The mist curled through the pine-covered ridges like spirits of the fallen, and Elijah couldn't shake the feeling that the mountains remembered. They remembered the blood shed during the Spanish retreat, the whispering of old tribal wars, and the quiet oaths made by rebels in the shadows. He felt it in every footstep as he and his small party moved northward—toward the provinces untouched by American boots, but not by fear.
The mountain tribes had always been independent. Some saw themselves as guardians of their own domain, far removed from the revolutions of lowlanders. But Elijah knew if there was to be a future for the Philippines—one where the stars of the flag represented all its children—the mountains must not be left behind.
The group paused at a clearing beneath a canopy of mossy pine. Smoke curled in the distance: the signs of a mountain settlement. Elijah turned to his companions—Isa, ever watchful, and Eli-Ah, who seemed quieter than usual.
"We make contact carefully," Elijah said. "These people don't trust easily, and we won't get another chance if we're seen as outsiders."
Isa nodded, already adjusting the folds of her scarf to hide the more foreign parts of her gear. Eli-Ah, however, said nothing. Her eyes were focused, but there was something else in her gaze—distant, perhaps conflicted.
As they approached the settlement, a trio of men stepped from the trees. They wore tunics of rough fabric, adorned with tribal patterns, and carried long spears tipped with sharpened steel.
"Halt," said the tallest. His Ilocano accent was thick. "You carry weapons and strange clothes. Say who you are or turn back."
Elijah stepped forward slowly, arms raised in peace. "I am Elijah. I come not as a conqueror or a lowland warlord. I come as a son of this land, asking for unity."
The man narrowed his eyes. "We have no love for your revolution. The last lowlander who came through here brought sickness and left nothing but dead promises."
"I understand," Elijah replied gently. "But I don't come alone. I come with the will of our ancestors, the dream of freedom—and I bring truth. The Americans are coming. They will not care if you call yourself free. They will burn this forest just the same."
A long silence followed, until one of the elders emerged from a hut. Weathered and bent, she studied Elijah for a long time, then motioned for him to enter.
"You may speak," she said. "But only truth."
The Fire That Spreads
Hours passed as Elijah shared what he could—the betrayals of the Americans, the battle at Caloocan, the scattered resistance, and the dream of a new republic. The villagers listened with the silence of stone, but something in their eyes shifted. Perhaps it was the weight of their ancestors, or perhaps the fear of losing even this remote refuge.
When Elijah finished, the elder woman finally said, "We will send warriors to observe. If your words hold, we will answer your call."
It wasn't a full alliance—but it was a start.
Later that night, around the village fire, the group rested. The stars were cold and sharp in the night sky. Isa sat close to Elijah, sharpening her blade by the light. Her silence was thoughtful, her presence comforting.
"You spoke well," she finally said, without looking at him. "You have a way of reaching people."
"I only speak what I know to be true," he replied. Then, after a moment, "Do you think they'll join us?"
Isa's lips quirked upward. "They already have. They just don't know it yet."
Elijah smiled faintly. Her confidence had always been a balm against the burdens he carried. But before he could respond, Eli-Ah approached from the darkness, her boots quiet on the forest floor.
"May I sit?" she asked, her eyes flitting between the two of them.
Isa nodded slowly. Elijah shifted to make room.
Eli-Ah sat, and for a moment none of them spoke. Then she said quietly, "Do you remember the night before you left the base at Malolos?"
Elijah looked at her, surprised. "I do."
"You told me you had no time for anything but the mission. That the revolution came first."
He nodded slowly, unsure of where this was going.
"I believed you then," she said, voice barely audible. "But now I wonder if that was really true—or just what you thought you had to say."
Isa looked between them, her expression unreadable.
Elijah frowned. "Eli-Ah, what are you trying to say?"
"Nothing," she said quickly, but her voice caught. "Forget it. It's foolish. We should rest. Tomorrow will be harder."
She stood and walked back toward her tent. Elijah's eyes followed her, and a strange silence settled between him and Isa.
After a moment, Isa spoke again, her voice soft and careful. "She's known you a long time, hasn't she?"
Elijah nodded. "We fought together when this all began. She saved my life more than once."
Isa didn't press further, but her eyes lingered on the fire, thoughtful.
Seeds of Tomorrow
The next morning, the villagers offered them dried meat and sweet rice cakes wrapped in banana leaves. As they prepared to depart, several young warriors stepped forward, armed and ready.
"We will go with you," one said. "We will see what war you fight."
Elijah thanked them, shaking each hand in turn.
As they made their way back to the trails, Eli-Ah walked ahead, her pace brisk. Isa walked behind, quiet, occasionally glancing toward Elijah but saying little.
And Elijah—he felt the weight of two different gazes, two different paths, two different hearts. He hadn't come for this. But perhaps the past had brought more than memories. Perhaps it had brought the choices he never made.
The revolution was no longer just about victory—it was about who he would be when the war was over.