THE GUARDIAN: REWRITTEN
Hello, friends and readers, and welcome once again to my story corner. Boy-howdy, so many changes have come about since I was last here; I hardly know where to begin.
To start with, I've graduated college at last. I now have an official Bachelor's Degree in Creative Writing. For another thing, my dad has passed away. It happened not long after I graduated, and his heart somehow just stopped. I wasn't there to see it, but Mom told me all about it, and I've yet to get over it. (Fortunately, writing and drawing have really helped me these last few months.)
Beyond that, my sister is expecting yet another baby, and most recently, I've landed a job at a thrift store not far from my house. I help to organize books and men's clothing, and once in a while I lend a hand with "collectibles," meaning I help customers purchase a knickknack that we keep safe in a strong glass case. It's nothing fancy, but it's a paycheck, and it gets my foot in the door.
As you can see, this is a reboot of my old Pinocchio fanfic. Don't worry, the first story is staying where it is, as it is, but I just couldn't stand the way it looked anymore. So I'm starting fresh. I'm keeping most of the original plot, but you may find a few interesting twists here and there. If you enjoyed reading The Guardian before, you might enjoy this, too. And if you've never even heard of my Pinocchio literature at all...well, this just means you'll get to experience the magic of reading it for the very first time.
Either way, happy reading, and reviews would mean the world to me.
Some Characters © Disney
Other Characters and Story © unicorn-skydancer08
All rights reserved.
CHAPTER 1: A STRANGER IN THE NIGHT
On most stormy nights, you would expect most people (or the most sensible people) to stay indoors—next to a friendly fire, with a clean blanket, a cup of fresh tea, and maybe a nice little biscuit on the side. However, at least one person could be found wandering the narrow cobblestone path that threaded through the quaint Collodi village.
This strange figure, who was taller—and moved with more grace and speed—than most men, was wrapped in a heavy cloak as black as the night itself, and his hood was drawn all the way, granting his face at least some shelter from the biting wind and rain. "What a night," he grumbled loudly, for there was no one to hear him. "What was I thinking, coming through this part of town just to get a shortcut?" Looking around him, at the half-flooded street and the lightless (and seemingly lifeless) buildings, he added, "It's like the town of the dead." He sighed and pulled up his hood a bit more.
As he passed by a small alley, something stopped him in his tracks. He stood like a statue, watching and listening with the most extraordinary intent.
Sure enough, there was a curious sound, just distinct enough from the drumming of the rain, the howl of the wind, and the grumble of the thunder.
It sounded like…crying?
Slowly, tentatively, the hooded figure began to follow the sound through the alley. It seemed the more steps he took, the louder and more definite the sound got, and he found his feet moving a bit faster. No sooner had he turned a corner than he stopped again; what loomed seven or eight feet ahead would have stopped your heart, then and there.
A small boy—made entirely out of wood, of all things—huddled alone in a shadowy alcove. The small wooden overhang above his head kept him from getting too drenched, but he had no coat, no adequate clothing or means of shelter, and he was undoubtedly shaking with more than just cold. The tall man knew, even from a distance, that the water running down the child's face and dripping off the end of his long wooden nose wasn't just rainwater.
"Don't worry, Pinoke," an almost inaudible voice was saying. "Everything will work out somehow." It took the man a few seconds to realize the voice belonged to a tiny cricket perched on the boy's knee; unlike most insects, this one was all dressed up and possessed the manners of a human being. The creature even had a tiny umbrella all his own, though the thing was no good at all for this kind of weather.
"No, it won't," whimpered the little boy, sounding no older than eight or nine years. "I wish we weren't here, Jiminy. I'm so cold, so tired, so hungry. I want to go home." He sniffed and gulped and swiped futilely at his wet cheeks.
"Excuse me."
The boy and the cricket both gave quite a jump and looked up at the same time. At the sight of the black hooded stranger, now standing directly above them, the boy's eyes just about popped out of his little wooden head. There was no way to discern the face beneath that hood, but the voice that floated out sounded gentle and empathetic. "Is everything all right? Can I help in any way?"
A gasp of terror was the only answer he got. When he lowered himself to one knee, so that he and the wooden child were more equal with one another, the boy hid his face and shrank as far back as the tapered space would allow.
"No, no," the man insisted, "it's all right. I won't hurt you."
But the boy continued to cower, and even the cricket looked genuinely afraid and might have very well hopped away if he could.
Realizing how he must appear to them, and in hopes of making himself seem less intimidating, the man used both hands to lower his hood to his shoulders.
Despite the silvery whiteness of his thick hair and goatee, he was an extraordinarily young man—he couldn't have been a day older than twenty—and an extraordinarily handsome one at that. His hair was short-cropped at the back of his head, though his bangs were long enough to cover his eyes, and his sideburns were also long and full. His eyes were a pair of glowing sapphires, with long, perfect lashes. Possibly his most noteworthy trait was the tiny mark above his left eye; it had the perfect shape of a crescent moon, and if that in itself didn't catch your interest, it shimmered with the brilliance of a blue jewel.
You could tell at once that this man was no ordinary man.
The wooden boy dared to look up into the young man's face when the hood was removed, but he went on cowering like a helpless animal in a cage.
"Please don't be afraid," the white-haired man pleaded, in a voice that also attested to his youth. It was neither high nor low, but clear and lively, and he spoke with a melodic accent; any child would trust that voice, and any lady would swoon. "I promise, I mean you no harm."
The wooden boy managed to calm down just a little, but it was the cricket who spoke first. "Who are you?"
"My name is Terence," said the white-haired man, offering the friendliest smile possible. "What's your name, my boy?"
The wooden boy held back for some time before responding with a sniffle, "P-Pinocchio. I-I'm Pinocchio."
"And I'm Jiminy," said the cricket with a tip of his tiny hat. "Jiminy Cricket, to be precise."
The man named Terence gave a brief nod. "If you'll pardon me asking, Pinocchio and Jiminy Cricket, what are you doing all the way out here, in this wretched weather?"
Again, Pinocchio held his tongue for a long time, but at last he said, "I-I'm lost. I've got nowhere else to go. No one will help me, and I'm so cold and hungry…" He trailed off and couldn't finish, but he'd made his point anyway.
"You poor little thing," said Terence softly, regarding the child with heartfelt compassion. His big hand came to rest on the child's quivering shoulder with the lightness of a feather. "We'd better get you cleaned up, warmed up and fed right away. Come with me; I'll stay with you and look after you, if you've no objection."
Pinocchio blinked in disbelief. "Y-you will? Really?"
"Of course."
"You know you don't have to, sir," said Jiminy Cricket.
Terence smiled again. "Of course, I don't. That's the beauty of it, isn't it?"
Neither Pinocchio nor Jiminy could argue with this, so Pinocchio said coyly, "Gee, that's awful nice of you, Mr. Terence."
"Most kind, indeed," added Jiminy.
"That's all right," was all Terence said before getting to his feet and pulling up his hood once more. He waited for Pinocchio to get up as well, and he allowed Jiminy to hop into his palm.
Since Terence had the longest legs by far, he had to walk slowly for Pinocchio, but he didn't mind. He even held up a corner of his cloak so that the boy was at least a little sheltered while they walked. Fortunately for them, they only had to walk about ten minutes before they came across an open inn. A large wooden sign above the main door read in bold black letters: THE RED MOUNT INN.
While nothing fancy, the place looked suitable enough for a night like this.
"Shall we?" Terence asked Pinocchio before holding the door for him.
Pinocchio just nodded and stepped over the threshold without a word, though he offered Terence the smallest of smiles as he passed him by. The boy knew next to nothing about this man, about who he was, where he came from, or what he would do later. But for now, the kid couldn't be happier or more grateful to see anybody.