Guardian

For too long, the forest slept, lulled by the silence of abandoned prayers.

No one feared the forest as they’d done before. Only the very old and the very desperate cared to remember what once lived beneath the trees.

Faith instead was given over to the new: metal and stone, and vain pride in the works of human hands. Faith of the old rotted away, decaying like the trees they once feared.

For the world forgot that fear is not terror. To fear is to respect the unknown, the higher, the things not to be comprehended. In the attempt to rid themselves of it, fear was stripped to the primal horror of what they could not control, becoming the very thing it was never meant to be.

Spirits of the old world retreated into the earth, preferring to simply forget than to face the nothingness of shapeless hatred. Even the greatest, the dragon-spirit remembered only as the Guardian, lowered his head and became nothing more than moss and ferns.

The forest, without its Guardian, fell into despair, driving out all that is good and harboring darkness in its eaves. And even with their stoney hearts, men trembled to near it, forgetting the love they had for the forest that was before.

<>

“Guardian,”

The dragon stirred.

“Hear my prayer.”

He heard the tears of desperation in her whispers.

“My child, I have failed her. I leave her in your forest, may you protect her when I can not-”

Quiet sobs betrayed a mother’s breaking heart.

“I ask you to find her, shield her with your power that she may be safe and welcome in your woods. My beloved.”

The dragon awoke, the power of her prayer all but lifting him from his place. The Word of Protection had been spoken, and he must answer the call.

He shook himself, his form emerging from the decay. His scales were dull and gray, reflecting the lifeless trees around him.

Stay - the forest whispered, twining limp vines over him and pulling him back to the earth. Sleep. Forget. Stay with us.

Find her - the mother’s plea echoed through his mind. The dragon strained free and lumbered through the breathless woods, her anguished faith compelling him forward.

As he walked, the forest trembled at his steps. Shadows retreated as shy glimpses of green peered out under dark fungus and mold. There was little desire left in the forest to grow and thrive. The spirits would rather languish in the familiar, dim twilight.

“Such darkness,” he sighed, longing for the far distant days of light and color.

A fluttering of leaves caught his attention. Then, a voice light as morning rain led him close to a patch of sickly bluebells. He peered into the cluster and was met by a sharp squeak.

A Fae flicked in front of his eyes, but what startled him was the child behind her. In a moment, he knew.

My beloved.

“I found it here in the bluebells,” the Fae said, staring wide-eyed at the dragon. “I think her people left her on purpose.”

The Guardian heard the mother’s prayer echoing through his head. It was the plea of someone utterly alone; someone, perhaps, who’s hand was forced.

“Her people must’ve believed this child to be a changeling.”

The Fae wrinkled her nose. “Changeling this creature is not.” A hungry look crept into her eyes. “But it is not without its uses to the fair folk.”

The Guardian rumbled. "The words of protection were spoken over this child. It is mine to protect.”

"But I found it,” the Fae whined. “And none have come to claim it.”

“I have.”

“You…" said the Fae, flitting close, her voice golden as honey. "...are tired. Far better for you to return to your meadow and hide away from the heartless years of apostasy. Let me take the child. I will treat it as my own."

The Guardian shook his head, shaking off the Fae’s enchanted words like fallen leaves. “I am here to claim her.”

He looked down at the child. She gazed back at him, innocent trust in her eyes.

"She must be named!" The Fae hissed, her teeth sharp and white. "Or your magic will not work. To protect the child, she must be named."

The Guardian lowered his shaggy green head to the child. The Fae was right - names held power. Names were the lifeblood of magic. To say your name is to reveal your most vulnerable self. But he was not bound to the arcane intricacies of magic as a lesser spirit such as the Fae. She needed the magic of a name more than he. She needed something to lay hold of to bind the child fast to her charms. He had the power of a mother’s desperate love, and that was more than enough to defy a fair folk’s malicious mischief.

He stared into the child’s eyes. She looked back, and smiled. A smile without fear.

In a voice as soft as velvet he said, “You may call her Safe.”

The Fae cackled. “Come to me, Safe, come to me and I will take you home.”

The child reached out a hand and touched the Guardian’s nose.

“Safe!” Her call could have been no more to the girl than the whisper of wind through the leaves. “Guardian!” The Fae shrieked.

In a voice as firm as stone he said, “You may call her Protected.”

The Fae called out to the child, who heedlessly pet the Guardian’s mossy whiskers.

In a voice as smooth as a river he said, “You may call her Found.”

“Found,” the Fae hissed.

In a voice like the crack of thunder he said, “You may call her Powerful.”

Sharp teeth ground together as the Fae clenched her hands.

In a voice unyielding as the roots of the mountains he said, “You may call her Faithful.”

Shimmering wings trembled furiously.

The girl crawled to his side, and he covered her with his wing.

In a voice as gentle as sunrise he said “You may call her Peaceful.”

Enraged, the Fae screamed. “Name her!”

“She has a Name, though I do not yet know it. When it is time, she will find it. For now, you may call her Welcome.”

With a shriek and a flash, the Fae disappeared, leaving the ancient dragon alone, with the child tucked away beside him.

The forest shifted, as if finally stirring to welcome its Guardian home. Tangled branches pulled back, lifting leaves and letting sunlight spill onto faded flowers and gray grass. Birds remembered their songs, and the rivers lifted their voices. The Guardian was awake, and he would set things right again.

The girl had fallen asleep, curled under the Guardian’s wing. He looked down at her, and his heart beat with one purpose: protect.

In a voice as tender as the kiss of a father he said, “You may call her Beloved.”