Deep Sea Embers

In the quiet aftermath of a city marred by conflict, where the skyline was barely visible through the clearing haze of smoke, an electrifying announcement resonated through the somber atmosphere of a nearby cemetery. “We have a survivor! A little girl!” The jubilant voice shattered the haunting stillness that hung like a shroud over the graves.

A protective figure emerged from a modest caretaker’s cabin at the edge of the graveyard, opening the heavy wooden door with a slow creak. Inside the dimly lit space, a young girl named Annie was huddled, her body trembling. As he stepped out, the biting wind that followed him carried the acrid smell of gunpowder, a lingering trace of the recent hostilities.

Annie looked up, her eyes vacant but alert, meeting those of the guardian. In that moment, she noticed another presence behind him, a figure steeped in an air of perpetual sadness.

Driven by some deep-rooted instinct, she managed to stand and staggered towards this second, mysterious individual. Her small legs wobbled, but before she could tumble to the ground, the guardian’s firm grasp caught her by the collar of her dress. “Are you okay, little one? What is your name? Why are you here by yourself in this mournful place?”

His questions seemed to bounce around her, their meaning not fully sinking in as she looked around frenetically for the figure she had glimpsed moments earlier.

She didn’t have to look far. The figure, an elderly man who appeared weighed down by years of sorrow, stood just a short distance away. He acknowledged her only briefly with a dismissive wave of his hand before proceeding deeper into the cemetery. He was walking towards an imposing figure dressed in a black robe, wrapped in bandages, and holding a staff made from what appeared to be gnarled deadwood. The sight was unsettlingly similar to the descriptions of the Bartok Gate’s gatekeeper, a mythical figure featured in the sacred texts of the church.

A brief, hushed conversation occurred between the two before they both vanished into the mist, fading away like spectral figures at the end of a winding pathway.

Annie stood rooted to the spot, her young face emotionless, her eyes devoid of tears even in the biting cold.

The guardian, concern etching his features, asked softly, “What’s bothering you, dear? What are you searching for?”

“Perhaps, she is looking for this,” came an unexpected voice, its timbre echoing through the air and accompanied by the distinct sound of boots crunching on a layer of frosty snow.

As she heard the voice, Annie’s attention was immediately redirected. A priestess stepped into view, her hands gently holding a worn cane and a hunting rifle that seemed strikingly familiar.

“Your guardian has left this world,” the priestess said softly, bending down to place the items at Annie’s feet. “Unfortunately, he won’t be able to see you again; all that remains of him are his ashes.”

For a moment, Annie simply stared at the cane and rifle laid before her. Then, with deliberate movement, she bent down to pick them up, holding them close to her chest as if embracing the last tangible memories of someone dearly loved.

“I understand,” Annie whispered softly, her voice tinged with a melancholy realization. “The gatekeeper grandpa went away with my grandpa.”

“Be careful with that gun,” the guardian warned, his hand instinctively moving toward her as if to take the weapon away.

“It’s all right,” the priestess interrupted, her voice a blend of gentleness and authority. “The rifle is unloaded. Let her keep it; the two may have known each other.”

Uncertain for a moment but respecting the priestess’s wisdom, the guardian withdrew his hand. He then turned his attention to surveying the aftermath of the battle in the graveyard as if seeking clues or reassurances in its scarred landscape.

The pathway that meandered through the graveyard was a mess, awash in a sludgy blend of blackened mud and debris. Even the caretaker’s humble dwelling had not been spared and was similarly mired. A grimy layer of soiled snow lay mingled with the mud, covering the cemetery like a loathsome blanket.

It was evident that numerous abominations had tried to desecrate this sacred ground, their failed attempts marked by various combat scars and hidden fatalities now concealed under the snow. With the dispersal of the dark forces, the secrets of their demise seemed to have been whisked away by the wind, lost to the annals of history.

Then, as if on cue, a whispering chill floated through the air. Looking skyward, the guardian noticed a delicate ballet of snowflakes spiraling down from the heavens. For once, it was not ash masquerading as snow but genuine flakes, a manifestation of winter’s unspoiled grace.

As the snow descended, a sudden beam of light broke through the clouds, cutting through the dreariness like a knife. It was a symbol of hope, heralding the sun’s overdue return.

Just then, the distant rumble of a steam engine filled the air, its noise amplifying as it approached the cemetery. An armored steam car finally pulled up at the grand entrance, drawing the immediate attention of a squad of patrolling guardians. As they hastened to the vehicle, their faces registered shock, quickly replaced by a respectful salute as a figure stepped out.

The sound of footsteps resonated on the pathway leading to the caretaker’s cabin. The young guardian, dressed in a somber black uniform, immediately stood at attention and saluted, confusion clouding his voice. “Gatekeeper, are you here to…”

“Conduct an assessment of the graveyards,” came the curt but decisive reply from the newcomer.

At the sound of this new voice, Annie snapped out of her reverie. Clutching the cane and shotgun close to her, her eyes instinctively sought the source and fell upon a woman adorned in a black priest’s robe.

Her skin was an ethereal shade of white, almost glowing with a serene but icy aura. To Annie, it felt like a cold mist, unsettling yet strangely comforting. Her skin bore numerous scars, unblemished by blood or discoloration as if she were a porcelain doll that had seen battle.

Covering her eyes was a black blindfold, signifying her lack of sight. And yet, despite her obvious blindness, Annie felt as if the woman was truly “seeing” her—her presence exuding an ethereal gaze that seemed to cut right through the fabric of the blindfold.

A flicker of realization slowly lit up Annie’s eyes, but it was clear that the woman, Agatha, had recognized her from the moment they met.

“Annie, isn’t it?” Agatha inquired softly as she gently tousled the child’s hair. Her eyes then shifted to the cane and shotgun that Annie clung to so dearly. Falling momentarily quiet, she directed her words toward the priest who stood behind her. “The mountainside was the first point of attack. These graveyards acted as defensive walls, stopping a horde of abominations from spilling into the city streets.”

“The toll was heavy,” added the priestess, her voice tinged with sorrow. “Almost all the gravekeepers and guardians designated to this area were lost in the fight. The city’s defense forces in this sector also took severe casualties.”

Agatha listened intently before bowing her head, offering a quiet moment of respect and prayer.

Perturbed, the young guardian clad in black finally spoke, “Gatekeeper, the city has suffered devastating losses. This leaves us susceptible to secondary catastrophes, spurred by the pervasive death, fear, and obsession among the populace. We likely need multiple grand soul-calming ceremonies, but the cathedral is currently…”

“Concerns about the soul-calming ceremonies can be set aside,” Agatha interrupted, emanating an air of calm authority. “I am now acting as the archbishop. Archbishop Ivan has moved on to a different journey.”

The guardian looked visibly stunned for a moment, his expression quickly morphing from shock to something resembling denial. It was as if he had only just registered the change in Agatha’s attire.

Gone was the formidable coat that had once signaled her role as the Gatekeeper of Frost. In its place was a robe, more akin to the vestments of a cleric, reflecting her new set of duties and responsibilities.

“As of now, I still fulfill the duties of a gatekeeper, and the guardians remain under my command,” Agatha elaborated, her blindfolded eyes nonetheless keenly attuned to her subordinate’s reactions. “This will be the case until the Death Church headquarters either appoint a new archbishop or a new gatekeeper takes my place. At that point, I may formally become this city-state’s archbishop. For the time being, our priority is maintaining stability within the city-state.”

“Yes… Gatekeeper.”

The young guardian briefly hesitated, his gaze falling to the ground before he chose to use the familiar and respected title, “Gatekeeper.”

Unperturbed by these minor issues of formality, Agatha redirected her attention to Annie.

“Go home,” she softly instructed the young girl. “Your mother is safe and waiting for you.”

Upon hearing the mention of her mother, Annie’s expression shifted from hesitant to resolute. She nodded, prepared to leave with the accompanying guardians.

However, as she took her first steps, she paused. “The gatekeeper, the one ‘on the other side’ as spoken of in the scriptures… he left in that manner,” Annie looked up at Agatha, whose brows had subtly knit together.

The child’s statement hovered in the air, loaded with implications and mysteries that seemed to transcend their current circumstances. Agatha, blindfolded yet extraordinarily perceptive, sensed the depth of Annie’s words, understanding that the child had grasped a complex truth—one that even adults in her city-state had difficulty comprehending.

Annie, suspecting that Agatha might not fully believe her words, urgently gestured towards the deeper parts of the graveyard. “He left from that direction,” she emphasized.

Agatha tilted her head, seemingly staring intently at the spot Annie had indicated. Behind her black blindfold, a fleeting glimmer of ethereal green light momentarily flickered as if she were truly seeing something beyond the ordinary scope.

Finally, she returned her focus to Annie. “Do you wish to become a guardian?” she asked.

Confusion clouded the young girl’s face; she clearly didn’t know how to process this sudden inquiry. After a moment, understanding seemed to light up her eyes. “You mean, like you and Grandpa?”

“It would be a long journey,” Agatha said, her lips bending into a tender, understanding smile. “But for now, let’s not rush into it. Return home first. If you still wish to pursue this path, the first step would be attending the basic Death Church institute.”

Accepting Agatha’s words, though not entirely comprehending their full implications, Annie reluctantly relinquished the shotgun and staff to the guardian standing beside her.

“If I become a guardian, can I keep Grandpa’s shotgun and staff?” She pivoted around, locking eyes with Agatha, her gaze earnest and brimming with a sincerity that was far too mature for her young age.

Agatha studied her for a moment, her blindfolded eyes unreadable yet deeply thoughtful. “If your desire remains unchanged three years from now, you have my permission,” she finally said.

Annie nodded and turned to leave, and as she walked away, the graveyard quickly returned to its previous, tranquil state.

“Were you serious about what you said to her?” the young guardian dressed in black asked, his voice tinged with doubt. “She’s only a child, and her latent abilities are yet to be revealed. Taking up the old soldier’s staff and shotgun—those aren’t merely tokens; they carry responsibilities far beyond a typical guardian’s training.”

Agatha’s voice was as serene as the quietude enveloping the cemetery. “She has the ability to perceive the guide of the realm of the departed,” she said softly, her eyes, though blindfolded, appearing to focus on the distant trails leading deep into the graveyard. “I had the same gift when I was her age.”

The young guardian absorbed this revelation in silence, grappling with the enormity of what Agatha had just said.

Next to them, the priestess seemed to wrestle with her own concerns. Finally, unable to hold back, she turned to Agatha, her eyes tinged with worry. “Your health—how are you truly holding up?”

“I’m well,” Agatha assured her, offering a slight shake of her head as if to dispel the priestess’s fears. “Recent events have taken a toll on this body, but I’ll manage.”

Agatha’s words were calm, but they contained layers of hard-won resilience and tacit knowledge of untold struggles, solidifying her position not just as a guardian but perhaps as a future pillar of the city-state they were all striving to protect.