From the Journal of Elion Karsis
On a Christian Who Does Not Ask God to Explain Himself
I have made a friend, though neither of us would use that word.
His name is Isembard Vale—though he was born Eric, a name he no longer answers to except in memory. He is tall and spare, with the look of a man shaped by routes rather than places. His dark hair is kept short out of necessity, his beard practical rather than styled. His blue eyes are the unsettling kind—always alert, always measuring, never resting on surfaces. He dresses to disappear: layered dark leathers, a weathered cloak, boots worn down by travel rather than age. His sword is unadorned, immaculate, and carried with the confidence of someone who has never needed to threaten with it.
He is a Christian.
This matters—not because he preaches, but because he does not.
Isembard does not speak of God unless pressed, and even then only in fragments. He does not argue theology. He does not claim revelation. He does not tell the Night it is temporary. He carries belief the way others carry scars: quietly, without display, and without asking anyone to admire it.
Where priests explain suffering, Isembard acts around it.
He believes laws fail first, institutions second, and people last. His sense of justice is internal, earned through repetition rather than doctrine. He prioritizes individuals over outcomes, knowing too well how often “necessary losses” are simply renamed murders. He does not forgive systems easily. When he gives loyalty, it is absolute—but never blind. He watches even those he protects.
In battle, restraint leaves him entirely. What remains is efficiency—clean, final, without cruelty or performance. He does not enjoy violence, but he does not hesitate when it is required. Threats end where he stands.
He told me once why he still believes.
“My family was erased for refusing to turn law into theater,” he said. “If God abandoned the world after that, then He is still closer to justice than the people who replaced Him.”
That answer disturbed me.
He does not believe God intervenes anymore. He believes God withdrew—not in failure, but in refusal. Refusal to sanctify spectacle. Refusal to validate cruelty disguised as order. In Isembard’s mind, faith is not obedience to authority; it is refusal to become like it.
He escorts refugees. Protects Lamplight transports. Walks forgotten routes and stands where the system thins. He does not seek victory. He seeks continuation. One village at a time. One caravan at a time. One life that does not need to become an example.
He has never asked me what I believe.
That, more than anything, is why I trust him.
I have argued with priests, scholars, and kings. All of them needed me to agree or resist so they could define themselves against me. Isembard does not require opposition. He requires only that I stand where I say I will.
If gods exist, I doubt they favor philosophers.
But I think they might still recognize men like him—
not because he speaks for them,
but because he continues to act
as if justice remains possible
without permission.