Rowan was jarred awake by the collapse of his cot, its crude joints broken by his ceaseless tossing and turning. The strange orb was still clutched in his hands, like a stuffed animal. He held it up to his face to feel its radiating warmth, that comforted him despite the pain. It almost seemed to glow; he knew it could not glow, as others told him that it did no such thing, but he enjoyed the notion that this was an experience to which he held the only privilege. And with nobody else in the barber-surgeon's tent for now, he had nobody to which he could boast about it, either.
He ruminated upon the dream - no, the vision - that had stirred him so, and interrogated the sights he'd just witnessed. The emptiness of a black void, until a beam of pure white light projected a sphere into existence. At first, a formless blob. Then, a plume of flame, spreading outward until it enveloped the entire thing, giving it shape. It had seemed to change colors for a while, blue, to green, to red, then finally to grey as it clouded over. Once the clouds had subsided, it became a misty blue again, with complex forms and masses dotting its surface.
And then, once the changes had ceased, he had heard - sensed - that someone was speaking. That should satisfy them. A normal planet. MY normal planet. This could only have been birth of a world, and the voice of its creator.
He gazed upon the orb in his hand as he pondered the vision. Planet. A word that he had not considered before. Before, it was naught but a stone to him; albeit, a stone that he believed had personal meaning to him. He'd polished it to a mirror shine, began to carry it in his pocket. Nobody else thought it was anything more than a plain rock. But now, he realized, this was a symbol. His holy symbol. The holiest of symbols. This was an icon of creation. This represented the very planet they all lived upon. Greater than city, than nation, than continent or sea. It represented allness.
He got to his feet from the wreckage of the cot, as painful and awkward as that was with his splinted leg, and searched the tent for a satchel, or something in which he could keep his planet. He settled upon a long, thick, somewhat gnarled tree branch, evidently brought here to fashion into a walking stick or crutch. With a few leather straps borrowed from the barber-surgeon's supply bag, he lashed the planet to the top of the branch, as tightly as he could, making sure that its surface was still at least partially visible - lest he be unable to bask, exclusively, in its divine glow. With one of the little thin blades out of the same bag, he took to whittling down some of the pointier branches, then took to wrapping more strips of leather around its haft to serve as a grip.
To his amazement, his new "creation" supported his weight just fine, all the better while his leg healed. Whoever had chosen this tree branch in particular, had done a fine job of it. He admired his stick for a moment. No, 'tis no mere stick, he pondered. With the Planet Itself perched upon this spire, it has elevated the entire thing above lowly stickhood. This... this is a tower. And all the more glorious for the planet at its pinnacle.
Rowan glanced about the barber-surgeon's tent, once again. There was not a soul around. It was still early in the morning. He became overwhelmed by the urge to proselytize what he had Seen, what he had Felt and Discovered. If this damnable tent contains no souls but mine, then I shall just need seek them out. With a steady limp, he made his exit from the tent, ready to spread his newfound Word.
