulling antics. Rainy joined in wholeheartedly, her laughter mingling with theirs as she hopped, wiggled, and twirled around the circle.
For a moment, the weight of the world fell away, replaced by nothing but sheer joy, silliness, and the echo of unbridled laughter. But, beyond the little circle, the whispers had once more begun.
"The Faces in the Grain"
I remember them clearly—how the dark pressed in at the edges of my vision, how I’d lie awake, seeing too much in what others would call nothing. The grain in the wood. The tilt of shadow on stone. The way candlelight trembled on a wall. To others, these were harmless things. To me, they were alive.
Faces. Figures. Always there. Always watching.
They were rarely kind.
Even now, I don’t fully understand what they were—hallucination, spirit, imagination, warning. But I remember the fear, raw and sharp. Once I saw them, I could not unsee them. I tried. Gods know I tried. But they clung to me like a question without an answer. And I was so afraid.
I didn’t know if I could hold back the dark forever.
Back then, I often wished I could be someone else. Some other girl. One who didn’t see so much, feel so much. One who could sleep through the night without hearing whispers in silence. But that was never who I was meant to be.
And I see now—what I could not see then—that my mind wasn’t broken. It was searching. Constantly searching, endlessly noticing, drawing threads between things that others missed. It was exhausting, yes. Overwhelming. But it was also a gift in disguise.
That relentless sensitivity shaped me. It carved deep places within me that would one day hold compassion, story, vision. It taught me how to listen to what is hidden—how to name the things that linger in silence.
Even the shadows had something to teach me.
I never wanted the darkness. I feared it. But I also refused to let it be the end of the story. Even in the worst of it, I held to the hope that all this seeing, all this struggle, might have a purpose—that the ache itself might be a seed.
I still believe that. I believe the sensitivity I once cursed became the very thing that made me a Teller.
There is evil in the world, yes—but also great and good meaning, running like silver through the stone. I believe I was shaped to trace that silver, even when it runs deep.
The faces in the grain never left me. But they don’t frighten me anymore. I see them differently now. They are not my enemies. They are simply shadows on the path to light.
----------------------------------
Later that morning, when Rainy arrived in the village center, she settled immediately into the circle of wide-eyed children which had already formed, anticipating her arrival. She wrapped a worn shawl around her shoulders, letting its edges brush against the wooden floor, optimism dancing in her dark eyes.
"Alright, little ones," she began with a small smile, "let me tell you a story—one I dreamed about once, when I was your age. It’s a story of hope, courage, and a soldier who found something he didn’t expect."
The children leaned closer, captivated by the gentle rhythm of her voice, ready for another adventure. Rainy took a deep breath and began.
"It was nearly bird song time in the morning when I woke up that night," she said. "But this time, it wasn’t because of a bad dream. I wasn’t scared. Instead, my heart was racing because of what I’d just seen. It felt like someone had told me a story while I slept, and the ending... oh, the ending was so beautiful, it made me cry.
"In my dream, there was a soldier. He wasn’t a great warrior or a mighty general—just a man with a small, battered sword. It was rusty, chipped, and dull, but it was all he had. He lived in a place where it was always dark, a world scarred by war and strife.
"Somehow, this soldier found himself following a girl—a brave, mysterious girl who didn’t entirely trust him. She led him to an ancient chamber buried beneath the ruins of the battlefield. It was massive, empty, and silent, the air thick with dust and memories of loss and long-forgotten battles.
"'If you truly want peace,' the girl told him..." Rainy glanced from child to child, giving each an intense stare. "...'you’ll find it here. But if you’re untrue, you won’t make it out alive.'
"The soldier nodded. He did want peace. He wanted the fighting to stop, the suffering to end. So, he followed her down a crumbling staircase into the heart of the chamber. She stopped at a large, circular stone table and called out into the shadows.
"Three figures emerged from the darkness. They were warriors, just like him, each carrying a unique sword. Their eyes were sharp, their faces unreadable. The girl unsheathed her sword, and the soldier hesitated as she told him to do the same. His sword felt small and inadequate compared to hers—let alone the gleaming, intimidating blades of the others.
"But he did as she asked.
"The five of them stood around the table, their swords laid upon it in the ritual fashion for a truce. At first, they seemed unsure, moving their weapons this way and that. They lined them up, then arranged them hilt-to-tip, but nothing seemed right. The soldier grew nervous. Would they see his sword as too weak, too broken? Would they send him away?
"But then," Rainy said, her voice dropping to a whisper, "something incredible happened. As they continued to arrange their swords, they suddenly fit together, formed a perfect pattern. And as they did, each sword began to shine with an unearthly brilliance—even his old, battered one.
"The symbol that emerged was unmistakable; a star! Not a pentagram, It had six radiant points—two triangles imposed upon each other; one upright, the other downward. The five soldiers all stepped back nervously. The soldier’s heart raced. He hadn’t seen it coming. None of them had.
Rainy looked from face to face, "Neither did I" she said.
"A sixth sword had appeared to complete the star," she said softly. "It wasn’t any of theirs. It wasn’t old or worn. It was perfect—gleaming, strong, and full of light. And by being part of the symbol, it made all of their swords flawless as well. The soldier suddenly understood.
Rainy paused, looking again at each child in turn. Their eyes were wide, their breaths shallow as they waited for her to go on.
"The soldier felt his heart fill with joy, so much that he thought it might burst. He had come searching for peace, but what he found was far greater than anything he’d imagined. He found hope. He found the promise of a new beginning." The symbol wasn’t just a sign of unity. It was a message. The heir they had been waiting for—the one who would bring peace—had returned while they were unaware.
Rainy leaned back, letting the morning fire warm her face. "When I woke up," she said, her voice quiet, "I realized something. That soldier wasn’t just someone in a dream. He was me; it was me that didn't see it coming! And he’s you, too. We all carry swords—sometimes they’re small, battered, and rusty. But everyone of you have a sword right now that gives you the ability to see what is right. When we bring them together, when we trust in something greater than ourselves, even the weakest blade can shine like the stars.
"So remember, little ones," she finished, her smile soft but strong, "when the world feels dark, when you feel too small or too broken—there’s always hope. There’s always a greater plan, even if you can’t see it yet. Just like the soldier, you might be surprised by the ending."
The children sat in silence, the story sinking into their hearts. Rainy pulled the shawl tighter around her and gazed into the fire. Somewhere, deep within, she hoped her story had planted a seed of faith, one that would grow as bright as the swords in her dream.
Rainy looked around the circle, a mischievous glint sparking in her eyes as she surveyed the wide-eyed group of children sitting around her. For a moment, silence hung in the air, the kind that only comes after a tale that has everyone holding their breath. Then, with a sudden and dramatic gasp, Rainy leaped to her feet, sending her long braid swinging over her shoulder.
"You know what? I think it’s time to wake up those sleepy legs of yours! Who’s ready for the Wriggle?"
The children giggled, unsure but intrigued.
Rainy bent low, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It’s a very secret game passed down through generations of master storytellers. But shhh—don’t tell anyone, or the Wriggle Bird might come for us!"
She straightened up with exaggerated drama and began to demonstrate the rules: arms flapping like a bird, feet hopping side-to-side, and a silly wiggle of her head that made her braid swing wildly. "Now, the trick is to copy me exactly! And don’t forget the most important rule…" She paused, building suspense, before grinning wide. "You have to make the silliest face you can while doing it!"
The children burst into laughter as they scrambled to their feet, their giggles filling the air as they tried to outdo each other in their wiggling, wagging, and face-pulling antics. Rainy joined in wholeheartedly, her laughter mingling with theirs as she hopped, wiggled, and twirled around the circle.
For a moment, the weight of the world fell away, replaced by nothing but sheer joy, silliness, and the echo of unbridled laughter. But, beyond the little circle, the whispers had once more begun.