I do not hold Skystone's grudges, I love to see how a tale twists and turns even the tales of storytellers more known and far better than I. But I cannot shake the feeling- the urge sometimes to tell a story my way even as it's being told to me, such is the habit of many of us gifted with our words. I suppose it is a fault and it often keeps me from diving deeply into any story. To break through that forth wall and rip the characters from harm's way right in the nick of time and correct the tale to the point where it no longer reeks of sadness and death is often my only wish. On my travels I have heard and read many such tales that have instilled in me that same urge to save the characters trapped within the pages. And each time my hand has itched for quill and ink- my mouth longing to send out the words that will save the beloved hero as they leap from the cliff in such a heartbroken state that they think nothing will ever fix them. I long to erase their backstory altogether and make it something new that bends along with what the storyteller who created the tale originally had in mind.
But alas, I cannot…
Those stories are not mine to tell- nor will they ever be and so I simply entertain myself with these stories, envisioning a dozen different things at every turn of the plot that could have changed the final outcome until there is nothing left but to shift through these ideas until I grow bored. They're good practice- learning how a character that someone else has created might act, deciding what they might believe and the reasons why they might refuse to listen only to stubbornly step off of that cliff and end their nonexistent lives.
It's sad really- I can do nothing but watch and listen, trapped in the words that another of my kind has laid down in ink that cannot be erased as solidly as the characters themselves are. A person cannot change what happened last week or what will happen next month as much as a storyteller can change someone else's story. There will always be the tale where the hero dies- there will always be that one that suffers and no amount of rewriting in one's mind can change it- because that other storyteller goes along with the plot that they've placed down and so nothing ever really changes. Another's stories are just modified versions of the first- so vastly changed with the different plots and themes that it's all been changed into something that was never the first story to begin with.
We can pretend like the bad things never happened- but they still did.
We can forgive and forget- but that doesn't change the past…
…it only influences the future.
We can try time after time to do something that should have never been attempted…but in the end reality will always stay the same. We can beg and plead that something shouldn't have happened one way or another- it should have happened our way. That the hero was saved- that they never went through those ordeals and so never came close to tying the knot in that noose or dying from the arrow they leaped in front of to save a friend. But at the end of the day…reality never changes and we only delude ourselves more until…
…we are lost.
But what if we had a chance to save those that we love- what if someone had that strength. This is the story my friends of one who did.
Do you know how hard it is to save them?
Do you know what it feels like every time you don't succeed?
When one falls in battle or one loses the fight against illness or tragedy?
It makes a person angry enough to see the whole world burn- but that means endangering others and so you have to restrain yourself. You sheath your battered diamond sword and bow your head in honor of the lives you couldn't save. The last of your kind it's up to you to keep them safe, and now that no one's left to aid you it gets harder every year- every day- every second of your existence.
The one below you just met his end by the sharp blade of an enchanted iron sword as you screamed soundlessly in agony as the pain that was not yours ripped through you- preventing you from running forward to fight. You had failed again. And the thief ambles off counting the golden coins that the man below you had been taking back to his family so that the rent could be paid for another month. The corpse of a father lies broken and bloody in the tall grass as the zombies attracted by the smell of fresh blood limp from the depths of the forest. Minecraftia's waste disposal team at its most gruesome. You cannot bear the snap of bones and so you turn and leave- the miner is no longer chained to this realm, he is free and you are not.
But what a beautiful prison this is when the undead are not eating the body of one you were meant to protect.
It's not fair that he died- he had done nothing wrong.
Survival of the fittest they say- screw survival of the fittest you have a diamond sword enchanted with Smite four-hundred-and-two and Unbreaking five-hundred-and-sixty and you say otherwise. You can one-hit an Ender dragon and a Wither at once and go home without a scratch on your blade, a petty thief should've never been allowed to steal something as precious as a life. You could've snapped the thief's neck into in a fraction of a second and gone on your way with the miner never once seeing you.
But once again…you were too late.
You're senses have been dulled over the years and unlike the shadows of yourself that relentlessly attack from the void of nothingness that has become 'home' over the years you have aged slowly bit by bit. Though you are far from old now- it will not be long until the centuries you've spent fighting take their toll one day and then you too will cease to exist.
You shift away from that thought though and go on with your day, the next week, the next month, and the next year.
You hardly know your name anymore- it's there somewhere in the tattered remnants of your memories but you can't quite find it. It was some ancient word- some foreign name from another place and another time- perhaps even another realm. And for just a brief second you wonder if there isn't more of your kind somewhere, but the curiosity left you a hundred years ago and so you continue down the trail.
The man beating his child into the dirt never sees your sword- only you stepping from the bushes and then nothing at all.
The woman that leaps fearlessly into the fire to save her baby has the child in her arms before she even takes two steps past the door and when she turns to look back at her burning home the raging inferno is only embers.
The assassin takes two steps towards the king of this realm and then is promptly tossed from the balcony without a thought or a flicker of effort and the king continues to read through his red-rimmed sunglasses until he hears the screams of commoners and guards as a body thumps lifelessly to the streets below.
They once called you Guardian or Gatekeeper- something of the sort, possibly both but that is not important. The abusive father asks you who you are…the mother calls you an angel…the king calls it a miracle and blames his own foolishness for allowing his senses to become so dulled that an assassin would get to him in the first place. Though it wasn't the king you were protecting- it was his general that came rushing through the door a moment later- the one that would later go on to kill many of the shadows that you yourself fight. Not that you wouldn't have protected the king- because you have before because he is a good king for the people, there has not been one like him in generations and you would not waste such a life.
The arrows disappear from the warrior's quiver before he ever reaches for one- before he ever pulls one from a chest because the glitched Survival Games ends before it ever begins. There are so many difficulties with setting up the match again that the Games are canceled and the players refunded. The problem with the respawner is noticed after the fourth time you overheat the command blocks that trigger the initial countdown timer and no one dies as a result.
A squid raises its sword and plows through the ranks protecting their leader- you step from the midst and end its life before it sprints two feet from where it stood- and snap the enchanted blade into before turning to save the many lives that have thrown themselves into peril.
Wings shutter and lock as a scream is torn from a throat- but you do not pay attention…to interrupt this moment would mean more deaths when this woman will live. She is strong enough to live through this and does. You watch from the shadows and do not approach as a half-dragon lifts her into the air and carries her away to safety.
This is the way it goes as it always has and always should. You were meant to be the protector, the guardian of all those that have fallen, your own thoughts are relevant but they waste time when too many people have died already- are dying right now. You can hear their screams and pleas- the tortured sound of every injured soul still drawing breath in this world as you always have been able to. How many years ago did you lose your voice as you screamed endlessly from the agony you heard until you realized no sound met the air? How long ago was it that all emotion left you and you finally stood up and picked up the rusted sword that has long been replaced by the diamond one you hold now? How many years ago was it that you became something other than yourself?
Your name eludes you. You cannot scream or even whisper hello. You cannot smile or laugh- and so you stay hidden, rewriting history one page at a time before it has ever been written. Deciding who lives and who dies months in advance- who you will save and who you will leave to their fate because you cannot leave others to die.
It is you who have killed tyrannical leaders before they planted their first seeds of hatred among their people. It is you who has shifted it so that the people kept with their traditions and became so firmly rooted in it that they will never sway even without you- they protect and care for the land so that there's one less thing for you to worry about. It was you who made yourself into a dragon and saved village after village to redeem the name of that race and the half-dragons as well.
And yet if anyone was to praise you for this- you would simply blink at them, there would be nothing to say even if you were able to talk. Those were facts- just facts, they meant nothing to you except to reassure you that you had accomplished more things than you had failed to do. Had saved more lives than you'd taken or lost.
And still the world is not a perfect place.
But for every single one that suffers there are a hundred and more that right the wrongs or at least try to.
And for every single story that ends in pain and misery as death closes in there are many that do not.
And as once again as you watch the battle between the shadows and the Minecraftians rage you let yourself sink back into the void…everything will be fine for a while. You can rest for a few generations and let the heroes take over as is their right. These new creatures- they are not completely human and you know that the second you see them, from the second you saw the woman screaming as she fell towards the harsh world below her that they were not normal Minecraftians.
And there is no reason for more than one of you to exist at a time.
So you will take your rest now- lengthen your days by sleeping in the void that is your 'home' as you were forced to do long ago to hide from the creatures that now tear into the defiant ranks of warriors in front of you. But the shadows are losing and it is only a matter of time before the heroes rule the land once more. There is no one that needs to be saved to keep this world going- at least not for a long, long time- long enough for a nap at least and then it will be back to work. Though it saddens you to know that you will not be able to watch the adventures of these strange new creatures that give you an odd sense of familiarity and need. But you are something different from them- and so you stay apart.
One of the shadows sees you as you fade in unreality.
"Phoenix!" It hisses.
Ah, yes…that was your name.
But the beast's head is loped off a second later and it says nothing else though you are no longer there to hear it even if it did say anything more than that.