Chapter 185: Request

**Chapter 185: The Plea**

The harp music echoed, lonely and hollow, through the valley all night, until finally, with a sharp snap, a string tore apart.

Percy jolted as if waking from a trance.

His eyes fell to the harp in his hands, studying it intently. Just as Elu let out a relieved sigh, thinking he would finally leave, Percy ignored the broken string and continued playing.

With a deft adjustment, he bypassed the snapped string. The melody remained steady—a soothing, mellifluous tune. Yet the god perched in the treetops furrowed his brow tightly.

…No, something was deeply wrong with Percy.

The Elven King’s gaze remained lowered, and Elu could not see his expression. But the sleepless night, the relentless playing despite a broken string—it reminded him of a dark turning point in the tale.

The day before Percy was exiled.

The deity narrowed his eyes. The elf’s fingertips flushed pink, as if swollen. Though elves possessed extraordinary healing abilities, even they could not endure such intense, continuous playing. If Percy continued, his fingers might split and bleed.

Hesitating slightly, a leaf fluttered down from the Mother Tree, landing precisely between the harp’s strings.

—*Enough.* Stop playing.

Percy froze.

The gap between the harp strings was barely the width of a finger, yet the leaf had slipped in—no mere coincidence.

Percy looked up. A sliver of a moon hung high above the sacred tree, its liquid moonlight spilling through the branches. The gilded veins of the leaves glowed like haze in the night, while fireflies nestled among the boughs, flitting between the foliage.

For a moment, the Mother Tree bathed in moonlight seemed infinitely tender, as though the deity were gazing down at him.

Percy picked up the leaf.

Like the three before it, its veins were pale gold, its shape flawless—like a delicately wrought artifact.

He tucked it carefully into his sleeve. “Divine Mother?”

This was the second time he had received the deity’s attention.

Percy asked softly, “Are you watching me?”

A breeze stirred, rustling the leaves, but when it stilled, the valley returned to silence.

Tonight was Oracle’s Day, when the deity was meant to appear and instruct the Elven King on future matters. Yet though the Mother had sent down a leaf, she showed no sign of manifesting.

The smile on Percy’s face dissolved, then froze in place.

He plucked a string, but no sound came forth. After a pause, he voiced his suspicion: “Do you not wish me to play further… because the music is unpleasant?”

At the first half of the question, Elu nearly dropped another leaf—*Yes, please stop.* But the second half gave him pause.

It wasn’t unpleasant at all.

The Elven King had practiced this melody thousands upon thousands of times to become the finest harpist among his people. His playing was exquisite, and though Elu had witnessed centuries of elven music, heard hundreds of harpists, none surpassed Percy. If he wished, Elu would gladly have him play every sunlit afternoon, so the deity, tucked into his divine repose, might drift into dreams washed in gold.

But he could say none of this.

Percy sat beneath the tree, motionless. His breaths were shallow, his gaze fixed on the canopy. Deep within his emerald eyes flickered a hope so thin it was barely there—like the guttering glow of a dying candle. Then, slowly, that hope dimmed… dimmed… until it vanished entirely.

The Mother Tree fell silent once more.

It stood silently in the valley of Pine Mountain, soaked in moonlight like any ordinary tree, even the slight trembling of its branches had ceased.

—The god remained silent, as if tacitly agreeing.

Percy then put away his harp, mustering a perfectly poised smile: "I understand."

He understood the meaning of the leaves now.

Before, the god had ignored him because he had been by the book and unobtrusive, not particularly offensive. But now, it seemed he had misjudged—the leaves were not signs of favor but of rejection.

Thus, during the Festival, three leaves had come: one to shield his chest, one his back, and one his face. And today, displeased with his music, the god had covered his harp.

Elu at the treetop: "…?"

He knocked on the barrier, unsure what Percy had understood, but judging by the Elven King's expression, it was nothing good.

Watching Percy pick up his harp and turn to leave, looking utterly crestfallen—his emerald-green eyes downcast, even his platinum locks losing their luster—Elu stopped worrying about shedding leaves or hair. In a hurry, he scattered several leaves, all landing upon the Elven King.

—Here, divine essence, something I rarely give to others. Don’t be sad!

Percy froze.

A shower of leaves cascaded upon him, countless from the Mother Tree spiraling down from above, landing on his fingertips, the ends of his hair, his forehead. The leaves descended lightly, grazing his skin like whispers before settling, their gilded light shimmering in the night, like a swarm of golden fireflies burying him.

"…"

Percy’s certainty wavered slightly.

If this was rejection, would so many leaves be necessary?

Surely it couldn’t mean burying him so he’d be out of sight?

Percy lifted his harp and looked up. The leaves continued to descend tirelessly, as if alive, skimming past him. He raised a finger, and one landed on his hand, brushing his reddened fingertips. The leaf's downy fuzz brushed his skin, tingling and tickling like a series of tender kisses.

This didn’t seem like rejection.

Percy carefully gathered the leaves from the ground, sliding them into his sleeve. Then he retrieved those pinned in his hair, lodged in his harp, and finally plucked those caught in the folds of his clothes against his chest and back.

Elu: "."

This outfit's loose seams were already far from proper. As Percy knelt to collect the leaves, his shoulder blades and waistline became all the more exposed.

Elu averted his gaze.

To him, the leaves were like human hair—part of his own body. And now, part of his body was being carefully combed through by Percy’s slender fingers, then treasured and stored close to his person. It was… oddly flustered.

Meanwhile, Percy, having tidied up, slipped the leaves into his sleeve and ventured, "Mother Tree, do You have further instructions?"

His emerald-green eyes reflected the pale gold of the leaf veins, gleaming with uncharacteristic warmth. "Or… do You wish for me to play again?"

The deity’s intent seemed to be an invitation to linger.

Percy’s fingers traced the leaves, but his thoughts wandered elsewhere. He had read many books documenting the customs of the continent, and heard that street musicians often played in the streets. If passersby enjoyed it, they would drop copper or silver coins into the musician’s bowl, and in gratitude for their generosity, the musician would play another piece.

Percy couldn’t be sure if the Mother Tree meant the same, and if the leaves that fell upon him were like the generous praise of those passersby.

At this thought, he hesitated briefly.

—If today’s leaves were praise, then what of those that landed on his chest and back yesterday? Were those also praise?

Perched in the tree's crown, Eluvier propped his chin glumly.

He didn’t want Percy to play the harp—he thought Percy should rest.

The Festival, followed by the Day of Divine Decree, had kept everyone awake for two consecutive nights. Even someone as resilient as the Elven King couldn’t hide his exhaustion. Percy’s posture remained dignified, his face still beautiful, his attire still proper… well, mostly proper, but Eluvier could see that he was dead on his feet.

Perhaps it was the relentless pressure from the Council of Elders, or the endless gossip spreading among the elves, or the Withering creeping steadily from the edges of Pine Mountain toward the heart of the forest. The Elven King had been working nonstop for days, his eyes heavy with fatigue. In Eluvier’s opinion, he should go home immediately, bury himself in soft pillows, and pull the blankets over himself to sleep.

In the past, Eluvier might have even considered casting a "Slumbering Rune" on him, to knock him flat on his back.

But if he didn’t drop leaves, the elf would misunderstand again. After a moment of contemplation, Eluvier snapped his fingers.

One lone leaf fluttered down, swaying gently. When Percy saw it, he went still at first, then looked incredulous, until finally, a spark of joy kindled in his beautiful eyes.

This surely meant the deity enjoyed his playing—that he wanted him to play.

The Elven King watched the direction from which the leaf had come and reached out his hand—

The leaf brushed past his fingertips, caught an updraft, and then, swaying lightly, landed on the pointed roof of a building in the valley’s central complex.

It was… Percy’s own rooftop.

The Elven King: “…?”

His confusion was plain to see.

The deity was willing to listen to his music, but had tossed the leaf onto his roof?

From the treetop, the deity scratched his silver-white hair. “Was I unclear?”

Was his meaning not obvious? Stop playing and go to sleep!

Though he hadn’t fully grasped the deity’s intent, the fact that the deity was finally willing to communicate with him made Percy pause. He surreptitiously straightened his attire, a small smile playing at his lips. “Mother Tree, if you are willing to listen to my music… may I make a request?”

He weighed his words carefully. “At the next Festival… could you appear before us?”

Percy knelt once more at the base of the Mother Tree, his pure white robes spilling around him. The elf looked up at the towering tree, his beautiful eyes reflecting its verdant hues. Cradling his harp, he looked every bit the devout worshiper kneeling before a sacred statue.

In a hushed voice, Percy pleaded, “Whispers spread like wildfire among our people, and the elders in the Council have long been dissatisfied with me… Mother Tree, it’s not that I cling to this position, but the situation is critical. The Withering at the forest’s edge hasn’t receded—instead, it’s spreading toward the heart of Pine Mountain. I’ve sent many elves to deal with it, but with no success. If internal divisions worsen now, the situation will only grow more perilous. So… if you are listening, if you do not despise me… could you make even the briefest appearance at the next Festival?”

Before tonight, Percy had already resolved to step down. But there was no other elf fit to take his place—some were too young, others lacked the standing. If the Mother Tree would grant him one more chance, Percy could do better.

As he finished speaking, his fingers tightened imperceptibly on his robes, crumpling the delicate silk. Percy paid it no mind.

Two lifetimes—two entire lifetimes—and this was the first time he had the chance to speak with the Mother Tree.

The disdain from his past life had been real, but so were the leaves that had just fallen. Percy thought, perhaps… perhaps there was still a slim chance, the slimmest chance, that he could earn the deity’s favor and affection.

He didn’t need the same favor other Elven Kings had received. He didn’t need the deity to attend every Festival, nor did he need divine decrees every year. Just once—just once would be enough.

Every elf was born from the Mother Tree. Eluvier was the sole deity of the elven race, their father and mother, their beginning and end. The deity had walked with the elves for millennia—his name graced every page of their histories. The chronicles of Elu were the chronicles of the entire elven race. No elf could face his disdain with indifference, and Percy was no exception.

The elf beneath the tree gazed upward, his eyes alight with hope and trust under the moonlight. Meanwhile, high above in the branches, Eluvier let out a quiet sigh.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to—it was that he couldn’t.

At the next Festival, he still wouldn’t be able to appear in person.

Chin in hand, Eluvier mused, “…What if I craft a form to appear before him? Could that work?”