Guardian

Two ancient souls meet where the wind remembers what men strive to forget

“What do you seek here, Harold… Harold, Commander of the Thracian hosts?”

“Harold, you sorrowful man, what do you seek here?”
The forest cried before Harold’s horde and stayed their advance.

“HAROLD!
YOU SORROWFUL MAN!
YOU BELOVED BROTHER!
YOU PIT OF WOE!”
The cry echoed through the trees.

Removing his steel helmet, gilded and ornate, Harold wiped the sweat from his burning brow with the back of his hand and released a long, weary breath.

“And yet I am the more weary, Harold…
Commander of the hosts of Thracia and Sonoria, of Mernor and the Isles of Elika, of Vern and Orion…”

From the shadowed wood emerged Ari’el, a sword hanging sheathed at his side.

A faint wind blew from the east, carrying the scent of salt and sea.

“I am tired, Harold,” Ari’el said, walking toward the gathered soldiers.

They stood for a while in silence—Ari’el’s gaze fixed upon Harold, and Harold’s eyes lowered to the muddy ground.

“Harold, fessa nur… such a multitude follows you, and yet you look down?”

Memories surged through Harold’s mind, tightening his face. But thanks to the discipline Ari’el had once taught him, he regained control swiftly, unclenching his jaw and steadying his breath.

Seeing the flicker of emotion his words had stirred, Ari’el immediately regretted them. His gaze turned to the weary men around them, and his voice softened.

“And you… exhausted company, sorrow and ruin, noble sons and brothers… and lovers…
Tell me—where are you going?”

Only the rustle of leaves and the distant song of birds answered him.

“Would you take even this refuge from me, you miserable, wretched man?!”

He watched Harold for a long while before asking quietly:
“Do you know how long I have wept, Harold?”

“Never have I met a whining fool like you in all the realms beneath my rule,” thought Harold bitterly.

“Harold… you are a man of the world, your mind as sharp as the edge of your Thracian blade.
You know before whom you stand in silence now.”

“There is nothing left to say,” Harold hissed through clenched teeth.

“You cannot even lift your head,” Ari’el replied, laughing—not from scorn, but from sorrow.

Harold’s vassal, riding on his right, leaned close, whispering that he was deceived, urging him to strike down this lone man and seize the Gardens beyond.

“But he does not know, Harold,” Ari’el said, still watching him.
“He does not know what you know, you hapless man.”

The vassal began to stir, motioning to the others to act.

“Tell your dog, Harold, to remove his hand from his sword—he does not know what he is doing.”

Harold kept his eyes fixed on the ground. He cared no more for his men than for a blade of grass on the southern plains of Orion. In truth, he despised them—for most had once served his father, whom he hated even more than himself.

Only two had ever inspired fear in him: his father, Memnon, and Ari’el. His father he had slain. But Ari’el still stood before him, defiant, unbowed—the shameless, accursed one.

Ari’el closed his eyes and lowered his head.

Then came strange sounds—broken voices, soft sobbing—from every direction. They were not of this world.

The noise grew louder, pressing in until it filled the air. The soldiers froze in terror. Only Harold stood unmoving.

The wind shifted again, now carrying the fragrance of the Gardens—that scent of peace and a life long lost.

It brought tears to Ari’el’s eyes, and foam to his lips.

Still with eyes closed, silencing the phantom cries, he spoke in a low, inexorable voice:

“Listen to me, Harold, son of Memnon—the Butcher of Thracia… and of Sonoria.
Hear me, you miserable soul who has come to the threshold of refuge, where even I find no rest.
Imagine it, Harold—no peace, no solace, not even here.
But you already know this… you genius of your own ruin.”

“Do you know SINCE WHEN I HAVE WEPT, Harold?!” Ari’el roared.

“Do you understand that I have shed more tears than there are grains of wheat in your kingdom, Harold, you wretched man?!"

"Do you comprehend the POWER of such a man, fessa nur?!”

“If you do, you will turn your men home.

Otherwise, I will awaken the sleeping spirits—only so they may witness MY WRATH, Harold!”

A chill swept down from the surrounding mountains. Ari’el opened his eyes and spoke again:

“I cannot die, Harold… but you already know that.
I cannot die, yet I have been dying for millennia. I wither, age upon age.”

“They have come—the shadowed ones in their cloaks, the coachmen of the other world.
They wait, all around you, Harold.
They need not fill their carriages today.”

Harold raised his tear-streaked face toward Ari’el.

“Look at yourself, man!
How many Jordic arrows have they pulled from your flesh?
How many bruises, how many broken bones?” Ari’el pressed on.

“And still, you are the greatest swordsman in your conquered shame.”

“Look at me, Harold.
I have no scars.
Such wounds, I have never licked!”

They stood in silence, eyes locked.

At last, Ari’el spoke softly:

“There is nothing in this world I would desire more than them, Harold—my brother…
Than her and him.”

He said it through tears, thinking of Tia and Eleyond, his son.

“But it will always remain only that—a desire.
You know this, Harold.”

“The gates of this realm are open to you, my beloved brother—
If you enter naked.
Otherwise, you shall not pass.”