The Frigid Guardian
Rethiar spent days drifting in and out of consciousness. When he was awake, all he could think about was the pain that constantly surged through his body. His dreams were no sanctuary; they were filled with tortured visions of his assailant. Often he would wake up to find himself alone in the cave, wishing that he was not in such a weakened state. Even if he did have the strength to leave, his surroundings were entirely unfamiliar. He could only wait and hope that the terrifying woman who had captured him would return.
Fortunately, she always did with an armful of wood for her fire or a fresh kill to feed him. She never bothered asking for his name and simply continued to address him as “kirida.” Her words were few and blunt, almost always in the form a stern command like “eat, kirida.”All of his attempts to communicate with her were met with an icy glare and silence. After cooking his share of meat and tending to his wounds, she would retreat to the other corner of the cave and meditate. Rethiar quickly learned that she did not like to be disturbed at this point; his first attempt to get her attention earned him a solid smack to the head. As much as he wanted to beg for mercy or demand freedom, he did not dare to speak a word in her presence.
The days passed by in a feverish blur as Primalist Gorn slowly nursed him back to health. She often forced him to stand up and walk, presumably to gauge his progress. It was clear that she had little tolerance for his complaints and excuses; if he refused to participate in the daily exercise, she would pick him up and set him on his feet. Each day he found that he could walk for a little bit longer before collapsing in pain.
For a time, he almost enjoyed the peace and quiet of the secluded cave. The courts of Kellith, although lavish and comfortable, had become less tolerable as the other magistri grew more arrogant. There was a certain charm in this woman’s stoic demeanor that he had not found anywhere in the capital city, a sense of purpose and inner strength that would be snuffed out by the Royal Quarter’s decadence. He would have much preferred to have his bed and afternoon tea, but the simple silence of this place spoke to him in a way that nothing else ever had.
Every day he wondered if this savage woman would kill him and take his head as a trophy, but she continued to stoke the fire and bring him sustenance without saying a word. As he began to recover his strength, Gorn treated him with less tenderness. Eventually she had him cook his own food and tend to the fire as she left for longer periods of time. Sometimes she would be gone for entire nights only to come back in the morning with empty hands and dried blood caked on her skin. Rethiar knew better than to ask, but he could tell from the blank look on her face that whatever she saw outside the cave troubled her.
In time she began to drastically accelerate his rehabilitation. Before long, she stopped accepting agonizing pain as a valid reason to end their daily exercises. Rethiar noticed that there was a sense of urgency in all of her actions: the wood was thrown carelessly on the ground and she fidgeted during her quiet meditation. He failed to reason out why she was in such a hurry. After all, it did not seem that anything could possibly shake this beast’s resolve. He could not make any sense of her behavior until he considered the unthinkable: she was panicking. When she came back one evening battered and bruised, he realized what was troubling her. Something was coming, something that she did not want to be around for.
On the following morning, Rethiar woke early. Looking at the other end of the cave, he could see Gorn’s figure huddled in the corner. This was the first time he had ever seen the woman sleep. She was breathing heavily, a slight whimper occasionally escaping from her lips. Multiple cuts flecked with chunks of frost covered every surface on her body. Looking down at his keeper, he felt something other than anger or fear; he felt concerned for her.
Caught in a surge of compassion, he swallowed his fear and tapped her. She immediately snapped awake, lashing out like a viper to grab his wrist in a tight grip. When Gorn looked up at the magister with the same cold, gray eyes, he knew that he had only a few seconds to explain himself before receiving her wrath. Barely able to utter a word, he squeaked, “I am ready.”
He closed his eyes and flinched, expecting to at least get a light blow to the shoulder for rousing her from sleep. When he did not receive the beating he expected, he found that she had merely stood up. Looking down at him, she surprisingly used words instead of fists. “Good. Take care, kirida.”
Without hesitation, Gorn turned away from him and walked towards the mouth of the cave. Rethiar was completely stunned by her reaction; he did not realize that she was leaving until she was already out of sight. He tried his best to chase after her as he hobbled through the cave like a lunatic. When he peeked his head outside, he was blinded by a glimpse of light that wrestled its way through the thick blanket of clouds above. After staying in the cave for so long, the barren landscape that surrounded him seemed surreal.
It was not until he came to his senses that he spotted Gorn’s figure moving further away. He stumbled after her, desperately attempting to catch up and get her attention. He soon realized that his efforts were in vain. In his current condition, he could not hope to reach her. With no other option, he called out to her. “Wait! Please don’t leave me!”
She stopped suddenly and walked back to Rethiar. To his surprise, she once again did not strike him for speaking out. “I must go,” she said sternly. “I cannot stay here for any longer. I owe you nothing. It is now your choice to live or die.”
“Please,” he begged, “I have no idea where I am, and I cannot get back to Kellith by myself. I will die out here alone!”
Before he could even see her raised hand, he felt the sting on his cheek as she slapped him soundly. “Enough,” she said. “I told you that I owe you nothing. The weak do not survive for long in the wastelands. It is your life to live, go back to your people. You do not belong here.”
At the mention of Kellith, Rethiar’s resolve shattered and he broke into tears. “There is no home that I can return to,” he sobbed. “There, I am only a finely-dressed slave. Not a single soul has shown me the kindness that you have. Why did you save me?”
“I did not save you,” Gorn said, “you saved yourself. I saw Omor attack you. Your heart knows what you did even if your mind does not. I dragged you away because I will not leave a child of the land to die. I could smell your blood on the wind.”
“What are you talking about?” he desperately asked.
Gorn sharply turned and looked off into the distance. “Enough questions, kirida, I tire of them. There is something I must do.”
He reached out and grabbed her wrist. “Can I come with you?”
Though she made no motion to turn around again, she was clearly surprised by his request. There she stood, a bulky figure silhouetted against the flat wasteland. She thought deeply before muttering her response.
“Fine, so long as you do not slow me down.” She pulled her hand from Rethiar’s grip and resumed her walking.
Rethiar’s eyes lit up with joy as he realized that he would not be left to die. It was difficult for him to keep her pace and stifle his complaints, but he tried his best to say silent. Slowly but surely, the pair made their way through the emptiness.
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After a few hours of walking, Rethiar’s patience began to falter. “Where are we even going?” he asked. “How long is it going to take to get there? There is nothing out here in this desolate hellhole. This whole trip was a huge mistake, I should have stayed in bed that day…”
Gorn interrupted him without a trace of compassion in her voice. “I grow weary of your questions! The land will not simply yield its wisdom. You must reach out with your eyes and ears. Only then will you learn that nothing is free out here. You will earn your keep now that you are well. Bring us dinner.”
“Me…go get food?” Rethiar asked. “I rarely set foot out of the Royal District, let alone the savage wilderness. I would not know how to use a weapon even if I had one!”
“Would you starve?” Gorn said. Pointing away, she added, “There are some wild rabbits not far from here. Two of them should be enough. I will start a fire while you are gone.”
Cursing under his breath, Rethiar admitted defeat and trudged away. This was completely ridiculous to him; how could she expect a refined noble to go out and kill a wild animal with his bare hands? He considered wandering for a while and returning to her empty-handed, but the thought of angering her enough to be left behind was motivation to keep him going.
Lost in thought, he only snapped back into reality when he heard the dying cry of an animal. Three adult wolves were crowded around the corpse of a fox, goring it viciously and tearing at its flesh. They fought amongst each other for their share of the meager meal. The smell from their recent kill and the fear that welled inside him were not a pleasant combination; Rethiar gagged as he watched. Immediately after he made a sound, the wolves stopped what they were doing and pointed their heads in his direction.
His mind raced faster as they began approaching cautiously. Blood dripped from their maws and dirt clung to the fur that covered their lithe bodies. They all stared at him with gleaming eyes that were glad to find a more substantial meal. They split off to circle around him, effectively choking off any chance of escape. He almost thought to say a prayer to the Emperors, but he knew that they were not going to help him now if they had never helped him before. Reflexively, he reached into the inner pocket of his robe and drew out his flask of water.
The wolves stopped circling and looked at him, almost as if they were confused. Rethiar could not help but notice the absurdity of the situation. These deadly hunters had cornered their prey, and it takes out a little bit of crystal to defend itself. They were only momentarily distracted before they bared their fangs and poised to attack. The largest one among them tensed his legs and then leaped.
What happened next passed through Rethiar’s mind in a flash. He was so drunk on adrenaline that he felt removed from his body. Since his rational thought had fled in fear, his limbs acted on instinct alone. His hand darted to the flask and removed its cork. The water rushed out of it with tremendous pressure and shot at his attacker like a geyser. Before it impacted with the wolf, it abruptly stopped mid-air to form a square shape. As the wolf’s slavering jaws approached it, the animal did not pass through. The wolf’s head collided against the barrier and it dropped to the ground. With their leader stunned, the other two wolves charged from behind. With a flick of his wrist, the water dissolved from its shape as he turned to face his assailants. The water flung around with him, stretching out into a thick rope as it rotated. The end of it struck the first wolf’s legs with a loud cracking sound and then shattered into a fine mist. Before the wolf had even fallen, the watery whip reformed and continued on its path to connect with the other.
Rethiar swiveled back to return his attention to the first wolf. It had recovered from its fall and was rearing up to charge at him again. He clenched his hand into a fist and the water reformed into a globe, still rotating around him to intercept the attack. The sphere latched onto the wolf’s face, completely surrounding its mouth. Yelping in surprise, it flailed around trying to free itself. It collapsed on the ground and pawed at the water in a desperate attempt at survival, but it ultimately failed and ceased to move. Its companions had recovered, although they were limping where they had been struck. They eyed the watery sphere as it detached from their leader, stretched itself into thin stream, and funneled back into the flask in Rethiar’s hand. They snarled and growled before retreating into the distance.
Unsure of whether or not he had been successful, Rethiar slowly approached the defeated beast. It was motionless on the cold ground with its eyes wide open. Taking a moment to fully comprehend what had just happened, he stashed away the flask and slowly bent down to pick it up. Its body felt warm to the touch and heavy in his arms. Something wanted to kill him and he killed it instead. The idea that he would be defending his own life had never occurred in his pampered mind: this was for the soldiers on the frontline, not him. Dragging his feet, he slowly made his way back to Gorn.
He was still in a stupor when he reached her. He dropped the carcass, sat down and stared blankly into the fire she had prepared. Gorn grunted before reaching over and grabbing it to begin preparing their meal.
“A clean kill,” she commented. “Save the fur for yourself. It will only grow colder as we continue north.” After a brief pause, her firm tone faded to give way to concern. “No words from you?”
Overwhelmed by what had happened, he only managed to whisper, “I…I killed it. Myself. I ended its life. I had no control…the water…I could feel it…”
Gorn reached over and punched him in the shoulder hard enough to knock him out of his shocked state. “Get used to it, kirida,” she told him. “If you are not ruthless out here, you will be next. You have learned nothing of the world.”
She paused for a minute before speaking again; her forehead was wrinkled in deep thought as she struggled to form her words. “Your name, kirida, what is it?”
“Rethiar….Rethiar Lorrollien,” he answered. “I was a magister in Kellith, our capital city. But I suppose that doesn’t matter anymore. I am nobody.”
“Kirida, it means ‘little one’ in the old tongue,” she said after an amused grunt. “I will remember your name, Rethiar of Kellith. You have earned your keep, so I will allow one of your questions.”
Rethiar thought for a second before he asked, “What happened to the man who attacked me?”
“His name…was Omor,” Gorn answered. She broke his eye contact to stare at the fire. He had trouble believing it, but he saw shame on her face.
“Was? You mean I…I killed him?” Rethiar looked down at his hands as he failed to keep them from trembling.
“He was a champion of Thildon’s clan,” she said, “the children of flame. He was one of the worst among them: foolish, short-tempered, and aggressive. He left his home to prove his strength. He would have killed you. Do not regret what you did.”
“How can you say that?” Rethiar screamed. His whole body shook as much from shock as anger. “My whole life is crumbling around me! I was supposed to rise in the court, get rich, partake in the finer parts of society. Instead I am out here in the wilderness with another man’s blood on my hands. You were born into this, how can you expect me to just smile and accept it?”
Gorn stood up, walked over to him, and grabbed a fistful of his hair. She forced his head upward to look at her torso. Even through the tears welling up in his eyes, he noticed that the lines of her tattoos were sloppy and jagged in several places.
“Look,” she commanded. Her grip tightened and her voice lowered to a growl. “These are not the proud symbols of a tribe, they are the marks of an outcast. Every child of the land can see these and know that I do not belong. You weep for what you have lost, but I have never known kindness. Life is simple; eat or be eaten. Kneel to fate, or stand and fight it. The choice is yours.”
Rethiar was speechless; he could only hold his tongue as she released him looked back to the fire. “I will take the first watch,” she continued. “Rest, kirida. We have far to go.”
Reflections – Protectors
“There are those who would protect the mother who birthed them and the village that raised them, but people die and societies crumble. There are others who would protect the very land that sustains them, to fight its invaders until they lay to rest in its soil. These noble guardians are naïve in their own way; nothing, not even the ground we walk on, is eternal. As our memories slip away and the world returns to dust, is there anything worth protecting?”