Legend CI – The Guardian Who Counted Roots

More about Legend CI – The Guardian Who Counted Roots

Deep in the forest, where the light softened and the sounds lost their haste, lived a being that had never borne a name, for the forest itself was its call. It was made of wood and time, of bark that stretched like skin, and of roots that stirred when no one was looking. Moss grew on its shoulders, small mushrooms sprouted from the crevices of its body, and a faint glow dwelt among the fibers of its wood, as if fireflies had decided to stay. Its eyes were large and green, not like eyes that want to see, but like eyes that remember. The Guardian moved slowly, not out of heaviness, but out of attentiveness. Every step was a weighing of options, every movement a consideration for the ground that supported it. It had not grown from a seed, had not been born of magic, but of a task. As the forest began to lose its roots, forgotten by too many feet, this being formed out of the need for preservation. The guardian didn't count years, but connections. He knew every root that lay beneath the earth, every branching one, every one that had been cut. When a tree fell somewhere, he knew it, not as a pain, but as a void. Sometimes he carefully raised an arm, more like a branch, and let beings of light land upon it, small winged sparks that brought messages from parts of the forest no human had ever entered. He listened to them, not with words, but with silence. Wanderers who lost their way sometimes saw him standing among the trunks, motionless, friendly, almost curious. Those who were startled lost their way. Those who stayed felt the forest rearranging itself. The guardian didn't speak, yet his presence spoke volumes: that the forest wasn't deserted, that it was being counted, not in trunks, but in relationships. The guardian knew that nothing lasted forever, not even guardians. But as long as there were roots seeking each other, as long as seeds slumbered in the soil, he would remain. At night, when the forest slept, he sat among ancient trunks and laid his hands on the ground. Then he no longer counted; he listened. He sensed where new life hesitated, where the earth was weary, where water was lacking. Sometimes a young shoot sprouted beneath his fingers, not through magic, but through encouragement. People who respected the forest later noticed that their footsteps grew quieter, that they found paths without seeking them. Others left the forest with the feeling of having been observed, without threat, only with a quiet understanding that they had been guests. One day, the beings of light tell, the guardian will begin to count less. Then the roots will find themselves again, the forest will remember, without help.