There are many collections lining the shelves of Ashurbanipal.
Among these collections are stories written by the Supreme Beings. The most beloved of these collections are the stories of the Guardians...
It's cold in the far north.
So painfully, frightfully cold.
The lands are lush and vast, perfect for farming in the Spring. Summer sees fields yielding promise for a great harvest. Fall is the time to enjoy the fruits of their labor.
It is Winter, with his cold and terrible grip, that shows no mercy.
No matter how high the sun shines in the day, his chill always creeps in. Hanging in the air like a constant reminder. Early morning breaths are crisp and fogged no matter the time of year.
It's cold in the far north.
The North is beautiful.
They are the first ones to come here from the New World. They arrived with the others on the ships from the east, their kings and queens left far behind. Everyone chose to settle where their feet met Earth after so many months at sea. But their gaze was set on a life of their own. They sought total freedom from their old lives.
And so they followed the call of the North.
They elected a leader, a man of strong body and stronger ideas. He led them through the forests and the fields. He taught them how to hunt and stay warm. He laid down the first post of their new town.
He killed the heretics that tried to stop them.
He tried to teach them the good book but there was no saving them. They spoke not a word of his language and could not be converted fast enough.
And so he did the merciful thing and cleansed them of their sins by fire.
Only one was saved.
A girl, too young to have understood how her people were wrong. She was too young to have been tainted by their uneducated ways. She was too beautiful to let go.
And so she became their leader's wife.
They took her people's fields, excited for the harvest they were sure to receive. For surely this was their blessing for cleansing the land of the heretics. They danced and celebrated as they built their town on the remains of the village.
The wife wept and muttered all the while.
The North is beautiful.
A child was born with the beauty of Winter.
The Spring showed promise and new beginnings. Houses were built with the plentiful wood of forest. Their homes were grand, more than enough timber to build their dream houses. There was plenty of lumber to spare to keep such large houses well heated in the Winter. Prayers were spoken with pure reverence under the high roofs of the church. Their leader's wife had just been announced with child.
A boy, the priest proclaimed. A boy who would take over after his father and lead them into continued prosperity. Those were the blessed words from above. And so their town celebrated. Celebrated all the fortune they gained and what was to come. All while the wife still wept and muttered.
The season of birth and renewal came to pass with the completion of the town. The fields slowly became golden as the warmer air carried across the breeze. The crops began to wither under the harsh Summer sun. Insects that had laid dormant in the cooler months were now abuzz, settling on anything that still held green. The people grew worried but still held hope. For surely they had enough that they would be fine. They still had time to turn things around. Their harvest may not be as bountiful but still they would collect their wealth.
The wife only shook her head and muttered, her tears having finally ceased.
Fall showed no such wealth. The crops that had not turned hard from the sun or eaten by the insects had died on the first cold night of the golden season. What little there was had to be harvested, even if it were not yet ready to reap. The store houses would not be full that first year but they would survive. Their leader had promised them and so they would believe. The wife only shook her head and rubbed her growing belly, her muttering finally ceased.
The Winter came WI a fierceness they had never know. How could they have know? The North is a cruel mistress and her lover was no kinder. Old Man Winter burned through their stores of wood as they struggled to stay warm. The days became shorter as the night grew long. The townspeople fought amongst one another for dwindling supplies. Begged for extra from their leader. But none could be spared as his beautiful wife would soon bring his blessed son into the world.
The wife who must have finally loved him for her muttering and tears had ceased.
But there was no love for him. The North was cruel but she was kind. Kind to her children. And for months she listened to the heartbroken prayers and desires for retribution for her stolen child. Her lover shared her wrath and let it be known.
One the longest, coldest night of the dead season, the wife bore a child. Blessed son, these thieves thought they'd gain. Swaddled in blue was a child paler than the snows that buried their already barren fields. Lilac eyes, almost colorless in the dim light of the dying fireplace, looked out with the coldness of the new moon's night.
Their leader roared with anger at the accursed child and made to have her tossed to Old Man Winter's wrath. But the wife held tightly to her child. For this child was of her womb and off her people, not his. She held her child close and whispered in the hated tounge of her people. Whispered a name that would mark her sign of retribution foe their lost people.
A child was born with the beauty of Winter.
The moon was beautiful that night.
Eleven years of poor harvests took its toll on the village. The fields never regained their former glory, the townspeople uneducated on the methods of cure needed. The years grew colder, the ground remaining too hard to plant new crops. The people became weary as time went by.
This was obviously the curse of the "White Child". Since their leader's wife found life in her womb, their lives had slowly fallen to shambles. Their fields barren like she now was, the child stealing the fertility of her mother and land. The child was shunned, only her mother daring to come near her or love her. But that could not save her from the famine that gripped their town.
The wife passed while the moon was high in the sky, its waning crescent likened to a sorrowful frown.
The moon was beautiful that night.
Winter was coming again.
A twelfth year was soon upon them when their leader finally took action. His wife had not been in the ground for more than a day when he decided to cleanse their town's "sin". With her only friend gone, there was no one to stop her father taking into the woods. The new moon provided no light, only the single lantern that cast eerie shadows guiding then into the darkness. Deeming them deep enough, the leader drew his gun and tried to put an end to his "cursed" child.
But one does not survive 11 years of hatred without learning to refuse death. Small hands grabbed for the weapon and struggled to keep it pointed away. She fought as best as she could against her supposed father for the gun.
Two shots rang out.
One in her knee and the other in his chest.
The girl crumbled to the floor and wept as pain and sorrow overcame her senses.
For days, she sat beside the corpse and wept. Crying for help she knew no one would offer. Screaming at the people who would dare hurt her for something outside of her control. Clutching her stomach as the gnawing that was always there grew.
Finally, under the light of the waxing moon, her hunger grew to be too much. Blinded by hunger and rage, she devoured her father.
There is a sin in murder. Worse in the murder of thine father. But a greater sin lies in consuming the flesh of another human being. A curse no one could have ever known was born of her sin and desire for revenge. Her skin grew cold and her heart slowed the more she feasted. Even after she'd devoured the entirety of the corpse, hunger still gripped her painfully. She moved in a haze towards the village, the beautiful white snow stained red with blood and lost innocence. The village was felled one by one to her awaiting jaws until not even the crackling of fires could be heard. But still she hungers. Now she walks the shadows of winter and the cloak of trees.
Watching.
Waiting.
Hunting.
For winter had come.