Patin's Lessons: A lil' bit of Trust

Posted on Thu Apr 2nd, 2026 @ 4:47pm by Commander Jenna Ramthorne & Patin

1,024 words; about a 5 minute read

Mission: Character Development
Location: Celestial Temple

Trust

The Temple changed again.

This time it did not press. It receded.

Space widened. Light softened. The geometry loosened its grip, as if relevance itself had stepped back half a pace. Patin noticed immediately. She always did when rooms stopped caring whether she was centered in them.

She folded her arms. “That’s new,” she said, slower this time, eyes narrowing as the space gave ground without asking her what she thought about it.

Trust requires distance.

Patin’s gaze sharpened. “Distance for who?” she asked, quiet, pointed.

The floor beneath Patin shifted, not away, just elsewhere. The familiar sense of orientation thinned, like a magnet losing its pull. She took one step forward out of habit and found the Temple had already decided that direction meant nothing.

She stopped walking. That annoyed her more than it should have. Normally the Temple responded to her presence. Adjusted. Bent slightly, the way reality did when it expected trouble. Now it behaved like a room that had already moved on.

She flexed her fingers. No reaction. “Yeah,” she muttered. “That figures.”

Trust requires distance.

“Distance I can do,” Patin said, though her voice carried a sharper edge. “The irrelevance is new.”

She started pacing anyway. The sound of her boots arrived late, each step echoing a half-second after it landed, like the Temple was deciding whether it needed to acknowledge her at all. That hurt more than judgment ever had.

Patin snorted. “That tracks.”

The Celestial Beings did not surround her this time. They remained present without enclosure, awareness without focus. It unsettled her more than judgment ever had.

If you trusted us, they asked, why does the ache persist?

There it was. Sharp. Structural. No poetry to hide behind. Patin’s mouth opened. Closed. She frowned at herself like she’d been caught without a tool she’d assumed was always there. “I don’t...” She stopped, jaw tightening. She tried again. “I miss them.”

The answer surprised even her with its simplicity. “I miss Nozzie,” she said. “I miss the sound of her breathing when she sleeps. I miss the way she’d argue like it was sport and then check on you afterward like it mattered.” Her throat worked. “I miss knowing when to step in and when to shut up.”

She shook her head. “That doesn’t feel philosophical enough for you, does it?”

Explain Trust.

Patin exhaled. Slowly. “Trust,” she said, “is the refusal to interfere even when you could.”

The Temple shifted, subtle but attentive.

“I had the power,” she continued. “I still do. I could reach back in. Smooth edges. Remove risks. Make things safer.” Her eyes hardened. “I didn’t.”

You accepted a vision.

“Let’s talk about that,” Patin said, heat creeping back into her voice. “You showed me one path. One clean, brutal line. My life for hers.” Her eyes narrowed, something sharper settling behind them. “I’ve seen what you leave out,” she said, voice tightening. “All the ways that choice breaks differently depending on who pays for it.”

“That wasn’t guidance,” she continued. “That was, at best, minimal effort.”

The Temple held steady. It was a choice.

“That wasn't a choice! You didn’t show me aftermath,” she went on. “You didn’t show me growth or fracture or how long the echo would last. You showed me the door and assumed, trusted, I’d walk through it.”

You did.

“Yes,” she said. “Because the choice was clear. But don’t dress that up as trust.”

She stepped forward, voice leveling. “The trust came after,” she said. “That part was mine.”

The Temple listened.

“I trusted Rhenora to live, not just survive, live. To make choices I wouldn’t agree with. To mess things up and fix them in her own way.” Her expression softened, just slightly.

“I trusted the child,” Patin said, softer now. “To become herself, whatever that means, Emissary, troublemaker, poet, pain in the ass. Her life isn’t a continuation of mine. It’s her own.” A pause. “I trusted the universe to keep going without me in it,” she added. “Without my shortcuts. Without my violence.”

This trust caused pain.

“Of course it did,” Patin said. “Trust always costs more than control.” She uncrossed her arms. Her hands trembled slightly before she steadied them. “You want to know why I still ache? Because trust doesn’t anesthetize loss. It just makes it meaningful.”

The Temple leaned, just a fraction.

“The most dangerous thing I gave up,” she said, “wasn’t my life. It was the belief that my presence was required.”

Silence settled in. Heavy. Thoughtful. Trust is withdrawal.

“Of a sort, yes,” Patin agreed. “It’s stepping out of the story and letting it continue unimproved.”

She stood still again, suddenly aware of how much of herself was built around response. Around being the last line between chaos and consequence. “Do you know what the worst part is?” she asked, not looking at them. “I don’t get feedback anymore. No confirmation. No course correction.”

That is the condition.

Patin nodded. “Yeah. I know.” Her voice dropped. “That’s why it hurts.” She drew a breath that felt unused to being necessary. “Trust means the story doesn’t need me watching it.”

She looked around then, really looked, at the Temple’s vast indifference dressed up as eternity. “You’re circling something,” she said. “I can feel it. This isn’t just a lesson.”

You perceive alignment.

“I perceive a setup,” Patin replied. “Same difference.” Her gaze hardened, something clicking into place behind her eyes. “And I’m starting to think I’m not standing outside it.”

Silence held fast.

Then, quieter: “Whatever you’re planning… don’t mistake my trust for compliance.”

The Temple did not reassure her. It did something far worse. It waited. And Patin, for the first time since stepping aside, felt the faintest tug of relevance returning, reshaped, redistributed, aimed somewhere she could not yet see.

TBC

 

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