The Guardian They Called Auté

There weren't always dragons in the valley. The valley was where our Anglian trees stood. Each tree was a portal to another world. The dragons used to help the Guardians protect the valley from evil and unwelcome travelers. For centuries, they kept us from harm. One day, the Cryptic Queen of Umbrous sent dark spellcasters across the galaxy to eliminate the Guardians. She wanted to harness their power for her own use. The Anglian trees died as the last royal Guardian bloodline was about to be slain. Trapping her minions on the very planets they sought to destroy. The once vibrant, pink leaves faded to grey, leaving nothing behind but a colorless valley of lifeless trees. With nothing left to protect, the dragons roamed Lavvos without purpose until 25 years later when one tree's leaves began glowing again.

I was in the western fields chopping wood when I heard the shouting. With my hand above my eyes, I focused on where the uproar echoed. Everyone was running towards the valley. Some had weapons and armor. Others carried babies. Dragons flew overhead, shrieking protectively as they once did. It is rare to see dragons these days. After the portals closed, they made their way inland to the caves. Could this mean what I think it means? I sunk my maul into the splitting block and took off with uncontrollable excitement.

Running against a cool breeze, my long brown hair whirled behind me. Sweat from the day's labor trickled down my brow as I pressed on faster. Galloping horses shook the ground beneath me. In a flash, Averill tore past me on a black, majestic horse. Following closely behind was Averill's cadre. They called themselves The Bronte. Their swords charged onward, and their voices boomed with curiosity. When I reached the top of the hill, I stopped dead in my tracks. It was just as I remembered.

The trunk stood large and stoic, thick enough for even a dragon to pass through. The bark was no longer grey and lifeless; it was brown and thriving. Hundreds of roots curled from the base over and through the dirt, spiraling and twisted. Thin streaks of brilliant white light pulsed rhythmically from its giant roots to the tips of the branches. As twisted as the roots below, each branch held thousands of pink leaves. Delicate and feathery, they swayed in the breeze. Reflecting the white light, the crown emanated a soft pink glow.

There was no doubt about it. This Anglian was alive. The truth of the past blossomed in front of us. Whoever appeared from the other side may hold the truth behind the day the trees went grey. When Lavvos was cut off from the rest of the galaxy, they lost over half their resources. Loved ones were unable to return home. Those trapped on Lavvos were left without hope of a life they once knew. A vibrant and thriving planet grew quiet and somber.

For many years, the people tried to make sense of it. The Bronte swore they would find answers for their people. They vowed never to stop until Lavvos returned to what it once was. For Averill, this meant bringing the man he loved home where they would grow old together. One day, he saw his reflection and realized he had already aged. Wearied, it was then the search for answers stopped. Although the others had given up long before, no one ever guessed Averill would accept defeat.

I stood astounded for so long that I didn't realize the others had put a clear distance between me and them. The sound of a sword escaping its sheath stole my attention away from the tree. To my left, a blade was mere hairs from my face. I dared not exhale for fear of what came next. I had been on Lavvos for so long that I had forgotten it wasn't my home and that these weren't my people. The day the Anglian field lost its color was the day I came here to harness the power of the Guardian they called Auté.