Faith is Earned 1, page 7
“There it is.”
A few people still worked the fields. Tools glinting. Heads bowed. From a distance they looked like part of the land, like the crops had grown sleeves and boots.
Luke slowed his steps.
The fields narrowed as the road bent around the edge of the village. The light had shifted, afternoon swerving toward its final gold and the workers still in the furrows looked like dark smudges against the rows of crops. Backs hunched. Shoulders squared. Tools rising and falling in a quiet rhythm.
Herm picked up speed.
He jogged ahead before Luke could stop him, cutting across a strip of tilled earth toward a broad-shouldered man with a sun-darkened face and arms corded with work. The man glanced up with recognition.
Luke kept walking, just slow enough to watch it unfold.
First came the smile. Relief, even joy.
Then the narrowing of eyes.
Then the questioning.
Then the tension.
And finally, the frown. It didn’t look like confusion or worry, but something deeper. The crease of a man running numbers in his head and not liking the result.
Luke couldn’t hear what was said; he could barely hear the tones and Herm’s shrinking posture.
By the time he reached them, the words were clear.
“You’re saying he punched the man?”
“He wouldn’t stop. I told him to, and he—”
“You punched him?”
“H-he saved me—”
“Go wash up. Help your mother.”
Herm hesitated.
“Now.”
The boy turned and hurried off toward the village. The man watched him until he vanished past a worn fence post, then looked at Luke with a face carved from stone. Two others, men from the field, had come to stand beside him, saying nothing yet, but not drifting far.
“You the stranger?”
Luke simply nodded.
“We want to thank you for what you did. But do you understand what you’ve done?”
Luke opened his mouth.
“I said do you understand?”
“I stopped a man from beating your son.”
“That man paid him. For a job. A job he didn’t finish. A job he messed up because the horse he was supposed to tie down ran off.”
“So, you think that was worth—”
“Let me finish. Maybe you meant well, I’ll even give you that. But you didn’t stop a beating, you stopped a lesson. You cost us coin. And if that man comes back asking for restitution, if he claims harm or time lost or injury and asks the elders for it… we’ll have nothing come winter!”
The other two nodded faintly.
Luke folded his arms.
“You don’t get it, do you?”
“Try me.”
“You’re from a town, maybe even a city, by the look of that jerkin. Maybe you think you understand how things work in places like this. You don’t. In a village, every bit matters. Every slip costs something. And when the boy makes a mistake, we all pay for it. You get that?”
Luke didn’t speak, which made the man pop a vein on his forehead.
“I don’t think you do, so maybe you should—”
[Basic Oratory]
The words came all on their own, Luke’s intent just acting as guidance.
“You’re a father. Not just a farmer, not just a man trying to survive. A father and that ever comes first. And your son may have made a mistake, may have tied the wrong knot, may have let the horse run. But that didn’t mean he owed bruises for miles.”
The man’s mouth opened, but Luke raised his hand.
“I listened to you, now listen to me. Maybe you think it’s your right to allow another man to slap your child around. Maybe you think it’s the cost of living poor. But I think you know better. Because when the coin’s gone and the food’s thin and the frost comes, what do you really have, if not each other?”
No one interrupted this time and Luke used the moment to take a slow breath.
“You’re a [Farmer], same as your son. So be a proper one. You protect your fields, don’t you? Your fences, your animals, your kin. Don’t let someone from the outside beat your blood and call it justice.”
He stepped forward, just enough that the men had to decide whether to meet his eyes or drop them.
“And when someone helps, when someone you don’t know steps in and takes the risk that wasn’t theirs, what you do then tells me who you really are.”
The silence changed. More than just broken, quieter, like something had emptied out of it.
Luke felt his Skill reach its limit and end. He stopped speaking, not trusting his own words, not in this delicate situation. The man stared at him and the tension bled out of his arms, trickling out slowly, but enough to see. His face didn’t soften, but it sagged in weariness. The kind that comes from having no good answer left.
The other two looked away, one of them scratching at the edge of his chin.
Luke let the silence hold, having nothing else to add. Without the Skill behind him, anything more would just be noise.
The silence didn’t break so much as it folded in on itself.
The man, Herm’s father, rubbed his brow once, then turned to Luke. The one who had spoken. The one who’d listened.
“Thank you. And I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have shouted. It’s been a few rough months and my patience’s been walking on a thread. I try not to let the family see it, but…”
He let out a short, bitter sound. Somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.
The other two men looked down, then nodded, slow and sheepish.
“I’m Hector.”
He raised his hand to shake and Luke took it.
“Lu—Lucian. Pleasure to meet you.”
He shook the other two hands in turn. One was Brenn, the other, Jorah. Their grips were work-worn but clean, the kind of honest strength that left calluses.
“Don’t get many folks coming through who speak like that. That thing you said, about how I protect my fences more than my boy? That hurt. But I needed it.”
Luke gave a faint nod. He didn’t know what else to give.
“I hate to ask, but what’s your business in these parts? If you need a place for the night… well, after helping Herm, it’s the least we can offer.”
Luke could lie. Make something up, say he was a wandering [Trader] or a [Scribe]. But something about the field-dust on their sleeves, the quiet shame on their faces… he didn’t want to lie to them.
“It was no trouble. Everyone’s got a temper, especially when times are hard. And I’m a [Votary].”
“A what?”
“A faith-Class. Think of me like an [Errant Priest]. No temple, no robes. Just the road and the work. It’s-”
That’s all he got out before Hector’s face lit up.
“You’re telling me… you’re a man of faith? Proper faith?”
“I… suppose so.”
“Then I’m asking you, please, stay the night. Just one night! Let me talk to the elders, to- to the [Village Head] in the morning.”
Luke didn’t get to answer.
“Our last [Priest] passed a few years back. Old age. Quiet and honest he was and no one’s come since. We’re too small for that kind of care.”
“My Class is about moving. Not staying in one place.”
A lie. Maybe. Luke internally cursed his God once more.
“I understand, I do. But, please, talk to the [Village Head]. Just once and you don’t need to stay. Just hear what he has to say.”
Luke still didn’t answer.
“If that man comes back… asking for coin or worse… you might be the only one who can speak against it. Who’ll be listened to.”
Luke closed his eyes a moment. Thought about the slap of flesh, the boy flinching. The cold stare of fear wrapped in duty.
“I’ll stay the night.”
“Thank you! Oh, thank you [Votary] Lucian. Come on, we’ll get you to my home. My wife’ll have supper ready.”
Hector turned and led him down the road, through the first quiet arch of Farrowend’s entrance. Fields behind them, smoke ahead.
Luke walked, slow steps beside the man, his voice silent now, his heart turning the thought over like a stone in a river.
I suppose preaching faith implies having someone to preach it to, at least.
Chapter 7
Luke woke to the smell of bread and a sky already warmed by sunlight.
No System message this time. No divine pronouncement or whispered visions. Just the slow creak of old wood above him and the soft rustle of village life outside.
He blinked, stretched and sat up on the straw-stuffed cot tucked into the corner of a small, quiet room. The ceiling beams above him were smoke-stained and the walls carried the earthy scent of packed clay. A single shelf held a few clay jars and the blanket over his legs was rough-spun, but clean.
The house wasn’t large, just four rooms, he guessed, but it was honest, nothing hidden. Everything worn in the way of things used for years without apology. Last night had been the same.
Hector’s wife, Mara, had met them at the door. She was wiry and quick, with dark eyes and calloused hands that never seemed to stop moving. She didn’t ask questions. Just gave him a seat and served supper, a stew of lentils and greens, with thick slices of rye bread on the side and a wedge of hard cheese that tasted better than it looked. The meal had been quiet but warm. Herm had barely spoken, but the girl, Mera, the sister, had offered Luke a dozen questions before her mother shushed her.
Afterward, they’d given him their bedroom, while they slept in the kitchen. No door, just a curtain drawn across the frame. Luke tried to protest, but he was oh-so-politely shut down. And… that was that. No ceremony, no fuss, just welcome.
Now, morning.
He rose, dressed and stepped out into the main room to find Hector seated at the small table, slicing a block of cheese with a dull knife.
“Morning, Lucian. Hope the cot wasn’t too rough.”
“It was perfect.”
There were only two slices of bread on the table and a single earthen mug of water between them. No eggs, no meat, no jam. Just bread and cheese, but it filled the stomach and that was enough.
“Herm’s already out in the field. Took the hoe and a full canteen. He’ll be with the others clearing stubble.”
“Your wife?”
“Helping Mera patch some old smocks. She’s been outgrowing everything this month.”
They ate in companionable silence.
When the last of the cheese was gone, Hector stood, brushing crumbs from his hands.
“Time to see the [Village Head]. He’s expecting us.”
Luke followed him out onto the road.
It was the first time he’d seen Farrowend in full daylight and it looked exactly as it smelled, like tilled earth and smoke and old wood baking under sun. The houses were mostly mud and thatch, their walls pale and patchy.
A few had stone foundations, but most sat directly on hardened dirt. Straw roofs sloped low, weighed down with stones or lashed with rope, while the windows were cut squares with wooden shutters, no glass in sight.
There was no real road, just a path where feet had worn the earth flatter than the rest. It bent and curved around houses like water, veering wherever someone had built too close or too far from the center. Chickens roamed freely between doorways. Smoke rose from chimneys made of stacked stone, and the air carried the scent of livestock and bread.
They passed a small well, one of a few Luke had glimpsed and a fence made of bent wood slats half-swallowed by grass. Children darted past them, barefoot and loud, chasing a dog around.
Luke took it all in quietly. It was the kind of village that grew like moss, slow, natural, shaped by use rather than design. It felt lived-in, scarred, but most of all real.
The [Village Head]’s house wasn’t much different than the others. A little larger, with a short stone foundation and a better-kept roof. The door was painted blue, flaked and faded.
Hector walked up to it and knocked once before pushing it open.
“He’s home. Let’s go inside.”
The door creaked shut behind them as they stepped inside.
The [Village Head] was already seated at the kitchen table. He didn’t rise when they entered, but his posture straightened and his gaze turned toward Luke, calm but curious, with a warm look in his eyes.
“[Votary] Lucian.”
Luke paused.
The man’s face was lean, weathered. It wasn’t old exactly, but thinned by long years in a hard place. His hair was greying at the temples and tied back with a leather band. The hands resting on the table were steady, fingers clasped without force.
“I’m Aldwyn. [Village Head] of Farrowend. I know your name and you’ll forgive me if I don’t ask what your Class does. Hector’s been kind enough to tell me.”
Luke glanced toward Hector, who shrugged faintly.
“He was worried you might leave, thought I ought to know what kind of man you are.”
“And what kind is that?”
“We’ll see.”
He gestured to the chair across from him. Luke took it.
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Aldwyn poured a small measure of water from a clay jug into a pair of wooden cups and slid one across the table.
“Tell me. How do you feel? About Farrowend. About what you’ve seen.”
Luke let his hands settle on the table. He didn’t drink.
“It’s quiet. Honest… Scarred.”
“That’s a fair answer.”
“You’ve seen worse?”
“I’ve lived worse.”
Aldwyn looked past Luke, as if searching for something that no longer lived in the house.
“And your road? Where’s it taken you?”
“Many places. Enough to know that roads don’t always lead upward.”
Aldwyn’s eyes didn’t press, but they didn’t drift either.
“I take it your Class didn’t come from a Cathedral.”
“No.”
“But faith brought it?”
“Something like that.”
Hector, standing to the side, spoke up.
“Whatever he faced, he walked away. The Class saw him through.”
Luke didn’t argue. Let them believe that if it helped.
Aldwyn leaned back in his chair and his voice changed. Less curious, more practiced, worn like an old cloak.
“Our old [Priest] died four winters ago. Kind man. Old bones, but a sharp mind. He never called himself important, but he was and served as our mouth and memory, in a way. Kept us tied to the world beyond these fields.”
“He could heal?”
“Some. More than that, he knew people. [Traders], [Merchants], a few wandering [Scribes]. Knew how to get us fair weight on the scales or at least enough not to be cheated blind.”
“He negotiated for you?”
“He begged for us. With bandits, even. Once even got them to only take a few pigs. Managed to make himself pitiful enough that they said we had enough mouths to feed.”
Luke winced.
“Is your village really that low on the ladder?”
“Low enough that a travelling [Trader] can ask double and we say thank you. Low enough that a [Merchant] can ask for more than coin.”
Luke didn’t need to ask what that meant.
“I’m sorry. But I’m not a [Priest]. My Class isn’t built for sermons or sacraments. It’s… something else. More about vows and setting things right.”
“Then what greater vow is there than lifting people from the dirt?”
Aldwyn’s voice didn’t rise, but there was heat behind it.
Not accusation or anger, just pure need.
“We live quietly. We break our backs and thank the frost if it doesn’t kill us. But that’s not the injustice. The injustice is that we bow our heads every time someone stronger walks through our village. The injustice is that we teach our children not to speak up when they’re wronged. That our lives look like our fathers’ lives and theirs before them. That we have no say in what changes. You saw part of that, didn’t you? And you felt the need to right that wrong.”
Luke opened his mouth. Then closed it again.
“Is this life not a wrong worth setting right?”
Luke couldn’t answer.
His mind churned. It sounded noble, it was noble, but he hadn’t come here to start a crusade. He’d come here because he fell from the sky, because a nameless God gave him a second chance, because—
The knock on the door came like a stone skipping across still water.
All three turned.
Hector stepped forward and opened it.
Luke didn’t see the visitor yet. But something about the shift in Hector’s posture told him all he needed to know.
Hector moved first. One hand still on the doorframe, his body shifting just enough to give Luke a clearer view of one of the men from the fields, Brenn, as he stepped into the house.
"Aldwyn! The- the [Lutist] from yesterday. He’s here, asking for you."
The [Village Head] stood at once. His face, calm a moment ago, turned tight with concern.
He didn’t ask questions. He just moved.
Luke followed him out the door, Hector close behind.
The [Lutist] waited ten paces from the house, his stance theatrical and sour. His clothes were even finer now, green trim, gold buttons, a short cape draped over one shoulder like he thought himself a duke on tour. But his jaw was purpling quite nicely and his nose, still red and a little swollen, flared wide as he spotted Luke.
Plays the lute, but can’t afford a Healing Potion?
He had two men flanking him. They didn’t look like [Guards] or at least Luke didn't think they were. Clubs in hand, with only leather caps strapped on like a costume, no uniform in sight. No armor and no discipline either.
[Thugs]
Or maybe just bored [Laborers] paid a few coins to stand and look mean.
The [Lutist]’s gaze scanned the three of them, skipped Aldwyn, lingered on Hector and locked hard on Luke.
"That’s him! That’s the [Priest] who assaulted me! Arrest him!"
