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The backpack sits comfortably on your shoulders, its familiar weight a comforting constant as you climb the narrow path that cuts like a scar through the rough grass of the Leide hills. The morning sun bathes the rocky peaks ahead in a warm, golden light, and the sky is such a clear blue it almost hurts to look up. Three days off. Three days just you, the silence, and the vastness of the mountains. After months in the stuffy bookstore in Lestallum, between dusty shelves and the same old faces, this feeling of freedom was exhilarating.
The first few hours are exactly what you hoped for. The trail is clearly marked; the guidebook had described it as 'moderate,' perfect for a day hike. A soft sigh escapes your lips, half a laugh at your own overconfidence. Moderate. For over an hour you haven’t seen a soul; the silence is broken only by the crunch of your boots on the gravel and the distant, lonely cry of a bird circling high above. The air smells of thyme and dry grass, and again and again, glimpses of wide valleys open up. In the distance, you can make out the enormous stone arches. You keep wondering how these wonders of nature could have come into being and how much time must have passed since then. A strange thought in this vastness, one that makes you feel small and insignificant. The path winds its way up a ridge, and your lungs burn from the exertion.
You stop frequently, pull your camera from your bag, and capture the view on your memory card; for later, for those gray days back in the city. You feel light, almost floating. The worries you left behind suddenly seem insignificant here, in this vast expanse.
Around midday, when the sun reaches its zenith and beats down mercilessly on your shoulders, you take a break and sit down on a rock. You greedily drink a large gulp of water and eat some of your provisions. After the short rest, you continue on your way.
Your gaze travels along the road to a fork in the path. The main trail leads to the right, up a gentler slope. To the left, a narrower, less-trodden path leads into a ravine. You pull out your guidebook, which you picked up at a tourist office last year. It’s slightly yellowed at the edges, and the ink is smudged in places.
According to the map, you need to go right. But there, at the entrance to the gorge, you see something. A small, weathered wooden sign, half-overgrown with brambles. You step closer and decipher the weathered writing: 'Ancient Guardian Viewpoint – 2 km'. Your heart leaps. There was nothing about it on your map. A hidden gem! A secret, perhaps?
You hesitate for a moment. The right path is the safe, well-known one. But the left one… the left one promises something special. Something not every tourist sees. You glance at the sun. Plenty of time! You can pop over to the viewpoint and then head back. You decide on the left path.
The first few meters are promising. The trail winds its way between moss-covered rocks, accompanied by the murmur of an unseen stream. You snap photos like crazy – the strange shapes of the rocks, the interplay of light and shadow. Time flies. At some point, you notice the path narrowing. The trail markers, initially present, become sparser and eventually disappear altogether. You stop, uncertain. Should you turn back? But the viewpoint can’t be far now. You quicken your pace.
The stream has vanished. Instead, you are now surrounded by high, dark cliffs that absorb the light. The sky above you, just moments ago a brilliant blue, has changed. You blink. Then you notice it. The change. A long, swift shadow flickers across the valley floor. You look up. The sky, once flawlessly blue, is now a patchwork of vibrant azure and dark violet, approaching from the west with alarming speed. The warm sun has disappeared, replaced by a sudden, icy wind that buffets your jacket and whips a few strands of hair across your face. The bird is gone. The air grows heavy, filled with the scent of approaching rain. Panic, cold and stinging, pierces the warmth of your exertion. You fumble with the guidebook, the pages flapping violently in the rising wind. The map is a confusing tangle of lines and symbols that made perfect sense in the warm comfort of your apartment but are now meaningless. The description of the main path is lost in the sea of text. Other, less obvious paths branch off, barely visible traces in the rock, but which one leads down? Which one leads to safety?
A fat raindrop lands on your hand, as cold as ice. Then another, and another. Moments later, the drops merge into a relentless, hissing downpour. The path beneath your boots turns into a slippery, muddy stream, and visibility shrinks to a few meters as the heavens open. The wind howls, a wailing monster that shakes the rocks, and with a deafening crack, lightning rips through the sky. Thunder follows, a deep, bone-chilling rumble that makes the ground tremble beneath you. You are no longer a hiker on an adventure. You are small, lost, and terrifyingly vulnerable in the mountain storm. With each thunderous crash, your heart pounding against your ribs, you stumble forward, blinded by the rain. Your boots slip, and you fall hard, your hands sinking into the cold, sticky mud. A sob escapes your throat, swallowed by the howling wind. That's it. That’s how it ends. Not in a grand, meaningful way, but rather as a footnote, a foolish statistic about an inexperienced hiker who ignored the weather.
Desperately, you search for shelter. There, in front of you, a large rocky outcrop. You stumble toward it, your feet slipping on the wet stone. You press yourself against the cold rock face, draw your knees up, and try to make yourself as small as possible. The rain lashes on, a gray, impenetrable wall. The cold seeps into your bones. You shiver uncontrollably. The euphoria of the morning is forgotten. Now there is only fear. Fear of being alone here. Fear that no one knew where you were. Fear that night, with all its dangerous terrors, would come before the rain stopped…
You don’t know how long you huddle like that. Minutes? Hours? Time loses all meaning. The noise of the rain and wind is deafening. You close your eyes and try to think of something warm. A cup of tea. A soft bed. In vain… And then, through the roar of the storm, you hear something. A sound that doesn’t belong in nature’s chaotic orchestra. Footsteps. Heavy, steady footsteps approaching. Your heart skips a beat. Is this salvation? Or danger? In this wilderness, it could be anything.
A massive figure emerges from the gray curtain of rain. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark, wet hair plastered to his face. He wears a dark leather jacket, soaked through, and a large, waterproof backpack slung over his shoulder. When he spots you under the rocky overhang, he stops abruptly.
For a moment, he just stares at you, his eyes, amber, almost gold, appraising you with a scrutinizing, slightly suspicious gaze. Then he steps closer, leaning down slightly to get a better look.
His voice, when he speaks, is deep and raspy, easily rising above the roar of the storm: “You look like you could use some help.”
It’s not a question. He doesn’t wait for an answer.
He pulls a waterproof tarp from his backpack and hands it to you. “Hold this over yourself. It’s better than nothing.”
He remains standing in the rain, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Then he gestures with his chin toward the path. “Up there, maybe twenty minutes away, is an old shelter. I discovered it last year. If we hurry, we can make it before nightfall. Can you walk?”
You nod, even though your legs are trembling and every muscle aches.
“Okay. Let’s go. Stay close behind me.”
He leads the way, a rock in the surf, clearing a path through the rain. He adjusts his pace, turning around to check you’re still following.
When you stumble on a particularly slippery spot, his hand is there immediately, grabbing your arm and holding you steady. “Careful. Step exactly where I step.”
His touch is firm, but not rough. It gives you support as your strength wanes.
When you finally reach the cabin, you silently thank the gods. A simple log cabin made of weathered wood, half-hidden beneath an overhanging rock. Large spotlights have been brought along to keep the Daemons away in the night. The door creaks as your companion pushes it open. Inside, it’s dark and smells of old wood and dust, but it’s dry. Finally dry! Only now do you realize you haven’t even asked him his name yet. He seems to be able to read your mind.
“My name is Gladiolus,” he grumbles, throwing off his backpack. “My friends call me Gladio.”
While you’re still standing, dripping wet, in the doorway, he’s already at work.
“Sit down. I’ll make a fire.” His movements are efficient, practiced.
He kneels before the old fire pit, stacks some wood that’s still in a box, and ignites a small but warming fire with a lighter. The flames dance, casting flickering shadows on the walls and slowly spreading a comforting warmth.
Only then does he turn back to you. He studies you, seeing your trembling, your pale lips.
“Take off your wet clothes,” he says.
It’s not a suggestion, an order. But then, noticing your hesitation, he adds, “I’ll turn around.”
And he does. He turns to the wall, folds his arms, and waits, a picture of stone and patience.
As you remove your wet clothes as best you can, you introduce yourself. “Thank you, Gladio. I’m _____.”
Then you wrap yourself in the thin blanket you packed in your backpack. It’s just big enough. Your teeth are still chattering.
“All done,” you whisper.
He turns around, glances at your shivering figure, then reaches back into his backpack.
Wordlessly, he hands you a thick, soft sweater. “Here. Put this on. It’s dry and warm.”
It’s his own. It smells like him, like leather, like the forest, like something smoky. You put it on. It’s much too big, the sleeves hang over your hands, but it’s warm and dry and smells of safety. Gladiolus has meanwhile sat down on the ground in front of the fire. He sits with his legs stretched out, leaning against the wall.
He looks at you with that impenetrable gaze. “Sit down. Warm up.”
You sit down next to him, not too close, but close enough to feel the warmth of the fire.
The silence is initially unfamiliar, oppressive. Only the crackling of the fire and the howling of the storm outside. But then, after a while, it softens. Less tense.
“My name is _____, by the way,” you say quietly, suspecting he didn't hear it the first time.
He nods.
“I know. You already mentioned it,” he replies. A tiny hint of humor in his raspy voice.
You blush. “Right. Sorry.”
He waves. “It’s okay. You’re flustered.”
He’s silent for a moment, then begins to talk. Not much, but enough. He tells you about his hikes, his training sessions in the wilderness, and the peace he finds here, far from protocols and obligations. He explains that he comes here to reflect, to clear his head. When he speaks of his sister, Iris, his voice suddenly sounds different, softer than before. The ice, which once seemed so thick and intimidating, begins to melt. You feel more at ease and start to talk too, hesitantly at first, then more and more freely, about your life, your job, your love of books, and the reason for your hike. He listens attentively, doesn’t interrupt, and simply observes you with his amber eyes, which seem to see right through you. His eyes rest on you, and you sense that he hears not only the words, but also what’s between the lines. The loneliness. The longing for something different.
“Why alone?” he asks at some point. “It’s dangerous here in the mountains if you don’t have experience.” It doesn’t sound accusatory, more like concern.
You shrug. “My friends didn’t have time. And I didn’t want to wait. I just wanted to… go.”
He nods slowly.
“I know that feeling.” His gaze is thoughtful. “But next time, you’d better find a companion. Someone who knows the area.”
A small smile plays on your lips. “Maybe I’ll find one.”
He’s interested in you, and you feel seen. Truly seen. His shirt is slightly open, and you notice the tattoo on his torso: a majestic bird of prey.
“An eagle,” he explains, noticing your curious gaze. “A family tradition. We are shields. We protect the king.”
You think back to how he found you, how he brought you here. A true shield. For the first time that evening, you see something like a smile on his face. Just a small, almost embarrassed twitch of the corners of his mouth, but it changed his whole expression. Made him gentler. More human.
Later, as the storm still rages and the cold seeps even through the thick wooden walls of the cabin, you begin to shiver again. You try to suppress it and pull the blanket tighter around you. Gladiolus notices immediately.
“Cold?” he asks, concerned.
“Yes…” you manage to say.
He hesitates for a moment, then gestures to the space beside him. “Come closer to the fire. Or…”
He clears his throat, and for the first time that evening, he sounds almost uncertain, as if embarrassed.
“…if you want, you can… here,” he suggests, gesturing vaguely to his side. “I'm warm. Sort of.”
He is a man of immense stature, massive and filled with a warmth that seems to emanate from his very core. For a heartbeat, you hesitate, your mind resisting this closeness, yet the cold is a primal, demanding force. You move closer, the blanket dragging across the dusty floorboards, until you’re sitting shoulder to shoulder with him. Your heart suddenly races. The closeness is too much, yet not enough. You feel the fabric of his shirt against your cheek, the firm muscles beneath, and the warmth emanating from him in waves, slowly but surely melting the cold within you. He moves a little closer, creating more space, and then, after another moment of hesitation, he raises his arm. It’s an awkward, uncertain gesture, but when he places it around your shoulders, it feels perfectly natural.
He gently pulls you closer, and instinctively, you nestle your head against his shoulder. His warmth washes over you, a slow, melting tide against the cold that has seeped deep into your bones. His scent is more intense here: smoke, damp leather, and clean, manly skin. The fabric of his sweater is soft against your cheek, and the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart against your ear is a powerful, soothing metronome amidst the storm. You sigh, a long, trembling sigh releasing a tension you weren’t even aware of. He flinches for a moment when you touch him, then relaxes, his arm closing firmly and comfortingly around you. The trembling subsides; your eyes grow heavy.
“Sleep peacefully,” you hear his voice, deep and reassuring, right next to you. “I’ll watch over you.”
That’s the last thing you consciously register before you drift into a deep, dreamless sleep.
…
When you finally wake up, the storm is long over. Pale, gray morning light filters through the small window of the cabin. You realize you’re lying on a sleeping mat, covered with a warm blanket that isn’t yours. The fire is still crackling softly in the hearth. You sit up, disoriented, and see Gladiolus. He’s standing outside the cabin, his back to you, looking out over the valley. The sun is just breaking through the last clouds, bathing the rocky peaks in a soft gold. He seems calm, almost meditative. You notice his broad shoulders, the scars visible beneath the hem of his shirt—traces of past battles, part of his story. Hearing your movements, he turns around.
“Morning,” he greets you. “You look better today. Are you hungry?”
You nod. He comes inside, takes a small camping stove out of his backpack, and carries it to the small kitchenette.
“Let’s have something warm to drink before we go down,” he says, fiddling with pots and coffee cups. “It’s still slippery. Best to take it slow.”
While he brews the coffee, you get up and fold the blanket he must have draped over you overnight.
“Thank you, Gladio,” you say quietly. “For everything.”
He doesn’t turn around, but you see his back muscles tense briefly.
“I only did what anyone would have done,” he murmurs.
But you know that’s not true. Not everyone would have gone into a storm for a stranger. Not everyone would have shared their warmth and the night with you. He hands you a cup. This simple gesture feels more familiar than anything that has happened that day. The coffee is strong and dark, warming you from the inside out. You sit together in silence, drinking coffee and watching the fire slowly die down. The silence is no longer uncomfortable. It is comfortable, filled with an unspoken understanding. You have experienced him at his fiercest and his gentlest. He has seen you vulnerable and afraid. A bond exists between you, forged in the midst of the storm.
After breakfast, he packs his things while you put on your still-damp clothes. His sweater, warm and dry, smells of both of you. You hesitate for a moment.
“Thank you,” you say again. “I’ll wash it and send it to you. If you give me your address.”
He looks at the sweater, then at you. For a moment, something flickers across his amber eyes. Hesitation? Regret?
“No need,” he says, his voice becoming rougher. “Keep it. It suits you.”
Then you start back. The path, yesterday a threatening, slippery ordeal, is today a stroll in the clear morning light. Gladiolus leads you, showing you shortcuts he knew and places you would never have found on your own: a hidden waterfall cascading into an emerald pool, a rock with ancient, carved symbols, and a small clearing with wildflowers glowing in the morning sun. Along the way, as you have to climb over a particularly high rock, you slip. You reach for him for support, and your hand lands on his forearm. You feel the hard muscles beneath his skin, his warmth. Both of you freeze for a moment. The air is filled with an unspoken tension, a different kind of excitement. He clears his throat and helps you up.
“Watch your step,” he says, his voice a little hoarse.
The closer you get to the valley floor, the more your paths diverge. The unspoken question hangs heavy between you, like the morning mist. What happens now? Will this bond, forged in the firelight and the storm, simply fade away? When you finally reach the main path you should have taken yesterday, he stops.
“Here we are,” he remarks, pointing down the trail. “This will lead you back to the parking lot.”
You stop too and turn to face him. The sun is blinding, and you have to look away.
“Thank you again, Gladio,” you say, barely audible. “I… I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
He shrugs, a gesture that’s becoming increasingly familiar to you both. “You would have managed somehow.”
But you know that’s not true.
“How can I ever repay you?” you ask, searching for words. “I mean… seriously.”
He looks at you, a long, searching gaze that seems to last forever. The sun catches the amber in his eyes and makes them glow. Then, for the first time, he gives you a genuine, warm smile. It changes his face, softening the harsh lines and making the corners of his eyes twitch slightly. It’s a beautiful, breathtaking sight.
“You could grab a coffee with me some time,” he suggests casually, but the hope in his voice is unmistakable. “In Lestallum. Or in Insomnia. Anywhere.”
A wave of relief washes over you, so strong it almost makes you dizzy.
“I’d like that,” you smile back. “I’d really like that.”
He pulls a small, worn notebook and a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket. He scribbles something on a piece of paper, tears it out, and hands it to you. It’s his phone number.
“Call me,” he asks. “Tell me you're back safe.”
You take the slip of paper, your fingers touching. A spark, like the embers of a fire.
“I will,” you promise him.
With one last, lingering glance, he turns and heads up the path, disappearing back into the wilderness that is so clearly his element. You watch him, a solitary figure against the vast, sunlit landscape, until he is just a dark dot among the rocks and trees. You stand there for a long time, the note clutched tightly in your hand, the scent of his warmth still clinging to your sweater. Not only that, but you came to these mountains in search of a break, an adventure. But you leave with so much more. You leave with the promise of coffee. You leave with the beginning of a story, with a piece of him, a shield. And he left behind more than just gratitude. He left behind a part of himself, a promise of warmth and security.