A Guardian's Tale

Part I : Perfect Ideals

I have yet to die, for I have yet to reach my full potential. Such is my conviction.

For what is the point of this life? The struggles, the repetition, the absurdity, if not for the sake of higher truth, of unnattainable goals.

How many days has it been, perhaps years by now, of my all-important duty? Guarding this Gate behind me, leading to who knows where. The entrance of a sacred temple, the sealed cavern of a divine beast, or maybe a portal to the high heavens... I have forgotten, and I have forgotten even my shame of forgetting. I have no name any longer, for a man is what he does.

And I am a Guardian, ecstatic in my duty, in my pursuit of vain perfection.

...

I dream of a hundred men, charging at me with their war cries and mad eyes. I dream of certain, inevitable defeat, of my mind and body pushed to their upmost limit. I dream of pouring all my life in one last, mortal dance.

A guardian's quintessence, the foolish belief, nay, the blind faith in victory, against impossible odds.

At my feet the rotting corpses of an army I cut down. The air, putrid. I lean on my dull spear, my broken shield barely holding on to my arm, I cough and struggle to breath yet thunderous laughter fills the air, my ears still ringing. I can't help smiling, to the point of pain.

Behind me I know, still pristine, untouched, protected, the Gate. Guarded, against whoever dares approach it, approach me, whoever dares trespass my domain!

For I may be but a humble guardian, yet here, between the edge of the forest and the Gate, I am master. I am king, emperor, hell, I am an all-powerful God for all that matters!

As the red mist scatters and the first glorious rays of sunshine reveals the slaughter, I stand proud. Half-blinded by tears of blood I adore this existence, and the universe embraces me, the precocious. A gift of apotheosis, duty accomplished-

Part II : The Trespasser

In front of me, the blades of grass start dancing again, flinching under the rain. It seems I was lost in contemplation once more. How careless.

Although, nature's music never stops. And I always listen, for any out 0f place notes, such as the distant rustling of armor or the clumsy breathing of undesirable visitors. For vigilance is the nature of a Guardian.

I can't help but wonder, will there be an intruder today?

The whole world is under the curtain of soft rain. The fresh, blessed drops of water flows down my gray skin, onto the grass, to join with the nearby stream. The same stream where I drink from daily, and cleanse myself, after every battle.

I gaze up as time indulges in a pause, under the pale clouds. All around, the white noise of the rain. Perhaps time itself is also lost in misplaced contemplation. What beauty in the stillness of nature. What profound-

I hear quite clearly trouble, and my mind races as always. About three hundred meters away to the north, toward the edge of the forest, a flock of birds fly away in panic, breaking the lull of life.

It seems like there will be an intruder today. How unfortunate for them.

I catch myself smiling once more, as I grab my spear. From what I can hear, I won't need the shield. Perhaps I can make him yield? Make him leave, and forget. Scare him to the core? For I suspect it is but a mere child, lost in the woods, astray. From what I can hear and smell anyway. I can only hope he turns around, and goes back to wherever he comes from, without seeing me, without seeing the Gate.

How unusual, for a kid to be around these parts. No matter. I get up, spin my spear as I do, without even thinking about it, my eyes skimming the edge of the forest, where clumsy rustling come from. I see nothing. I can't help but revel in anticipation, mere moments before action.

But maybe he did turn around after all.

I look up at a shadow in a tree, and I freeze, my smile fading away. There in the branches, the intruder, looking behind him. What is he doing in the tree? He turns around : his face, youthful, devoid of any emotion, unflinching. The Gaze. I hold his eyes, an impromptu staring contest, a shifting shadow deep in his pupils.

His face is slightly fat, just as his body, adorned in colorful clothing. This is no ordinary lost child. A lord's son perhaps. I catch his arm moving and instinctively place myself between him and the Gate. He squints his eyes and drop from the tree, before approaching with impudence. Be he a child or not, I shall cut him down as I did to countless others. As duty calls.

Yet something in his eyes shakes me to the core, as shameful as it is. What is this shadow, this hunger? He stops, just before being in my range, and shouts at me.

''Are you real?''

I am stone. I hold his eyes, unfazed. Take one more step, and you shall find out, I think.

He adds, ''What's your name, demon?''

I answer, without opening my mouth. ''Leave now, and forget about this place, if you care about your life at all''

His eyes opens wide, his mouth as well, a ridiculous circle. At last traces of fear! I can't help but feel annoyed by this mere child, ruining my tranquility, disturbing my duty. If only he would take one more step.

He doesn't dare, and he mumbles something as he looks around. Incomprehensible. I take one step toward him, in the hope of chasing him, yet he repeats, this time clearly enough, in a shaky voice.

''Tell me your name and I'll never come back''

I stay calm and ponder.

In truth, either I never did have a name, or I have forgotten it completely. I take a few seconds to fantasize about naming myself, quite enjoying the thought of it. The Lord of the Gate? How glorious. The undefeated? Yet I can't bring myself to lie. I indulge his request :

''I forgot what my name is''

The kid frowns, clearly insulted. He protests. ''You liar''.

I answer quite simply with ''Perhaps''.

On his face, hatred. The kid spits on the ground, turns around and starts running away toward the forest. In pure muscle memory I pull out my sling, lodge one of my carved stone in it and spin, taking aim. I picture the kid's brain splattering on the grass over there, perhaps a blunt sound as he falls. Yet I can't bring myself to take the shot.

The child stops at the edge of the forest, takes one last look at me, and disappears.

Trouble.

I can only hope to never see him again.

...

Part III : Trophies

Why didn't I kill the boy when I had the chance?

My tranquility, ruined by my own indecision. I can't quite make sense of my choice, to let him get away. It's almost as if my body refused to move, to take the shot. I know I would've hit him.

What nonsense.

Sitting here on the ancient stone slab, eyes closed, listening always, unconsciously, to nature, I can't help but fantasize about the consequences of the kid's escape. Perhaps he would never come back, and warn of a terrible but merciful guardian, there in the woods. And never again would I have to fight to the death any intruders. Somehow that thought fills me with grief. What is the point of protection if no threats ever arise?

Although the opposite could also happen. To look up to the edge of the forest and assess the enemy forces, led by the hateful kid, his eyes lodged onto me, he commands the charge, as I ready myself, surrounded. My worst enemy, a child. How absurd.

The flapping of wings tear me away from my thoughts. A flock of sparrows, playing above me, a few perched on my shoulders, others on the grass in front of me, pecking the ground. The stream is flowing more than usual, due to the rain of the last few days. The bliss of solitude, with nature's company.

Behind me, the Gate, its olden architecture telling of a long gone era, of intricate stonework and mythic runes, the only vestige in perfect condition, the remaining ruins around me being quite decrepit.

The stone slab on which I always sit is of white immaculate marble, or so I suppose. And next to me, the remnants of what used to be perhaps a wall, now only a few feet high. On its surface, my countless trophies, of memorable battles. I almost forgot about them! I remember once I shied away from keeping such souvenirs, not seeing any purpose in them. Yet presently I find a sort of solace in them, in what they represent. After all, they are the proof of the past ; the irrefutable evidence of every intruder I encountered over the years. In them, even my faulty memory is saved from oblivion. Or so I like to think.

I get up, and the birds scatter, consterned by my sudden movement, chirping in indignation. What are these things, littering the wall? An old copper dagger, covered in vert-de-gris. A pair of folded leather gloves, eaten by time. A silver button, holding on to a purple piece of fabric. Among other things. And there, glowing in the soft sunlight, a glass bottle containing a few drops of crimson liquid catch my eyes. I take it, and what remains of the potion inside moves almost impreceptibly, so thick and rich it is. The cork is covered in dust, so is the glass itself. I take a piece of fabric and wipe it all away, smiling. I can't decide if this is my favourite trophy, but it is my most memorable. From what I can remember at least. How close I came to defeat back then.

...

It was one hot morning of summer, and the land was under a dry spell. It was either a few years ago or a few hundreds, I can't remember. And under the cloudless sky the forest was parched, arid. Never had I seen such extreme weather before. The stream was gone, its pebble bed the only hint that water used to flow usually. How thirsty I felt, sitting there in the sun, hallucinating vividly, as I struggled to focus on my duty. I kept imagining a woman, dancing in front of me, as a wavering flame, in the cruel heat. A priestess, nay, an EMPRESS, dressed in red silk and golden jewelry, dancing and dancing for days on end. What madness these days were. I really thought that dying of thirst was going to be my end, and how bitter I felt, of not dying in glorious battle, as has always been my dream.

My sweat was licked dry by desperate critters, struggling to survive in the heat. And I was madly in love! The dancing lady was my whole world, she filled my eyes with her sensual movements, to the shrilling and eternal music of the cicadas, chorusing away. I wished to get up, and take her, offer her all the love that blossomed in me, yet my body couldn't move. And I felt the weight of the sun pushing down on me, harder and harder, as high noon was nigh. Dread filled me, as I felt death's embrace, yet I fought it, and perhaps I survived by pure will. I struggled and panicked and at once I managed to move my arm, and push myself upward. Standing up after days of searing heat I lost consciousness, ending in someone's arms. My empress! I remember how glad I was, and I cried dry tears, as she held me so dearly in her arms.

On my lips, I felt it. Life! And love, pure, unconditional love, rekindling me, the fire of my soul blazing anew. I opened my eyes, not to the godly face of my dancing lady but to a hand, holding a glass bottle to my lips. I was in the arms of a woman, yet not my dazzling empress. I got up, as confused as ever. Panicking the woman stood up, dropping on the ground the potion that saved my life. A red haired maiden, with a surprised look on her face. Her hair was short and her skin was covered with freckles, and her bottom lip was shaking out of fear. I looked around for my spear, out of pure instinct. There it was, out of arm's reach. The maiden moved away, afraid of my sudden aggressivity, and shouted something in an unknown language. Behind me a man replied, and I heard the unsheathing of a sword.

I froze, and turned around. Coming from near the gate, the man approached me, holding his rapier in perfect form. At that moment I saw red, did he dare approach the Gate? How careless I was! I examined him, assessing his strenght. He wore no armor, probably due to the heat. His skin was tanned, and his face bore the traces of a long life. On his neck, a shining talisman, in the shape of a ship. I could see, on his hip, a water pouch. And how thirsty I still was, I knew what I wanted. Now behind me, the maiden took a few more steps away, her words incomprehensible yet I could hear the panic and fear in her voice. Unarmed, I faced the man approaching me, holding his rapier, one arm folded behind him. In his eyes, confidence. I could see, in his footwork, how ready he was to lunge toward me in fleche, to land a fatal blow. Although, I wasn't afraid. The situation was a puzzle to solve, and my parched mind was slowly getting back into gear.

Yet the man, surely a master swordsman, kept shifting his eyes between me and the maiden, perhaps his partner. Unconsciously at first, I realized that I was backing away from him, as he advanced. I knew, if he got close enough, that would be the end of me. Never before had I faced an enemy with such presence, and at such disadvantage. If only I had my spear and shield, I would make quick work of him. At the moment, the swordsman would surely cut me down if I were to make a run for them. My only option was to wait for an opportunity.

I focused on the tip of the man's rapier, dancing a few meters away from my eyes, glowing of a white blinding light under the sun. A deadly dot, a lethal fairy, nagging me in her untraceable movement. The sun was reaching its zenith. The air was still, and wind was but a myth. How heavy was time, for all three of us, stuck as statues carved of despair. How long were we petrified, in the eternal present? Until I saw it. A flinch of the arm. Fatigue. Sweat dripping from his shaking chin. His rapier fell ever so slightly down from his perfect form. Now! I leaped forward, unleashing all my energy in a sudden charge. The maiden wailed behind me, her horror painting the world in red. The master swordsman reacted perfectly, and pointed his rapier so that I would empale myself on it, as I charged toward him. Yet I was bluffing, using his fatigue to close the distance and reach my spear at last, on the ground a few meters away.

In a fraction of a second, I had turned the tides in my favour. No longer a line, the three of us formed a triangle. I grabbed my spear and as I lifted it in position, the man cleverly wasted no time and lunged toward me, his rapier closing the distance faster than I could see it. I backed away by instinct, rising my spear in the hope of blocking the attack. The rapier pierced my shoulder, the tip of the blade lodging itself in my bone. The pain, excruciable. Wounded, me?

Yet this pain was nothing compared to my thirst, and I backed away once more, feeling the warm metal of the rapier leave my shoulder, thick blood dripping down on my gray skin. The swordsman took a few steps back, away from my deadly spear, and spun his rapier, ready to lunge again. My right arm was struggling to keep the spear in position. My left arm was doing most of the heavy lifting. I knew, if he were to attack again I couldn't react in time. And so I attacked first, closing the distance and using my superior reach to hopefully land a hit on his throat. The man read my attack and backed away in time, positioning himself between me and the maiden. I remember just how hilarious that moment was to me back then. So slow from thirst and fatigue! There I was, desperatly fighting, the Gate behind me, untouched, as the master swordsman defended his maiden, perfectly. For the first time, due to the circumstances, I was matched in skills. How exhilarating.

In his stance, in his gaze, in his masterful aura, I saw a bit of myself. I saw him as an indeniable force, able to stop anything from gettting through. For once I had respect for another being. Yet what he was protecting was LOVE, not duty. And so I lowered my spear, just a bit. Surely she wouldn't let him risk his life again. And while the swordsman prepared to lunge toward me once more, his rapier shaking, the maiden held his arm. She grabbed him, and I could see silent tears flowing on her cheeks, twinkling in the sun. They were retreating, toward the edge of the forest, as I stood there, overwhelmed by relief. My shoulder was still killing me, and as they vanished in the orange woods I collapsed.

I laid on the ground, my eyes staring deep in the cruel sun high above everything. My blood was boiling, and I surely would've died there if an opportunist sparrow had not flew over and pecked my wound, awakening me in suffering, the torture of nature. I tried to chase the bird away yet it held on to me with mad obstinance, so thirsty it was. A sparrow turned vampire. Drink on, then! Dazed, I managed to lift my head up. There, on the ground, the potion. In the panic of the moment, the maiden had forgotten it. How careless of her.

I crawled on the ground, inching toward the potion, my thirst at an all time fever, I could only imagine the sweet embrace of the bottle's lips. I reached it and took a sip, how warm and unpleasant it was. Despite my thirst I stopped myself from drinking it all. Barely. I felt as the sparrow on my shoulder, drinking blood out of necessity, out of survival. I grabbed the bird and threw it away at last, surely it also had drank enough. My shoulder was tingling, itching, perhaps it was healing. What a relief. I carefully stood up and noticed on the horizon, a tall gray wall of clouds creeping in. Providence!

Part IV : Doubts

Back to the present, as I put the glass bottle down, I picture hazily the great floods and landslides that happened back then, as the storm rolled in over the land. Yet the details are blurry, my memories somehow fragmented. I do recall the lightning spectacle etching my eyes a thousand times, the thunder filling my ears for hours on end, and the rain, nay, the deluge, washing away the dry spell of the last few days. Providence, I thought, yet nature's hand was far from gentle. I remember how I managed to keep myself and my belongings dry, with the crippling thought that perhaps the storm would never stop, and that the land, the Gate and myself would be swallowed whole by the rainwater. How surreal the past was, so detached it is from the present. Standing there in the uneasy silence I can clearly see my thoughts as shifting shadows on the ground, spiralling in confusion. How can I be so certain?

Dreadfully. Once again, there, in the corner of my mind, the hint of a doubt. How unbelievable are my memories, compared to this uneventful, seemingly eternal present. How can I be so certain of the past? Surely, I have physical proof in my many souvenirs. Yet perhaps I simply daydreamed these memories of the past, just like I daydreamed, in my maddening thirst, my dancing empress?

I remember her as clearly as my thirst and the searing heat. Most troubling of all, I have no trace of a scar, of a past injury on my shoulder. What to make of this? Is the potion proof of my memory, or are my memories mere product of the potion? I have no way to know. I have only myself to believe, despite how insane I am at times, and how untrustworthy, my memories.

Is the past true, or are they mere fabulations and dreams of a crazy old demon? Perhaps there is really no other time than the present, and all other time is simply illusions.

Trophies and dreams.

Lies.

As I torture myself with unanswerable questions, spiraling deep in my troubled mind, I catch myself, in horror, scratching and digging my forearm with my nails, in a sort of neurosis, a state of hysteria, the pain almost imperceptible, as my flesh is torn and my blood flows and drips on the ground. My nails? No, my claws, stained of my very own red. Not again! I notice the air around me fills with a putrid, repulsive smell. How lively is my imagination, even in confusion. Although curiously the smell and mostly the growing pain grounds me, calms me, by how familiar it is, and almost blissful, the sensation of the blood dripping, drip, drip, drip...

...

Luckily I could forage enough moss near the stream to cover my bleeding forearm, a makeshift gauze. The pain by now is unbearable. I have to bite down on a wooden stick, so intense it is. My fingernails were quite dirty, and I worry of an infection, of desease. I can simply hope the moss is enough to prevent that. I try to distract myself by walking back and forth, holding my arm up to prevent further bleeding. I try to escape the uneventful present, to dive in my past memories once more but I can't, the pain is too distracting, all-encompassing. Oh, the misery. I try, but a rustling on the ground tears me away from my torment. What, again?

I grab my spear, for the first time or the thousandth time. Quite carefully, with one arm, as to not re-open my self inflicted wound. From what I can hear, it's a sort of creature, crawling in the grass, toward the stream. How curious. The closer I get, the clearer I can hear its struggling breathing, its soft moanings of pain. I approach silently, and I can't believe my eyes. It's an old man, wounded severly, covered in dirt and dried blood. Seeing him, inching at a snail's pace toward the fresh water, I almost feel no pity. If not for a hint of empathy, as I perhaps also once was as thirsty and helpless as him.

I stand over him, without a sound, and I hold my spear with both hands, firmly, in order to land a fatal blow. To kill him instantly and end his suffering. His miserable life, I can't help think. As I ready my strike the old man flinches and rolls around, facing me suddenly. Yet his eyes are empty, dark sockets, and in them I see nothing but a void, that stares back. All around his face, a sort of disease, black pus, quite revolting. From his weak breath I hear panicked mumbling. Is he trying to talk to me?

I lift up my spear, and I fight back sudden tears, yet once again a sparrow intervene, and lands on the very tip of my spear, chirping in ignorance. The old man finally guffaws, and turns again on himself, crawls the last few feet before the stream and plunges his hand in the crisp water. I can't help feeling sorry for this old man, and wonder what possibly could've happened to him. Nevertheless, I know that even as he drinks so happily, not much life remains in his husk of a body. Firstly the smell, quite repulsive, as repulsive as the infested wounds on his twisted legs, with an ensemble of flies going about their nasty business. Perhaps one or two days have passed since that injury. His clothes are rags by now, and his hands, bloodied by constant crawling. His hair is filled with debris, and I wonder wonder wonder, what pushes him to hold onto life?

Right before me is a dying, rotting, blind old man, still fighting to live on. He drinks and he drinks, as if somehow the water would magically heal him and gift him back his destroyed body, his lost vision. How delusional! Yet perhaps I need to restrain myself from killing him, from putting an end to his suffering, for he seems to wish to live no matter what, despite how shameful it is. At last he stops stuffing himself with water, and crawling a bit more he approaches me, seemingly unaware of my presence, and rolls himself in a ball. He falls asleep in a matter of a few seconds. How absurd.

Part V : Pity

Here I sit, in the twilight of dusk, as the sun settles down on the horizon, yet once again my tranquility, my DUTY is disturbed by an intruder. Not a mere arrogant child this time, but a rotting old man. Not only rotting, shivering as well. I figure I may as well start a fire. It's funny, I can't remember the last time I warmed myself at a campfire. Not that I have any need for it, but the thought of it comforts me. To lose myself in the flames, to contemplate the incandescent coals, to worship the lord of truth. I move around the old man, careful not to make any noise, and gather up sticks, wooden branches and the bark of a few birch trees nearby, all while keeping watch over the Gate of course. I am a Guardian after all, and vigilence is my nature.

I struggle a bit to start the fire, and after two attempts, a spark. The bark ignites and I place it underneath the tiny branches. What magic! Despite the humidity of the last few days, the fire grows, and I add a few bigger branches. I estimate I can keep the fire going for a few hours, perhaps long enough for the old man to die in comfort, at least. I simply cannot bear to see him shiver like that in the cold. I hesitate and at last I grab him, bring him closer to the fire, laying him on his side. The old man doesn't wake, surprisingly enough, and I notice from his breast pocket, a carved wooden object.

I take it, curious as to what trophy an old man like himself could possibly have, and he awakes at last, alarmed by the missing object. He looks around, as if he could see anything, and asks quite absurdly, ''Is someone there?''. Meanwhile I am busy inspecting the wooden totem, depicting a human figure, grotesque in appearance, its arms over three other figures, one larger one, feminine, and two smaller one. As if the bigger human was protecting the others. Yet it is unfinished, the bottom part and the details on the faces still raw. Not minding the old man and his questions I slide my hand in his breast pocket, expecting maybe a carving knife, yet it is empty, except for the feeble hands of the old man, defending his property.

''What is this, old man?'' I ask him finally, my curiosity killing me.

''Who are you? Where am I?'' He answers, as he pats around him, and raise his hands to the fire, feeling its warmth.

I wonder for a few seconds what I should say to him. Clearly the old man was going to die at any moment, and I wondered just what sort of thought raced through his mind, so close to death. I know exactly how it is, to be so close to dying as to embrace it. Yet what does it feel like to him? Suddenly, inspiration.

''Behind me is the Gate to the High Heavens. Tell me of your thoughts, and I shall let you enter.''

I can't believe I said that. What am I, a sort of demon, for daring torment and deceive an old man on his death bed? But some sort of morbid curiosity keeps me going. I continue.

''Tell me also the meaning of this wooden totem, you carry on you. Only then will I tell you who I am, and where you are''

The old man sits there in front of me, his mouth opened in a sort of stupor, his facial expression struck in disbelief. I throw him back his little wooden totem and he flinches, grabbing it, shoving it in his pocket. His eyes keep looking around, as if he could see. He extends both his arms and rubs them together, in the light of the fire. Above us, the infinite stars twinkle, adding to the fire's dance of lights. A moment of silence.

It's odd, even though the old man is here, I feel a sort of peace, a sort of tranquility. I can see in his face, his thoughts racing, as though he is preparing himself to spew out all his sins in one go. And I sit there, in front of him, idle by the fire side, my eyes fixed on his empty eyes, waiting and waiting for him to start talking, to answer. What will he confess?

The old man starts by clearing his voice, spitting on his side, and asking clearly that he would like his carving knife back, as if he was in a position to ask for anything. I didn't take it, for he didn't even have it, yet I understood what he meant. I get up and search through my things. There, the old copper dagger. I take a few minutes to sharpen it as best I can, while the old man sits there, rotating his totem around in his hands, his fingers feeling and mapping its surface. I figures, he can see it by feeling it.

''There, old man. Now, speak.'' I command, as I give him the dagger, hilt first, in his hand.

And so he starts, and so I listen, and I suspect we both lose ourselves in his story, as he carves masterfully the remaining bits of his totem, and narrates almost as a book his life story.

Part VI : The Old Man's Regrets

''I have fled these memories all my life, and just now, before death, do I face them, with such regret and pain that I can't help crying. Yet hear my words, and witness the truth of my life, for I was blind, simply in a different way. Blind, to see the world as it really was.''

''I wasn't always an old man, whoever you are. And I wasn't always blind, though perhaps in a way I was. You see, it all started with her smile. My wife! Well back then she was but a stranger at our village, yet our eyes would meet and her smile would enchant me like no other things in this earthly life. The rising sun and the beauty of nature was nothing compared to her smile, and I spent years adoring and worshiping that memory, until at last she came up to me. She perhaps knew of the spell she casted on me, and no later than a few weeks we were married. And so happy we were! The world was a bright, warm place. And under the sun we built a house, made love every day and soon enough we had our first child. A boy, and so healthy and loud he was! Although it was a difficult childbirth. I remember the blood... So much blood, and as my wife held our son in her arms I could only stare in shock at the bed, covered in red. And her! She was as white as the bedsheets used to be, and I took a hold of the midwife. She was panicking. I kissed my wife on her forehead, and my son that I loved so much already, and ran out, to fetch a physician. I had to do something, to save my dear love.''

''As we came back with haste, I found our house empty, except for the crying of my boy. I approached the bed, while the physician opened his suitcase of tools and concoctions. I looked at my angelic wife and expected the worse. Yet she was still breathing, softly. And so I took my boy in my arms and begged the man to save her. My boy was crying and crying, and I was as well. To think I could lose her so suddenly, I was going mad. Yet the physician laid fresh towels on her head, applied bandages and busied himself for a while. I couldn't tell if she was going to be fine or not, it was hell. And then a knock on the door. I remember I ignored it, yet the knocking was incessant. I left her bedside and opened the door, and there standing on my porch, the priest. I slammed the door on him, and he was gone. You see, I always hated whatever God our village worshiped, and the further away from it I was, the better. Anyway, after a few hours, my wife got better. It seemed like the nightmare of that night was finally going to be behind us. It took a few weeks but eventually my dear wife got a bit better, and so glad I was. Our little boy was growing quickly.''

''From that day onward though, my wife grew somewhat distant. I gave her love, support and space, for I loved her so dearly. Yet she refused me everyday, and no longer would we make love as we used to do. She was also weaker, and spent a lot of time in bed. I had duties, and couldn't be by her side at all times, however much I wanted. I had our land to tend, our livestock to care for, and my boy to raise as a man. I remember just how angry I was at the time, at life, for breaking my beautiful wife. I took over cooking, and cleaning, and brought her meals and drinks. Even back then she was the prettiest woman of them all, smiling and discussing with me, tucked in her bed. Despite my anger, I was also relieved. What would we have become, if we had lost her!''

''One sunday morning my wife held me by the arm, and asked me to go to church together. She had always been quite the believer, and her prayers never did annoy me, for I knew she worshipped nature's beauty over any diety. Yet never before did she go to church. I offered her instead a walk outside, and she agreed. For the first time in a bit less than two years now all three of us were outside, as a family. And how I cherish this memory! Our little boy holding both our hands between us, the wind blowing in her hair, the sun shining in her eyes, and her smile. I can still see her smile, carved in my mind, so precious she is to me. Our boy let go of our hands and ran away along the road, and she lost balance, falling in my arms. She looked up to me and we kissed, as we used to do the first times we used to meet way back then. Her cheeks were red and I held her so close, that I cried. I missed her so much!''

''But on the distance, gray clouds, and inside of me, lust. I wanted her, she was so warm and beautiful. I called for my boy and we turned around. I remember my wife was struggling to keep up, and many times I had to walk a bit slower, as she held onto my arm. The clouds were approaching, and I could feel in the wind, the rain coming. Perhaps even a terrible storm. We made it home just after rain started. Soaked we entered our home, closed the windows and dried ourselves. I sent our boy to his room and embraced my wife, yet she pushed me away once more. You see, I wanted her, I needed her, and I thought perhaps she had gained back her health, after our day outside. We went to bed and slept to the sound of the rain all around us.''

''Day after day, the rain fell, and after tending to my duties I came back home, to my loving and sick wife, and my son, playing in his room quietly. How I wanted her! And how angry I was at the world, at being soaked every day under the deluge, and at her, for refusing me every day. I decided, that night, I'd open one of our wine bottle, and share it with her. And under the thunder of the storm I forced myself on her, putting the blame on the empty bottle of wine there on her bedside. She never did handle wine well. The day after, the rain had stopped at last. We awoke to the sun shining through our curtains, and how glad I was that the rain was over. Yet our son cried for us, and I ran through to the kitchen, and saw my dear boy, two feet in a puddle of water, looking at the roof, that was leaking. A disaster! I had no other choice but to spend the next few days busy on the roof, repairing any damages. Back then I knew, but didn't want to admit it, that most of the house was soaked, and I foolishly believed it would dry in the sun.''

''About a month later two things changed. First, my wife told me, crying, that she was pregnant again. How happy I was. Second, black mushrooms sprouted from corners of our house. How disgusted I was. And shamelessly I hid that from my family ; every morning I would awake before anyone else and find any mushroom and rot, and scrape them away. The house was as clean as ever, yet its inside was rotten. No matter, since no one else than I knew. A few weeks later I threw a bit of a celebration, inviting friends and friends of friends over, to announce our next child. I remember how cold and distant my wife was back then, claiming she was feeling a bit under the weather. If only I had known!''

''Weeks became months and my wife was perhaps a few weeks before childbirth. I had prepared everything to avoid a disaster, like the last time. Every week the physician would come visit, and run tests and ask her questions, and we were certain that this time no trouble would arise. Yet everyday she held my arm and told me how scared she was, how scared she was of the pain, of the pain coming back to her. In her eyes I could see fear, and despair. Every time I held her close and comforted her, fooling ourselves. Until at last that day came, and how unprepared we were.''

''It was early morning, and the sun was nowhere to be seen. She cried and cried, shaking me, to go fetch the physician. And so I did, and this time the childbirth lasted only a few hours. There was still an awful lot of blood, and this time not red but as black as the hidden rot of our house, I was mortified. And I held on to my wife's hand as she wailed in pain, pushing and pushing, to at last give birth to our new child, a girl this time. To our horror she wasn't crying, and only after the physician tapped on her back a few time did she start breathing and crying. Relieved my wife looked at the physician, and he gave her a glass of water, that she chugged. A few minutes later my dear wife was sleeping, almost smiling. The physician told me he had prepared a remedy for her pain, an elixir. He put the white bottle on the bedside, instructing me to put a few drops in a glass of water, before sleep every night. I thanked him dearly, paid him for his services and laid on the bed next to her, with our beautiful daughter between us. Our boy was sitting next to us, drawing. I remember just how bittersweet I felt, and how uneasy I was at my daughter's lack of energy. She simply laid there, looking around, not even crying anymore, her eyes, a deep black.''

''Over the next few weeks my dear wife would ask, demand for more and more of the elixir, claiming that the pain wasn't going away. I gave her a few more drops, then a spoonful, and soon enough she wanted some in the morning as well. I bought some more from the physician, that warned me about its addiction, yet I foolishly thought she wasn't addicted, that she just was in pain. Weeks became months and I realized too late that my dear wife was but a shadow of herself. In a moment of lucidity I took away the elixir and poured it on the ground outside, as she cried and cried. A few days later she broke a plate and opened her arm with it. She died in her bed. The pain was too much for her. And the worst part is, it's my boy that found her, my daughter still sucking at her breast.''

''My son was shocked, and didn't understand. My tiny daughter was hungry, and I had to feed her cow milk from then on. Thinking back I was simply shocked as well. Why would she put an end to her life so suddenly? At first I thought that perhaps it was an accident, or that perhaps someone else had sneaked in and killed her. How stupid. Yet I realized with time that it was I that killed her, day after day, year after year. My love was a poison, and our house was rotten, and the sun was nowhere to be seen.''

''I remember one late winter night, when my daugher was about seven years old. She has been sick most of her childhood, and even at seven she would wet her bed and wake up crying. It was too much for me. I remember that one night, I sat on my bed and felt a shiver all over. I looked at the door, that was open, and saw a small figure standing there, looking at me, with soft red glowing eyes. I was petrified. For hours she stood there, her gaze a nightmare, until at last I stood up, walked up to her and held her in my arms. She was as cold as the night. Something was terribly wrong with her. The next day, our house burnt down in a disaster, and we had to move with some old friends until we found somewhere else to live. During that time, my daughter took a habit of visiting the church, more and more, until one night she didn't come home. Turns out she wished to live at the monastary. I saw no objection.''

''Fifteen years later I was still blaming myself for my wife's death. My son grew to become a good man, healthy and prosperous. He was a carpenter by trade, and built a great many houses in our village, that was turning into a town. I was growing old, and spent my days at my hunter's cabin, where I was laying traps and hunting pheasants and critters. My life was empty, yet I deserved it. And my daughter, my poor, sweet daughter, never came to see me. I learnt she had grown to be shy and reserved, prefering studying the verses of faith than living her life.''

''What I regret most of all, is the one day where I stumbled upon her by accident, as I was coming back from the market. I was walking by the cemetary, next to the church, when I saw someone there next to a tombstone, leaning on it, holding something. I walked closer and noticed that was my daughter, I recognized her long black hair. I considered not talking to her, for I was afraid of her, but I decided that I should at least try. I got closer, called her name, yet she didn't answer. I entered the cemetary, and she was leaning there on the ground, right next to her mother's tombstone, next as well to a bouquet of black flowers. My daughter, much older and taller than what I remembered, was wearing a white immaculate robe, and in her hair, white jewelry, made out of bones. She herself was dirty, and on her face a bit of dried blood and traces of tears on her cheeks. In her arms, I saw, a kitten. Yet the kitten was wounded, its skull half open, and the kitten itself was barely alive. She was holding it very dearly in her arms, softly singing a lullaby, not minding me at all. She would chase away with a wave of her hand any flies, and keep on singing, bobbling her head back and forth. What horror. I thought, surely that isn't my daughter. Surely that isn't my blood, that isn't the product of our love! Surely she cannot be my dear wife's daughter. And yet she was, and looking at her I felt it, the weight of my regrets.''

''I wished to take the dying kitten away, of taking her by the arms, and bringing her home. I wished to throw buckets of water at her, of shouting at her, of sitting her down at school and I wished oh so dearly to give her a proper chance at life. Yet I left her there, and walked, ran, back to my cabin, where I isolated myself for years. I was paralysed, by a life devoid of meaning. By the atrocity of existence. By how unfair and ugly it all was.''

Part VII : Last wishes

I look at the old man. He sits there, tears flowing from his rotting eyes. I can't help but despise him. What a waste of a life he had lived. I can't wait for him to die at last. Yet there is something admirable about his regrets. About the depths of his despair. I ask him.

''Tell me, old man, why do you struggle so much to stay alive, if your life is so horrible''

And the old man's expression turn to anger, hate. He tells me that despite everything, there is still beauty in life. There is still hope in life. That perhaps death is truly something to be feared, to avoid, even through pain and suffering and madness. He tells me that even though he is now crippled by a hunting accident, and blinded by cruel crows biting his eyes out, and rotting alive, he has one final wish. He wishes to go back home, and see his son one last time. See his troubled daughter one last time. And tell them that no matter what, he loves them, and that despite everything that happened he loved their mother very dearly. And that it was all his fault, and that-

Before he could finish, the old man coughs and struggles to breath. I realize that at last he was drawing his final breath! Without thinking I stand up and run to my souvenirs. There, what remains of my potion. I kneel down and throw away the cork. I pour down the potion in the old man's mouth yet it is too thick. Quickly I run to the stream, fill it with water and shake it. I slap the old man and pour it all down, he swallows. I'm thinking, maybe the potion could heal him as it healed me back then! And maybe he could, despite everything, no matter how unlikely and foolish, go back and see his family. And I stand there in front of him, for what feels like forever, nurturing this foolish hope that even death can be delayed, if one wishes so strongly enough.

Yet his breathing doesn't stop. Maybe I did save his life after all. I wonder, why oh why am I helping this old man, instead of putting an end to his life once and for all? Perhaps his wasted life is a reflection of mine. Perhaps there is no reason for it, other than simple empathy.

I get up and stretch. There, in front of the old man, the wooden totem he was carving as he talked. I pick it up and it is now a masterpiece. The sculpture makes sense now, and the faces of every figures are finished, polished. And even the daughter is angelic. The old man sure had a terrible life, yet I can't help but admire him.

I hear a sudden clack and a whistling sound, and I turn around toward the edge of the forest, in high alert. I barely dodge a bolt, that bounces off the rock behind me. There, holding a crossbow, a tall man, in full armour. He is reloading quickly, and behind him I see His eyes. The child. And next to him, a fat, imposing man, in complete armour as well, holding a halberd. And so he did come back after all.

I leave the old man and make a run for my spear and shield. I run and hear the clacking again. This time, the bolt hits me in the leg, just above my left knee. Yet I don't feel the pain. I lift up my spear, equip my shield and face the fat man, approaching me, as the crossbowman circles around, taking a different angle. In his shadow, the kid, wearing the same colorful clothes as the last time. He is holding on to the man's tunic, and he seems ecstatic. He is giving orders to the two men, and on his face, the expectations of victory.

My mind is blank. Pure nothingness, only instinct and a vague hatred for the child, the ungrateful creature that dares come back to hunt me after I so foolishly spared him. The crossbowman unleashes another bolt that I block just in time, as the fat man attacks me with a fast swing of his halberd. I barely manage to deflect with my spear, and his weapon lands in the ground. He wields it with both hands, and so he has more control and power over it than I do with my spear and shield. The man launches another bolt that misses me barely. I start to panic. I can't deal with both men at the same time! The fat man lifts his halberd once more and I make a run for the crossbowman and the child, as he is reloading. I hear the man behind me screaming as he charges, his weapon swooshing the air right behind me. Before I could reach him I catch another bolt, to the shoulder, and barely react in time, falling to my knee. I force myself to get up and in one swing I push the edge of my shield in the fat man's face, stunning him.

I grab my spear and in three steps, like throwing a javelin, I throw it. The spear pierces the man's plate armour, and he falls backward on the ground, his crossbow sent flying. I turn around and powered by adrenaline I pummel with the edge of my shield the fat man's head, as he struggles to fight back. By then I am screaming in rage. I face the crossbowman yet he lays there on the ground, my spear standing upright, swinging slightly. His armour must be quite cheap, if I could pierce it so easily. And there, the child. He hold in his arms the crossbow, yet in his face, I see it, terror. I suppose he didn't think I could handle both his knights. He aims the crossbow at me, yet with my shield up I approach him. I plan to strangle him with my two hands, once I disarm him.

Yet the kid's eyes shift away from me, to the old man there. I forgot about him in the heat of battle! He coughs and coughs, and the kid smiles widely, looking at me with his hateful eyes. He shoots, pointing the crossbow toward the old man. I lunge, hoping to block the bolt with my shield or body, yet I don't make it in time. The kid is struggling to reload the crossbow, he isn't strong enough. And behind me, I hear the old man, moaning in pain. The bolt did hit. I approach the child, slowly, and savour the moment. The kid freezes and looks up to me. He is smiling! I hurry up and charge toward him yet the bolt in my leg stops me, and I fall to my knees. The kid panics and slips up on the grass before getting up and running toward the edge of the forest, screaming in panic.

This time, I won't stop myself.

I take out my sling, lodge in one of my carved stone and take aim. I wait for him to reach the edge of the forest, where I know he won't resist to turn around one last time, and I let go. The stone flies through the air, and as the kid turns around, a smile on his face, it hits. A solid TOCK fills the air, and the child falls on the ground.

I take a deep breath.

I breath in. And out.

My leg is killing me, so is my shoulder. What familiar pain. I sit down and inspect my wounds. The bolts are quite short, but the blades are serrated, to tear the flesh. Simply touching the bolts are so painful I nearly faint. I can only crawl over to the old man, avoiding the dying fat man on the way, his helmet fused with his head, a red grotesque artwork. I crawl and get closer to the old man, that was struggling to stay alive. The bolt landed in his chest. He asks me, of his dying breath, if he could see my face before he dies, see his last friend's face. He extends his hand and I understand. I feel his fingers feeling every inch of my face. I feel his fingers going over my fangs, and stop, shaking. I feel his fingers going over my horns, and the old man gasps in horror. I can hear, from his dying breath, his last words.

''And so I was in Hell all along.''

I close his eyes. What a shame.

I hear at the edge of the forest, squirming. I manage to sit upright and through the pain I see him. The child. Over there, at the edge of the forest. It seems my sling shot wasn't fatal. He is shaking on the ground over there, I can barely see a slight foaming at his mouth. He lays on his sides and I can hear incoherant words from way over there. My shot wasn't fatal, but it seems it did enough damage. I sit there, enjoying without any shame the spectacle of the child's death, as I struggle to stay awake. He deserves it.

Part VIII : Gate

I remember waking, every few hours, and being delighted by the sight of the struggling, dying child, that I hated so very much. And I remember being horrified by the old man's corpse, sitting there right next to me. Maybe hope was dead after all. And I remember being amused, by my own condition. I was thinking, how absurd it was, that in perhaps a few hours, a few days at most, I would join in death all the other fools that dared crossed my path. I remember, in delirium, a fountain of hope, as I recalled my one trophy, my potion, that would surely save my life. And realizing at once that I had wasted it, on the old man. And I remember just how hilarious everything was.

I remember looking up at the night sky, to a crowned moon, an eclypse. And in the air, smoke. And behind me, there, as always, the Gate. I struggle to get up, and do so with great pain, for I know that at long last, the Gate is opening!

And open it did. The Gate's runes were glowing in the shifting lights of the eclypse, and I felt unbearable heat emanating from it. I tried to back away, and stumbled and fell. I tried to get up once more and an arm reached mine. I grabbed it and got up once again.

There, holding my arm, emerging from the gate, a tall humanoid figure, its skin, as gray as mine. His face, demonic in nature. Long horns and deadly fangs, claws of death. Surrounding him, a sort of aura, shifting as the heat above a fire. His eyes were of a deep blue, and his hand was warm. I saw him, as a child sees his father.

He tells me, without opening his mouth.

''For seven hundred years you have guarded your Gate. For that, you have my utmost respect.''

The demon advances and looks around, before turning back toward me again.

''Of the seven Gates we built, only yours still stand. And from your duty, this land shall burn by our hands.''

He walks up to the dead crossbowman, grabs my spear, and approaches me once more.

''For your miracle here I shall reward you with a new body, with a new duty. Leave this life behind. Leave this Gate behind, and stand proud. For you are now the right-hand-man of the Devil.''

The Devil puts one arm on my shoulders, smiles widely and stabs me in the chest with my own spear, piercing me through and through. I fall to my knees, and I see my blood flowing down on the ground in front of me. From the gate, I hear the rumblings of a great army. Left and right of me, dozens of demons of all colours, floods the land. And there, in my own puddle of blood, I see my own reflection. This whole time, I was a demon?

I grasp the spear with both hands, and with all that remains of my strenght I pull it out, I take a few steps toward the Devil and fall to my knees once more. I lift it up and the Devil catches it effortlessly.

I look on the ground, in despair, and see the wooden totem. The Devil catches my eyes, takes the totem and tosses it in the fire. Its masterfuly carved surface, darkens and burns.

''Now, be reborn, and lay waste to this accursed world''