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“May you live every day of your life.”
. JONATHAN SWIFT
Would it be painful?
First, there’s nothing. Not a single soul, not a single breath, barely some wind and the usual heavy rain from that side of the country. The land is silent. The green likely eternal grass extends its multiple arms toward the sky, calling for more water, again and again, in order to color the countryside. Nature reigns mistress, unbothered, flooding the air with her wild scents and her savage laws.
Then, the wind wakes up, twirling and concentrating around a blind spot. Like caught in a tornado, the single rock of the land remains protected, sheltered by the eye of the storm. While the clouds gather over the epicenter, Magic comes out. Blossoming and surging from the soil, it raises like a sudden wall, maybe protecting the place from the Elements. Or maybe, just perhaps, it’s protecting the rest of the world from the hurling power breaching the reality veil. The knife cutting the immaterial walls of Space and Time is tearing the Land apart.
The Land is forgiving. The Land is knowing. Nature welcomes the violating intruder with lightning striking him between the clouds. It explodes the rock when it rushes down.
When the smoke elevating from the shock dies down, a man stands still, feet firmly grounded.
Would he be the same?
The man is not a man. Merely a young adult. A teenager, even. The Champion is not even seventeen. His mind is older than his body is, but both are scarred. The boy sports many scars on his face, destroying whatever charm animated his gracious lips and fired his now dull eyes. His pale skin is diaphanous and shows off his veins and the dark circles under his eyes. His cheeks are so dug that his cheekbones protrude sharply and cut off the remaining childish forms from his face. He’s sixteen, but there’s no child in him. The Champion has been made Warrior long ago.
When the boy moves, it’s to lift his hand and hold a cigarette to his lips. The soft stick caught between two fingers lights under the rain when he inhales on it. Smoke floods his lungs as he lets go of it and crushes it under his shoe. And when he exhales, the heavy smoke is a mix of both tobacco and condensation. The air is cold and humid, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.
His trench puffs when the wind blows in it, and his hair floats around his head, long and curly. He still doesn’t move. He takes a few breaths out of the pure air. It’s been so long since he’s been able to do so. A nostalgic smile breaks between his scars when his head tilts backward and he closes his eyes. Rain pours on his face freely, freezing his skin cold, but he remains where he stands, taking in the Chance given to him.
He’s back where everything has begun. The Land is forgiving, adorning herself with all her pageantry to Welcome the Champion.
Would it work?
The boy has time. He spends half an hour letting his body cool in the freezing gale, under the pouring rain. He hasn’t felt that alive for years, now. He has time. His journey begins now, and even if he doesn’t plan on living past through his mission, he does plan on taking everything he can while he works it out.
Are you ready, Child of Mine?
The wind murmurs in his ear. He smiles again, descending from the remaining rubbles of the rock. He recognizes the voice of his Partner. Death has bent over him too many times for him to fear Her. Even now, invested with the Mission, he can feel her coldness behind his back. She’s hovering. She’s always had. She’s never left him, loyal and encouraging.
If only it hadn’t taken him that long to understand her.
I am, Old Mother, he answers.
The wind takes his words away, where creatures and children will hear them and start his Legend. He has returned. His memory whole again, he prepares himself, listening to his Protectors, carrying their Legacies with him, Knight again in order to fulfill their wishes.
Would he bear the same Name?
He walks again, coming from old ages. He walks finally, coming from unborn years. He’s the Past, the Present, and the Future. He is the Guardian, the Warrior, the Champion, the Chosen-One. He has worn many names, given or taken. He has worn each of them with pride and lived up to the Legend.
He is Harry Potter.
He is Myrddin Wyllt.
He is Merlin.
He is dead and reborn.
During his lives, how many have failed him? How many times has he dived in deep enough to lose himself? His life-long mission has to end, one day. The boy’s lips stretch in a cruel smirk. This is the Last Chance before his Protectors let go. This world is bound to end, one day. His task is the same as it has ever been, except it is the Last he is given before he falls asleep for good. Death will grant him an eternal Rest soon, leaving this world unprotected. It’s their Last Chance.
He is wise and calm.
He is the Chosen Warrior.
For a Last Fight, Child, sings the voice in the wind.
He’s at peace, today. The world is on the verge of falling into the Abyss, and he couldn’t care less. He has saved it enough to know it is bound to be destroyed by those living a mortal life. It is the way They created it. And now, they’re tired of playing with it.
He is too.
He is on warpath.