The Garden of the Hesperides is one of those rare safe havens in a world of eternal conflict where no refuge should ordinarily count itself safe. Yes, even in the safest of places, one should always watch one's back. And the same principle should apply to the garden. But, inexplicably, it does not. The garden is not only safe as much as it is sacred. It is the one place one dare not touch. A gift, a mercy, a balm on the terrors of the Underland, and perhaps, perhaps we should not stain it with our bloody hands. The apple trees are coveted and the plants longed for, but there is an unspoken truth that goes as such — you shall not touch the garden. And if you do, do it gently. For here the pups frolic and the soldiers become doting parents.
Or so it seemed.
When the world lets up for a bit, when the horrors quiet down ever so slightly, the families come to the garden. The frightened muscles of the pups go slack as they lie beneath the trees and reach with a feeble paw for the apples but come up short, and the soldiers lose their edges as they pick the golden fruit from the trees and lie it gently at the feet of their children. And they play. They play, unbothered, unafraid, for wariness and war is left at the entrance of the garden and exchanged for unapologetic youth and innocence. This is the Garden of the Hesperides — the place where one might rest one's head for a moment and pretend that everything is all right. That, if a place like this exists, maybe there is hope for the world.
Or so it seemed.
It was a nice dream, they will say in the future, between the memories of broken screams and floating corpses. It was a nice dream, but it was foolish. We should have known better. We should have known better than to think it would last.
Greed never shows mercy. Somebody wants in on that dream. Somebody wants that paradise for themselves. After all, they themselves have planted the garden, so why should not their young frolic between the trees, why should not their soldiers rest their heads? They have not seen the pups, they have not seen the families — only gnawers, they reason, it is only gnawers. Certainly we are more worthy. We only want the garden. Nothing more, nothing less.
So they come to the Garden. They bring their army, come both fliers and killers, with swords and agendas and war plans. There is no sign that says Leave your war at the door, but it should be obvious. But it is not. With confusion, the gnawers lift their heads from their games. This does not make sense. This should not be happening. This is contradictory to the very essence of the garden. The garden is a safe haven. The garden is peace.
You shall not touch the garden.
Or so it seemed.
So it always seems.
For the army does touch the garden. They touch it, soiling its innocence as the blood stains their hands and their claws. And the gnawers, who had left their war outside, spring into action, for no longer can they rest. Go in the caves, go in the caves, pups! You will be safe, they will not touch you, you are not a part of this!
Those soldiers who had turned peaceful as they lay in the garden now grow vicious. The claws that had picked golden apples from the trees tear and maim, the fond eyes blaze like fires. There should be no fire in a garden. There should be no death in a garden, for a garden is a place of life.
Or so it seemed.
And if you do, do it gently.
But there is no place for gentleness. Touch what is innocent and you shall be repaid with equal violence. So the gnawers fight with ferocity. They fight with anger and vengeance like no other. They will win in their fierceness — they will succeed because they must. This is the Garden of the Hesperides, and it should be safe. It is the place where one might rest one's head for a moment and pretend that everything is all right.
Or so it was.
For here the pups frolic and the soldiers become doting parents.
The eternal son of the eternal soldier opens the gates.
We only want the garden. Nothing more, nothing less.
And the water rushes in and swallows the garden whole.
They say the corpses still lie there, that the screams of the pups may still be heard. They say that the ground remembers. That it will never again let golden apples grow from its soil.
This is the Garden of the Hesperides.