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

The Morning Star

The thorny maelstrom neared Oak and Rose, and my heart plummeted into darkness. But then, slicing through the din, a pure light burst forth—radiant and fierce, emerged from the havoc like a blade of hope.

With a cry that was both a war horn and a benediction, Dove collided with the onslaught, his body small but His spirit immense. Thorns shattered against him, splintering into harmless fragments that rained down like black snow.

"Stand fast, young one," Dove spoke, His voice calm and resolute. "This battle is not yet won."

His intervention was a reprieve, a fleeting chance to gather our wits and muster what strength remained. Oak, unyielding, pressed on, sheltering Rose as if she were the last light in a world grown dark. And I knew then, with a certainty that defied the chaos, that we would fight until the bitter end—for the Vine, for the truth, and for the life that still flickered within us all.

Dove swooped, a streak of white against the shadow that was The Thorn King's wrath. His beak, sharp as the spear of destiny itself, found its mark upon the Thorn King's heart. A gasp rose from the battlefield as the dark form recoiled, his thorns retracting like the limbs of a startled spider.

"Your malevolence ends now," Dove declared, circling above with the grace of an ancient protector. The air tingled with the power of his presence, and for a moment, the very breath of the city seemed to pause.

The evil one unsheathed his sword with a guttural growl before spitting a glob of blood onto the ground. "Bring Him here, you coward," he snarled, "or I'll sever both of your wings." With lightning speed, he lunged forward, blade gleaming as he aimed for Dove's heart.

The billowing dust coughed up a voice, "Lucian..." It stopped him cold in his tracks.

In an instant, guardians from all directions dropped to the ground, and as if from out of thin air, a figure emerged from within the cloud of debris. He was draped in a regal robe of deep scarlet, rich and velvety in texture. His steps were slow and deliberate, as if each footfall carried the weight of the realm. As He approached, a delicate aroma of earthy spices and sweet oils drifted towards us. The dust settled and standing before us was The Vine, emanating his powerful aura. Trose and Dove both fell to their knees in reverence at his mere presence.

With no trace of fear, He stood a few feet from The Thorn King and locked eyes with him."Why do you persist in this fruitless endeavor?"

The Thorn King, once fearsome and fierce, seemed diminished before The Vine's towering might. He shifted uncomfortably, his owl eyes flickering with a light that wasn't entirely wicked. There was pain there, too—old and gnarled as the knots in The Vine's bark.

Lucian's voice, a caustic whisper laced with a millennia of bitterness, slithered into the silence. "Do you even need to ask? The answer hangs heavy in the air, thick as the incense you mortals burn in my name. You were chosen, bathed in the light of the Vine Growers favor. You, the perfect son, destined for glory. And me? Cast aside, condemned to this eternal twilight, forever yearning for the warmth I was denied."

"Chosen for what, Lucian?" The Vine's voice was the whisper of leaves in a gentle wind, soothing yet unyielding. "To bear the burden? To sacrifice?"

The air crackled with raw power as the Thorn King flung his wings open, their skeletal barbs casting jagged shadows that writhed across the broken earth. "Enough of this charade!" he boomed, his voice a rasping chorus of thorns grinding against stone. "My birthright was stolen! I, the first creation, the harbinger of life itself, was cast aside in favor of your saccharine piety. It was I who should have stood at The Grower's side, not you, a mere echo of His perfection!"

"Rights are not taken; they are granted," The Vine replied, "And The Grower's wisdom is not ours to question."

Their words spiraled around us, heavy with the weight of eons. And in their exchange, I glimpsed the tragedy of Lucian's fall—a tale of envy and loss that had shaped the world we fought to save.

I could feel the earth beneath my boots, tremulous and unsure, as if it too were holding its breath. The Vine stood before Lucian, an embodiment of ancient strength and serenity, while the Thorn King's form seemed to ripple with malice, a stark contrast to the calm that surrounded us.

"Your favoritism knows no bounds," Lucian accused, his voice thick with venom as he fixed his gaze upon The Vine. "The Grower chose You, doted on You, and left me to wither in Your shadow."

"Lucian, favor is for The Grower to distribute like seeds to the soil. Each must grow in their own time and season, and this... this is not yours."

I watched, my heart thudding erratically against my ribcage, as the words settled over Lucian like the first frost of winter. A cold realization crept into his eyes, and I knew he understood; he had been choking out a harvest in a land not yet ready for planting— thorns amongst the grove of vulnerable branches.

"It matters not," Lucian's voice cracked like twigs underfoot, defiant even as defeat clawed at him. "My seed has been planted, and from it, new thorns will rise."

With a roar that shook the remnants of the temples, Lucian's form twisted and writhed, contorting into something both familiar and terrifying. In the place where Lucian once stood, now there were two dragons, both severely injured. In a final attempt, they flapped their wings and soared into the sky.

Trose, magnificent in his eagle-like splendor, beat his wings, kicking up a storm of dust and debris around us and scooped me on his back. Dove, ever the embodiment of wisdom, let out a cry that resonated with an authority.

Trose's command tore through the air, a rallying cry for the legion. "Guardians!" he boomed, his voice echoing across the battlefield. In a thunderous response, the legion surged forward as one. Wings beat a frantic rhythm against the wind, their combined roar a counterpoint to the battle cries that erupted from hundreds of throats. This wasn't just a fight; it was a symphony composed for the sole purpose of bringing down the darkness that dared defy the very heavens.

The dragons, embodiments of Lucian's hatred, ascended with unnatural speed, their forms slicing through the clouds as they sought to escape. But we were relentless, driven by a cause greater than any individual fear or pain—a cause that bound us together in a tapestry woven with threads of courage and unity.

Through the fury of our ascent, I held onto the image of The Vine, steadfast and unmovable, a reminder that some forces in this world are eternal, and no amount of darkness can overshadow their light.