Paul felt it going. Through him. His. His and the God's. Whose he was. He felt the tears on his face. He felt himself claimed, going, mist boiling through him, ravens rising to fly, the God in the Tree, in him, the moon above the clouds riding in and out, never lost, Rachel, the Summer Tree, the wood, the world, and oh, the God, the God. And then one last thing more before the dark.
Rain, rain, rain, rain, rain.
'There is a saying,' she whispered, 'a very old one: No man shall be Lord of the Summer tree who has not twice been born.'
"I just realized something. You're hating yourself for not being able to use your power in battle. You don't have a power of war, though, Paul. We should have realized that before. I'm that kind of power, or I was, until last night. You're something else."
He heard a truth, but the bitterness wouldn't leave him. "Wonderful," he snapped. "Makes me awfully useful, doesn't it?"
Paul Schafer, Lord of the Summer Tree.