The Protector [Ongoing Fanfic]

Walter

Administrator
Staff member
Someone asked in the chat recently if there were any Berserk fanfics on the forum. There used to be quite a few! We even had a fanfic contest or two. Unfortunately, most vanished when one of the alternate "shootin' the breeze" forums was lost. But I dug through my files and found one that I'd written back in 2003. Looking at it almost 18 years later, I was impressed, but I knew it could be improved. So I threw out everything except the premise and setting and started writing it again, making it effectively a new story.

I figured I could try to entertain people here by posting a new chapter each week. It's more digestible that way, anyway. I'm still finishing it, but based on where I am in the story, I should be able to post the whole thing in one sequence over the course of 6 weeks. Enjoy!





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CHAPTER 1

A man rides alone down a deserted road. As the wounded sun fell before him, he lowers the hat over his brow. The head of his donkey dips as well, in pace with the setting of the sun, and he chides himself for pushing her too far today.

“There, there, lass,” he comforts his beast with his spare hand. “The village won’t be far along now. Just around that mountain ahead. We’ll soon have something warm in us to take this trek off our minds.”

Business along the road had been rotten. The dull clanging of his bell would normally draw the attention of all who heard it. They would crowd around him, eager to see what treasures his roving shop had brought. Today, his bell brought no one. He had foraged for food at mid-day but found nothing but empty forests and barren fields.

The new war had squeezed this once ripe land into a husk. After the burden of 100 years of fighting had lifted, the poorest folk in these territories had finally tasted peace. And then the Kushans arrived. Slicing through the continent, their armies spread like a sea of blood that no army could staunch. The sudden collapse in the heart of Midland sent shockwaves throughout the surrounding fiefs. Some heroic lords sent their men to aid in the crisis in Midland. Others were emboldened to seize territory in the chaos of the power vacuum. Until one by one, their grip on their fiefs was extinguished or disempowered. And with their dying breath, scattered their armies to the winds, along with their sworn oath to protect the lives of their subjects.

As the donkey ambled on, it came upon the remains of a crossroad sign, weathered and broken by time. He examined the horizon and continued on, fairly sure of his destination. A while later, the man saw a small stone protruding from the ground, of the kind used for marking mileposts or territorial boundaries. Something about the stone’s shape caught the man’s attention, and he drew his beast to a halt. He scrutinized the stone and its worn markings as their significance dawned on him. But a sharp voice cut into his investigation.

“Bring out your purses, boys! There’s a peddler in town,” the stranger bellowed, emerging from the wood, an axe lugged over his shoulder. Two more men approached from the other side of the road, similarly armed. “I don’t hear no bell. Aren’t we welcome to your wares?”

“I’ve not much left on me, and with the day shrinking, I’d prefer to be on my way—if it pleases you,” the peddler offered feebly.

“You’ll need our approval for that. We’ve been charged with protection duty by the lord of this land,” said the man with the ax. The tinker didn’t even have to consider the truth of this. He knew the lord and his successors were dead, along with any laws they upheld.

“You’re welcome to see what I have. I only ask fair trade, as any honest merchant would,” the peddler said, dismounting. He opened his saddlebags and pulled out some iron cookware, lying them in the road alongside bundles of herbs and cutlery before backing away.

“I can’t eat none of this,” said the man, knocking the pans away with his foot. He turned toward the donkey, gliding the blade of the axe along the beast’s back, the metal ringing melodically on the bristles of the coat, coming to rest at its neck. The beast stamped in place and snorted loudly. “Now, this I could eat.”

The peddler immediately strode forward, grasping the handle of the axe with both hands, yanking hard. In the same motion, he shifted his weight to his hip, shoving the man to the ground. The others laughed in surprise at their suddenly unarmed leader. But there was no mirth in the noise.

“Well… nothing fair about that trade,” the leader said, standing up and brushing his wrists on his trousers. He stood sidelong and hunkered down, entreating the peddler. “Now you’re armed. So go ahead and take a swing with it, now. I’ll bet you could take the whole head clean off with that axe. I’ve done it plenty of times. Come on, now!”

“I won’t! I won’t spill blood here,” the peddler yelled, the axe held halfway in the air. “I saw it before you stopped me. That way stone—there. This land is under protection. And you all should be wary of it too!”

The leader was a showman, pivoting from one charade to another. He placed his hand over his brow, searching in mock seriousness.

“Where?! Which stone?! This one over here?” the man held up a pebble from the road, putting it to his eye for a close inspection. “If you ask me, you’re focusing on the wrong thing. For instance, you spent so much time focusing on the rock, but overlooked Harker sneaking up right behind you.”

Gloved hands grasped the peddler’s arms, and his feet were kicked from beneath him. He fell to the ground and dropped the axe to steady himself. Harker jammed his foot into the peddler’s ribs, then bent to pick up the weapon and hoisted it back over to the leader, who grasped it from the air with a single hand.

“I already told you. We’re the protection around here. There’s no one out here but us. Well—not anymore. So who’s gonna stop me from gutting you right here and dicing up this walking meat into four meals for me and my boys, huh?” The peddler merely heaved, unable to breathe, his eyes cast down, resigned to his fate.

The leader tilted his head derisively, drawing his axe above his head. But as he swung down, he found himself off-balance. The heavy axe had fallen with a thump behind him. His two hands were still grasping it, separated cleanly at the wrist. The leader’s voice shuddered with shock. He whirled to face his attacker, but saw only a hint of steel flashing through the air. The second thrown sword buried itself in his skull mid-flight, yanking the body violently off the road, coming to rest somewhere in the trees beyond.

“He’s talking about me,” said a figure, emerging from the darkness of the forest. “This territory is under my protection.”

The three remaining men’s hands were white-knuckled as they clasped their weapons, their legs for some reason refusing to obey the animal instinct they felt to retreat.

“Look, he threw his only weapons,” Harker muttered through his teeth, observing the man’s empty hands. “You two’ve got polearms! Put ‘em to use! Don’t let him get close, and I’ll stick him with this.”

Harker drew out his crossbow, squatting to fit the bolt. But when he looked up to take aim, he saw only a red mist—the remains of an eruption from where his accomplices had stood. Their bodies hung limply from where the wild man clutched their faces, one in each hand, their heads squeezed into pulp like ripe grapefruit. He smiled at Harker as he ripped their torsos free, sending them whirling from their bodies like leaves caught in a breeze. Those same hands crushed Harker’s bow into splinters and lifted him by his neck. He dared a look into the man’s eyes. They were unnatural, like an animal’s. And then Harker felt the moment his neck was crushed. His head and body fell to opposite sides of the lone, standing figure. The tall man walked into the forest and emerged with two blades.

The peddler had finally caught his breath, and he limped along the road in the direction he had come. The man advanced toward him, but stopped haltingly, glancing at the way stone along the path.

“You’ve placed yourself beyond my reach. Clever,” the man said. The moon emerged from behind a cloud, casting the grim scene in a pale light. The figure standing before the peddler would tower over any man, and his muscular frame spilled out from animal fur coverings. Lank hair was pulled away from his face and ran freely down his back. This wild man would have dismembered him if he hadn’t remembered the way stone and its significance. He couldn’t be sure what he’d heard about this dangerous man in the previous village was true, but his life now hung in the balance on that rumor.

“Please, I meant no harm to this place. I’m just a simple peddler, passing through to the village nearby,” he said.

“You knew about the way stone. You should have known not to bring violence here,” the wild man said, turning his back to the man. “Do as you will elsewhere. But cross the stone again, and I will know.”

“What about my animal, my wares?”

“They’re on my side.”

And with a single punch, he knocked the donkey to the ground. The peddler gave a startled yell at the sudden violence. The heavy beast fell over and struck the road with a dull thump. Then he watched the man lift the animal by its legs, flip it over onto his shoulders as if it were an injured fawn, and carry it toward the woods, disappearing into the darkness where he had first emerged.

The peddler stood for several minutes staring in the pale light at the chaos, then turned to face the open road, stepping listlessly into the night, back in the direction he had come.
 

Walter

Administrator
Staff member
CHAPTER 2

In the western region of the continent lay a village at the foot of steep walls of granite. A river tumbles down the mountain before flowing through the valley near the village and spilling out into the western sea, a league away. The grey and white peaks lent the region its own identity in the minds of all who saw it.

Shadows covered the village. Not even the fishermen were awake yet. Rows of thatched roof houses were enshrouded by grey mist. At the largest house, there was a rapping at the window, startling the mayor to awaken. He listened for a moment, hearing only crickets. He turned to glance out the window and saw the outline of a head leaning back out of view.

“What is it at this hour?” the mayor’s wife muttered through her pillow.

“That monstrous man, I would wager,” he sighed. He stepped from bed and into his clothes as his wife contemplated this.

“He’s here—in the village?” All traces of sleep had vanished from her voice.

“So it seems.”

“Berg, you must take him into the forest. And mention Emil, you swore to Jorek you would,” she urged.

“I haven’t forgotten, and I-”

The mayor was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening then closing indiscreetly. A dog barked at the door. Then silence. The mayor peered downstairs into darkness. He took two tentative steps and then saw shadows receding around the form of a huge figure standing in his kitchen.

“Is… is that you?” the mayor whispered, his clothes still just half on. The protector stepped into the flickering glow of the candlelight.

“Had to step in,” said the protector, his voice a resonant bass through the wooden home. “The dog brought attention.”

“Of course. Of course..! Well, if you’ll just give me a moment, I’ll be down,” the mayor said, now in the process of completing his attire.

Being in the presence of the protector wasn’t just upsetting to the animals. His gaze made the mayor’s bowels roil. With every movement he had to mask what his instincts demanded—to be anywhere but within reach of those predatory eyes.

“You're in the village, so I suppose it’s urgent?”

“Four interlopers on the road last night. I moved their bodies. Order your watchmen to explore the woods nearest the way stone,” the protector said. “Didn’t want you or your men to panic.”

“Four more. I see. What did they-”

“Interlopers. They crossed into the territory. There was a fifth... but he was beyond my reach.”

The mayor considered this curiosity for a moment, then recalled how the protector had mentioned the way stone in his description.

“Ah, your territorial rules,” the mayor gestured vaguely with his hand, unsure of how to treat this delicate subject.

Here was a man—if one could call him that—with the strength to answer to no one, but adhered to territory and way stones like he were the only player in a child’s game. He had just confessed to four murders, setting aside his delusional rules. But with the local lord rotting, this monster was all this village had. The man gave the mayor the impression of a caged animal, locked behind bars, but still wild within. Whoever fashioned this prison for such a formidable man was a chilling riddle he wasn’t eager to solve.

“These are not my rules. They are the rules of the territory,” the protector replied.

“Please, might we continue this outside the reach of prying ears?” the mayor requested.

He led them out his back door into the night, still silent now that the dog had lost interest. The mayor used a key to unlock a tall gate, which opened into the forest surrounding the village. They walked through the trees in the half-light. The mayor stumbled over roots and fallen branches, while the protector glided effortlessly.

Finally they stepped into a clearing in the forest at the center of which was a dying tree, cleaved into two by lightning earlier that spring. The resulting blaze left a black disc in the ground.

“Those of us who are aware of your contributions, we appreciate your support—truly,” began the mayor. “But lately, some of us have been wondering if you are perhaps too effective.”

“You would prefer I do a worse job protecting your people?”

“Please understand, we are merely a small fishing village. When you came to us with your offer of patrol, we were..,” the mayor paused to swallow, unable to meet the protector’s eyes. “Grateful. But, it’s my men, you see... These killings, the bodies, they weigh on their minds. They are weak-hearted, simple-minded folk. They aren’t used to the terrors of the world outside, as you are.”

“Then fire them. They drink themselves to sleep. That’s when an attack would happen.”

“Yes, an attack. Certainly! We count on your keen insights to keep our village prosperous,” the mayor’s shift in tone indicated he was glad to have brushed by the topic, eager to close the book on it. “There is something else I was hoping you could help us with, though. Beyond your dutiful border patrol.”

Morning light flitted through the trees, casting bars of shadow over the protector’s body. He leaned against the dying, split tree, his arms crossed, watching the mayor pace in the clearing as he spoke. The mayor’s eyes scrutinized the foliage—any excuse he could invent to avert being held within that bestial gaze.

“You've been here a bit less than a year. That's probably not long enough to know about this. None affected like to talk about it. But we have long had a problem with runaways,” the mayor said, grimly. “I can scarcely blame them. This place provides few paths. And by the time they come of age, they know the ways of each by heart. The world beyond must feel like some grand adventure to them, and boredom a curse. But it’s a curse that we’ve all labored generations to achieve here. My own son... My boy. He left without a word one day, four years ago. We spent weeks looking for him. No word from neighboring villages. Just vanished into the world… And now Emil is the next. A young boy—14 years old. Too young to be out in the world by himself, particularly in the state it’s in right now. Which is why I’m asking you for help, however you’re able, discreetly of course.”

“Emil. I know him by sight. His father is the merchant who travels beyond the borders and back.”

“That’s right, Jorek. He’s a good man. Been behind on his deliveries, though. A bit of a mess, as you can imagine, us being in the fish business. Dean, Emil’s uncle, has been going in Jorek’s stead. He must be… Well, doing his own searching. Just as I did.”

The mayor was squatting, a stick in his hand traced a formless line in the dirt and ash. But the line halted as the focus of his eyes traveled far from this clearing, out to the wide world, to places beyond his ability to conjure, to where his son was now, somewhere far from home.

“I will look for the boy.”
 

Aazealh

Administrator
Staff member
Even though I read the original many years ago I'm really eager to see how the story will progress and conclude. :ubik:
 

Walter

Administrator
Staff member
CHAPTER 3

The protector lay huddled around the remaining embers of his campfire. The final haunch of the donkey was skewered on a spit, uneaten and blackened by the flames. His eyes grew heavy, and he gave in to sleep. The fur blanket he had fashioned was unable to cover his frame, so that when sleep finally took him, he curled his legs upward like a child to be embraced by warmth.

The dream swallowed him whole, as if lying in wait.

He was on a cliffside, naked and climbing on a moonless night, unable to see above or below. Each jagged hold he found in the rock face was a miracle, keeping him alive for one more moment as he crept upward. Then he reached and found only the flat, resolute mountain face. He was sure the next hold was just beyond his reach. So he gambled his life, using his strength to mantel his body upwards. His palms and fingertips searched for safety, but he grasped only slick rock and fell deep into the void beyond.

Helpless, he closed his eyes and embraced the darkness, and in that instant he was plucked from the air by the claws of a winged beast of light, soaring up out of the infinite black. The beast turned its gaze toward him and commanded him.

“Awaken.”

A pulse shuddered through his body. Something in his mind recoiled as if struck. Visions of another life rolled through his awareness, each captured in incandescent spheres. A child. A woman. A farm. Something worth protecting. Smoke on the horizon. Murderous eyes glimpsed through a broken door. A futile gesture. A contorted face. Something unforgivable. And through the final sphere, those same sinuous eyes, absent their reassuring radiance, looking straight at him.

But as light from the morning sun crept over his face, the memories receded, and the protector awoke. He blinked into the bright sky and rolled over onto his side. The dream had left his body drenched and his mind muddled, full of a backwash of emotions he could not explain. He reached for his jug of water, but found it empty, turned on its side in the night.

He looked for other signs of disturbance in his camp, but found none. So he followed the sound of the river and stepped into the cool water, letting his jug fill as he surveyed the horizon. The stream tumbled down an expanse of rock near a cliff on the mountain. From this vantage point, he could see chimney smoke commingling with their neighbors’ in the air as villagers prepared themselves for one more day.

A foreign sound roused his senses—a small splash behind him. On the other side of the bank, slightly further up, he saw the priest gathering his own water in a wooden pail. The frail old man held up a hand in greeting and smiled in his familiar way. The silent acknowledgement hung in the air until the protector nodded and watched the priest turn back to the mountain path that led to the temple.
 

Walter

Administrator
Staff member

CHAPTER 4

The western sea dashes against rocks in a ceaseless attack. The resulting spray cascades into the sky, blanketing the region with a fulsome, salty aroma that buries itself in the memories of home for those who live here.

The sea and its tributaries are the fount of prosperity for the village and the surrounding region. The villagers catch their daily bounty from the nearby river and the sea. A family of merchants travels to market their wares to neighboring villages, a half-day’s journey away and back.

Such travels account for much of the activity on the road. Emil’s face was simple for the protector to recollect, because he often saw the boy traveling with his father. Children like Emil help with what they can in the village, but mostly they observe the tracks worn into the earth by the pacing of man and woman with an alien curiosity and a healthy amount of boredom.

What fascinated Emil, like many before him, were the wild forests and the mountain, which provided their own education. That foreign world was all their own, separate from the stolid struggle for survival that so enraptured their grown counterparts.

The protector considered the possibilities for Emil’s trajectory of escape. It wasn’t a long list. It was made shorter still by keeping only ways of leaving that left no trace. The road was too visible. And wherever he ended up, word of a displaced youth would have returned eventually, confirming a runaway. But according to the mayor, children like Emil had vanished. It’s possible he escaped in some other way—a boat, perhaps. But, he didn’t think it was likely. Fishing boats made return trips. And all other vessels were precious to the villagers and thus accounted for. Finally, if there were a predator in these woods or the mountain capable of devouring children whole, he would know about it. He would have smelled the blood and found the bones.

After exhausting his own ideas, the protector made his way into the village. The mayor had asked him to be discreet, but his options were slim. The villagers knew of his existence in the forest, but few had seen him in daylight.

As he walked down the village’s only road, he heard the women calling for their children, one after the other, echoed down the path. One brave young one clutched the edge of their home, peering around the corner as their eyes danced with fear and delight at the sight of the unnaturally huge man, his hair blowing behind him. His fist shook twice on the door of Emil’s home, then a third time. He heard nothing but the creaking of floorboards inside. So he entreated them.

“Jorek?”

The door opened slightly, and the face of a balding man appeared in its crevice, covered in sweat. His moustache curved from his nose to wrap itself around his cheeks. He gave no greeting, just lips pursed tight and nodding awkwardly in the door frame.

“You must be Dean.”

“Thas right.”

“I need to speak with Jorek. It’s about Emil.”

“Now’s not a good time for the family.”

It was plain to see how standing up to the protector was wearing on Dean. The silent exertion produced even more sweat. Some buried instinct within the protector flickered to life, and suddenly he became aware of the heady stench of fear wafting from the man, as intoxicating as flesh cracking over a spit. He pushed the image away and leaned on the door slightly, the frame creaking until it pushed beyond the comfort of Dean’s leg and gave way fully. The protector ducked inside, and the women screamed as he came into view.

Another man entered, the light shone through his bedclothes to his thin frame beneath. The protector recognized him as Emil’s father.

“Emil is gone. I’ve already looked. There’s no trace.”

“People don’t vanish.”

“Call it what you want. One night he was here, and in the morning, he wasn’t.”

“Let’s walk.”

They shuffled through the street toward the river. The man’s pace was ragged as he absentmindedly paused to look at minutia of the village that bore no meaning for the protector.

“How many days has he been missing, exactly?”

“Yesterday makes it a week.”

“I know Emil traveled with you. Any chance he stowed away in your wagon on one of the trips outbound?”

“No. You’ve seen the loads I haul to Triskele and back. Not much more than a barrel or two of pickled hake and sundries from the smoker. There’s no covering—nothing to hide under. No one in Triskele has heard a whisper of a boy like Emil. They’ve got their own problems now, of course. Light knows I’ve made myself a nuisance there, for it’s also the first thought I had as well.”

“Ever venture beyond Triskele?”

“No, not since the war. Well—not since the war crossed over north of Triskele, anyway. Not worth the risk.”

They stopped on a bridge over the river. The water’s endless, repetitive song masked their conversation to prying ears. Neither spoke for a time, watching the formless water as it flowed over and around rocks along its natural course.

“Berg put you up to this, I suppose? He came knocking just like you, yesterday. Asking what he could do. As if there was anything to do. What I don’t follow is what you care about it.”

“It’s like you said. The mayor involved me.”

“So? You’re an outsider. You live in the woods. Berg doesn’t give you food or money, right?”

“No.”

“Then why bother?”

“Others have gone missing. If there’s something else roaming out here that I’m not aware of, I’d like to know.”

“Something else? Like a predator?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“You mean something like you?”

The question was like a pinprick in the protector’s mind, stabbing toward a mystery he couldn’t solve himself. He had never encountered anyone like himself. The humans had their world together in the light, and he had his world alone in the darkness.

The clouds parted, casting a column of light down upon the pair on the bridge. The sudden warmth caused the protector to squint up at the sun. In that blinding light he saw a sword, wreathed in flames, spinning as it descended. Sunlight glinted from the blade, revealing writhing shapes along the edge. The sword struck the mountain, causing an eruption. The protector faltered a step backwards, as if struck himself.

“You okay…?”

“Fine. Headache.”

The falling sword reminded him of the mountain, and his eyes fell on the small path trailing up to the temple. Perhaps there were other factors the villagers weren’t considering, the protector mused.

“Are your family believers?”

“Religion? No more than others. Such stuff certainly never left a mark on Emil.”

The priest had been here even longer than the mayor. It may be worth enduring a sermon to hear his insight into what’s happening with these children.
 

Walter

Administrator
Staff member

CHAPTER 5


The twisting path up the mountain to the temple was carved into grey rock. The view along the way was admirable. It afforded the protector a look at the lands beyond the reach of his territory.

From the overlook, he could clearly make out the white road leading to Triskele, conjoined with a dried lake. Despite the warm season, there was no color in the flat fields beyond, picked clean by the local lord before his demise. And with war encroaching from the north, there was no reason to work the barren fields for a harvest that would never come. So those who remained out of a sense of loyalty to their family’s land waited, huddled in their homes.

The temple was an hour’s journey up the mountain, coming to rest near a precipice overlooking the town and beyond to the sea. Because of its distance from the village, only the pious few visited regularly. Holy days brought more. But it took dedication and vigor to make the trek.

The structure was simple, with four walls of piled local stones and a bit of masonry to patch them together. The only adornment to speak of were the stained glass windows, each depicting a manifestation of the Falcon of Light. In one—the bird descended, its outstretched wings composed of the sun’s rays in scattered hues. In another—hovering behind a holy man, his hands signaling a benediction, while the Falcon’s wings circled around wretched-looking figures bent around him in worship.

The choice of this location for a temple struck the protector as odd. Normally such buildings were within the villages themselves. All the better to police the minds and habits of the people who dwelt there. But this temple seemed to have been built intentionally separate from its flock.

Thus, the priest served less a man of the cloth and more an overseer of the land and the building itself. To the protector he was like the other villagers, only more remote. Though unlike the others, the priest gave off no stench of fear when in his presence. If anything, there was an eagerness to him instead of horror. Perhaps masking the fear was the hunger to bring him under the wings of the Holy See.

The protector never had an occasion to speak with the priest. They encountered each other only from a distance, whether by the stream or in the forest.

It was nearing dusk when the temple came into view for the protector. The darkening sky was filled with a high, piped tune, emanating from inside. The door to the temple was open. The protector ducked through the frame, but when he stood, he nearly struck a makeshift chandelier hanging overhead. Between the candles he glimpsed a fly, trapped in a web.

At his entrance, the tune halted. The priest was sitting in a pew at the front of the temple. He slipped an instrument into his sleeve, and turned to face the protector, brightening when he recognized the new arrival.

“Ah, we meet again! I wondered if our encounter by the water would bring you back upstream!”

He enthusiastically patted the seat next to him, urging the protector to rest. That same calmness exuded from his body, unsettling the protector. The priest had a kind face. He wore the traditional white robe of the clergy. What little was visible of his body clung tightly to his frame, evidence of the poverty his profession demanded. It was hard to take the villagers’ talk seriously that when he first arrived, he had not been a priest at all, but a warrior. His frail figure and mirthful spirit dispelled any notions of a wild youth.

“What troubles you to bring you here at this hour? The mayor hasn’t called you in for collections, or some such nonsense, eh? I’m afraid you’ll leave empty handed, unless you value rats.”

“I am here on the mayor’s business, but it’s about a boy, Emil. He’s missing.”

“Another,” the priest shook his head reproachfully. He lifted a finger, as if enumerating, and then a full hand. “You know… I think that makes it the fifth since I founded this temple. Five.”

“So, you knew of them.”

“How could I not? Though I may not walk among the people, the tragedies they endure are etched on the spirits of all who walk through these doors. Emil is the next in a procession of lost souls in that place.”

“Lost souls? You make it sound like death.”

The priest leaned back against the pew, reflecting upon a stained glass, the fading light filtered through the window onto his face. The song of predatory birds came to life in the forest below, filling the sudden silence in the room.

“No... No, what is lost can be found. Even in death, there can be a reunion. Nothing simply fades away. As to the lost young ones, I have watched that village for many years, and I believe they push them away. They say the ties that bind us together are stronger than those that would break us apart. But… I’m not so sure.”

The priest rose, his feeble hand shaking as he steadied himself by the armrest of the long bench.

“Come, let me show you something I’m quite proud of. I doubt even your watchful eyes have seen it.”

He led the protector through the front of the temple, to another door to the outside, an area of the grounds unseen from the trail, as it was obstructed by the cliffside. Rows of brightly colored vegetables are growing along freshly turned soil. Such a thing is an extravagance in this region. The earth is coarse and inhospitable to growth in these altitudes. Still, somehow this private garden is full of life. Each red, orange, and green bud was a testament to the priest's willpower.

The protector bent to one knee to inspect a stalk, bringing it closer to his face.

“It's beautiful. How did you get it to grow here?”

“Oho, what a marvelous surprise! The beanpole knows a bit about growing things. You’re right, the soil and altitude were my enemies. But I have providence on my side.”

Beside the garden, branches from a grove of stunted new trees framed the view of the horizon beyond, to the town and the sea in the distance. The priest paused to admire the spectacle of the clouds igniting into frozen flames in the sunset.

“In all my travels, I had never seen anything like this place. That is why I chose it for the site of the temple. I hauled each stone here from the mountain,” he said, patting a wall of the temple. “I can’t say that it has been entirely a worthwhile investment, but I believe I’ve finally carved out a peace here.”

“It’s quite the view.”

“Hm, that is about what it amounts to, I’m afraid. The remote location has stymied the growth of my flock. But I am at peace here. Listen to me ramble on, and you without a word to rein me in. I wanted to tell you before, but this is my first opportunity. Those people down below, it’s wonderful what you’ve done for them this past year. Wonderful. Particularly in these trying times. Though I’m sure they don’t appreciate you for it.”

“Fine.”

“Times are changing. Anyone with their eyes open can see it. The villagers are the ones in the dark—the ones who will suffer, without guidance.” The priest lurches down to pick up a spade, then carefully digs a trench next to the row of beans, providing a bank to guide the inevitable rain. “Their heads are so deep in the sand they can’t see to either side of them. Worse still, they have no desire to see. And so, without you, they’d be lost.”

The protector smelled another in the garden before he saw him. A figure in a white cloak like the priest’s emerged from behind the temple, pushing a wheelbarrow. When he saw the protector, he froze, his hands locked onto the wooden handles. The face was obscured, but the cleft in the chin, the long brown hair down either side of it, left no doubt.

“Emil..?”

A flash of recognition passed between Emil and the protector like a jolt of electricity passing through the boy’s face.

“Deacon, you can see we have an unexpected guest. Could you fetch us some good red wine? Surely you know where you can find it by now,” the priest said.

The protector watched as the young boy sauntered off into the temple.

“You said he was lost. What’s he doing here?”

“He was lost. My only sin was in acting surprised.” The priest leaned on a stone wall and removed his cap, exposing his bald head. He wiped his brow with it before setting it aside. “Emil was not the first to seek me out, and he won’t be the last.”

“Others—what is this madness? What else are you hiding up here, old man? This ends tonight. We will go before the village, and they will demand answers.”

“You don’t understand. Emil will simply seek me out again. Returning him will only upset his family, not to mention the village. I’m providing him with something he can’t find down there.”

Just then, the boy returned, a bottle under his arm and a pair of cups in each hand. As he began to pour, the protector got his first solid look at Emil’s face. It was deformed and contorted in a way that he couldn’t understand. Bulging veins protruded across his cheeks and down his neck. The hand that poured the wine was grotesquely turgid, the fingers resembled claws.

“You see, he has been blessed with providence, just like my garden,” the priest said.

“The touch of God. Is that what you call this monstrosity?”

“Pfah, you are so tied to the flesh. The spirit is my area of concern. And this distorted husk is the result of a spirit burning brightly—far beyond what he could yield from years trapped within the mortal coil of those living below.”

The priest sipped his wine then pointed beyond the wall.

“Deacon, step over the stones and tell me what you see below.”

The boy set aside the bottle and drew up his robe to cross over the wall. His feet now hovered dangerously close to the edge of the drop below.

“I see the road leading to Triskele. And just below, I see a village.”

“You should know it, boy. That is your home. Your loved ones are there right now, waiting for your safe return.”

The boy turned to face the priest, their eyes meeting for a moment.

“But this is my home, father.”

The priest gestured magnanimously to Emil, then faced the protector.

“Would you still argue that he is a prisoner?”

“What have you done to the boy? Drugs?”

“No. As I said, it is a gift from God.”

The priest turned to face the fading sun. From the protector’s perspective, the priest’s body occluded the dying light, casting an aura around his frame.

“I’ve examined humans my whole life. In many ways my role in the clergy was to know the minds of men better than themselves. They are pushed and pulled by conflicting desires. Their spirit may be consumed by a burning dream, but life is a crucible. It brings competing desires, mere embers alongside that pure flame, but enough to dilute that dream’s brilliance until what emerges is dull and muddled. Like many before him, Emil dreamed of being free from the pull of the village, but also to be accepted as one of them. I helped him find peace here, away from the interference of lesser desires. This magnificent garden is part of his work. I can compel the minds of men, driving away those conflicting flames, so they can experience the fullness of life that they seek. I want them to burn brilliantly, illuminating this dark world so desperate for light.”

“Whatever you’re doing is turning them into monsters.”

The priest turns to regard Emil, almost as if he was seeing him for the first time.

“The vessels cannot endure the refinement and become husks of flesh, reflecting the twisting I have done within their minds,” the priest said, caressing Emil’s engorged cheek, brushing aside a tuft of brown hair. “You have endured much, haven’t you, boy? Perhaps it is time, then. I release you from your duties.”

"Father, no!" Emil pleaded, his eyes wide and terrified.

"Jump."

Without hesitating, Emil leaned forward, slipping from the edge, his white robe fluttering wildly behind him. The protector shot out the long arm of his other form, a coiled tendril that unfurled, reaching for the boy’s body, but just missed, and the figure soundlessly fell out of view.

Fog propelled from the protector's body as his body transformed. His clothing ripped and armor pieces fell to the ground around him. He towered over the priest and ensnared his arms with both tendrils, preparing to rip the frail man asunder.

But the priest shouted the protector’s name—a name from long ago, which he had himself forgotten. And as his eyes caught the priest's, the protector recognized their familiarity—a vertical slit in each pupil. His grip on the priest slackened, and he returned to his human form. He was transfixed by these predatory eyes so like his own, trapped within the web of a great beast.
 

Walter

Administrator
Staff member

CHAPTER 6


Though the protector could not move, he found that he could speak. He also found that his mind was surging from memories, long buried, now free. As these visions coalesced into understanding, revulsion bellowed from deep within him at the realization of his will having been twisted for a full year to serve this man’s whims.

“So you’re an apostle like me. But what is this? A spell of the clergy to enslave people?”

“God...,” the priest laughed, leaning on the stone wall. “Can you imagine the terror those blind fools would wreak across the world with such power? No, this is my specialty—once caught in my gaze, the mind is opened to my will. With Emil and the others, I go a step further in shaping them, implanting a piece of myself as a sacramental sign.”

The priest paused to consider the protector for a moment.

“For you, that was not necessary. I never imagined the compulsion would work on another apostle. Perhaps it was your desire for purpose that played a role. Once I discovered that and compelled you on a course to protect the territory around the village, you were so eager to have a task that you never looked back.”

“Why bother? What is peace to an apostle?”

“Aye, the villagers’ peace is merely a comforting testament to your ruthless efficiency. But you were merely a stray who wandered in. I never planned to find another stray black sheep here in my flock. And recognizing your sin, I designed a suitable penance for you.”

“I never sought forgiveness, you damned hypocrite.”

“Perhaps not, but you would have desecrated this place, like everything else we touch. That corruption is within us and manifests even through our best efforts to escape it. Believe me, I have sought penance from our sin. It is fruitless.”

The protector laughed.

“You’ve gone from lauding your ability to complaining about the price you paid for it. You were weak then, and you’re weak now. Your tricks haven’t changed a thing, and these people were better off before you started casting shadows in their minds.”

“You’re wrong. There are ways to use our gifts for redemption. You are a shining example. By forging a new path for you as a protector of these people, I have reversed the fate that was seared into your soul.”

“Right. And I’ve got an urge to repay you for that. Better not blink, old man. I’m curious how well your great power works without your eyes to hold me back.”

The priest walked slowly to the protector, grabbed him by the chin, and stared deep into his eyes.

“I have pulled you from the jaws of evil, which seek only to break you in its teeth. And what have you brought me, hm? Complications. Judgment from a fellow sinner whose soul is equally tarnished. You’ve made it clear that like a mad dog, you are beyond taming. The only question now is whether to wipe your mind and extend this dance of ours once again, or devour you myself and remove you from the stage completely.”

The protector’s vision blurred as shadows coiled themselves around his body and into his eyes, and he screamed until there was only darkness and silence.

Somewhere within that emptiness, the dream found the protector again.

He was flying in the clutches of the winged beast of light, soaring through the void toward a pinprick of light in the distance. Finally, they were bathed in the light of a new world. He held his arms over his eyes to escape the pain of the beauty of this unfamiliar place, but the beast urged him to witness it. He opened his eyes to see that the world pulsed with light because it was wreathed in flames. And in that light he saw now that the beast was a towering falcon, holding a sword of impossible size. The weapon blazed, forming dancing shadows around it with the fire that scorched the world.

The falcon tipped the flat of the sword down to him, and he grasped its massive blade. The great being swung the blazing sword through fields, forests, villages, castles. Wherever it cleaved, light from the flames extinguished the darkness from the world. He turned and saw alongside him, grasping the blade with him and composing the weapon itself, were monsters and demons of myriad forms.

The sword gathered speed as it swung through towns and rivers, leaving a cascade of steam in the path of its arc, then abruptly collided with the mountain in a thunderous upheaval.

In the temple, the priest gripped the protector’s face. His eyes were locked on the protector’s, who wore a vacant expression. His massive body was taut, but his hands trembled as the priest tore the bindings of his memories apart.

Above the building, the sky was blanketed with a red the color of dried blood as the sun fell behind a mass of clouds on the distant horizon, ushering in the night to the valley below. But for a moment, the clouds parted, and a final ray of light pierced through the sky.

The red-orange glow filtered in through the Falcon of Light stained glass, striking the protector’s face. Blinded by the light, he woke—his consciousness emerging from a vast nothingness. He could move again. It was all the time he needed. A recognition fell across the priest’s face just before the protector’s hand flashed like a knife through the air, and he thrust his fingers through the priest’s eyes. Fingers curled deep inside the sockets before his hand yanked back, clutching two impaled globes. He squeezed until he felt them burst in his palm.

The priest wailed and fell back, clutching his face, blood spilling through his fingers from the open wounds. Steam erupted and a new head emerged. A spiral of horns coiled down each side of its hairy, goat-like face. Eight eyes now hovered over the protector, glowing red in the gathering dark. Sharp, hairy, stilt-like legs jutted forth from the white robe as it ripped in pieces, and a swollen abdomen crashed behind him onto the wooden planks.

You broke free. How?” the priest demanded, his voice a high-pitched hiss that filled the temple.

“The Falcon. He’s calling us. And you’re standing in the way.”

Story Concludes in the Next Chapter
 

Walter

Administrator
Staff member
CHAPTER 7

The protector’s body grew into a plantlike beast bearing the face of a wolf—its face obscured between huge, meat-like petals. His arms became tendrils with thick barbs. His legs extended into a huge canine’s, and a new pair of legs, thick and muscled, sprouted from his shoulder blades Finally, his human face receded behind a carapace mask that snapped shut.

You’ve survived this long by relying on your trick, luring humans into your web. But I’ve taken that away,” the protector said. “As for me, I’ve been out there, dying the territory red with the blood of bandit camps, a Kushan scouting party, and encroaching hunters. I’ve developed quite a taste for it.

This thing is not me,” the priest said. “It was cast upon my soul—a stain on my very existence. But I will use all the evil power within me to chasten your vile presence on this holy ground.”

The protector’s vine-like hands twisted together into a long cable and he swatted toward the other apostle, but the priest’s satyr form was nimble, even for a form so large. He darted backward and shot a web from his abdomen. The protector shielded his body with his fist, letting the sticky fluid adhere around his hand. He yanked the string hard, pulling the priest's body toward him as he thrust his other fist forward, sending the satyr flying through the altar in the center of the temple in a shower of splinters.

Still careening through the air, the priest sent out a desperate spray of fluid, lashing the protector’s feet to the ground. He could pierce the webbing with his barbs, but the distraction gave the priest a moment to leap to the rafters of the temple. A huge mouth opened on its belly, above the priest’s disfigured human face. He dropped, intending to engulf the protector’s head in its maw, but he broke free from the web just in time.

In the same motion, he spun, wrapping a tendril around the satyr’s legs and pulled with all of his inhuman strength, smashing the creature against the wall of the temple, shattering the largest of the windows. He yanked again, this time hurling the priest’s body up into the air, then turning away and pulling downward, the massive body smashed through the flooring in an explosion that rocked the foundation of the temple.

A figure limped up the path to the temple. He heard a great crash, like a tree falling. He hurried along until the structure came into view, and he saw the temple shudder from some calamity within. His vision blurred, and he witnessed a monster gliding through the holy place.

Inside, the wooden planks blossomed upward from the hole left by the impact of the priest’s body. The protector wrenched two of these protrusions free and launched them through the supine form of the satyr, impaling it to the ground. Steam emerged as it attempted to heal its wounds. The protector leapt onto the priest, gripping his eight-eyed head around its arms and squeezing. He tore a plank loose and stabbed it into the priest’s human face as sharp spindle legs tore at his back. The jaws on the belly snapped at the open air, fangs glistening with poison.

Your squirming is pathetic,” the protector said. “You’ve lived in denial for so long, you can’t recognize that we’re being called. In my dream, we were no longer outcasts. We were forged into one blade.

I refuse. I’ll not be a cog in their destructive game—lending the power to rule only to those who live to defile.”

Then stay out of my way!

The protector shifted his body to face the giant mouth, he hooked his hands into each side of the beast’s jaws and stretched it wide until it broke in two. The satyr's organs spilled over him and the priest tried to scream, but only choked on his own fluids. Grasping the half of the body with the priest’s face, the protector hoisted it out of the hole in the center of the temple where it landed with a wet thud.

Emil stepped through the doorway, his white robe covered in blood. When he saw the priest’s remains, he screamed. The protector leapt out to face the new arrival.

“Emil…” the blinded priest spoke faintly. “That is you, isn’t it, boy? I implore you, honor our sacrament. Strike down this heathen. He has defiled this place.”

The teenager stood there clutching the wall, a horrified look on his face, disfigured by having ingested the priest’s evil power. He fought against the instinct deep inside him, grasping a stone from the temple’s foundation, and drove it wordlessly into the face of the priest, crying as he dashed the remains over and over until only a pulp was there. Emil fell forward into the heap of writhing flesh as they both expired.

The protector emerged from the temple to look down at the village below, sleeping through the darkness that enveloped it. He headed down the path, feeling fresh liberty in taking each step, knowing they were once again his own to take. His past was a blur, but his future was set. He stopped in the dim glow of the moon and closed his eyes, listening to the song of the wind, opening his senses to the world beyond the corner he had been trapped within for a year.

He could faintly hear the voice from his dreams, calling him to the center of the continent.

But first... the village.

END
 
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