LJ Idol 20. Week One: Open Topic. Meet Bastion and Greg

 

Gregor the grotesque despised being called a gargoyle. “How dare he… I don’t have a water spout, do I?” 

Not that Bastion had ever seen, nor was he inclined to inspect Greg’s underside. “I wouldn’t know.” 

The grotesque grunted, drawing his wings into his lichen-crusted back. With his hunched shoulders and weathered stone hide, he could have been carved there centuries ago along with the other statues. “What did that asshole want anyway?” 

Cecil Lott had left the sanctum an hour ago, but Greg was still holding a grudge. Bastion, on the other hand, was more concerned about the weeds. They had crept between the stones and grown long enough to brush his knees.

“What they always want.” Bastion’s fingers dug deep into the soil, working a weed out inch by inch, careful to separate it from the lavender entangled with it. “A nightmare. Not for himself, of course.” 

“And?”  

“And what?” 

“Did you accept?” 

The look he gave Greg might have frozen the blood in his veins, had the grotesque possessed any. Bastion ripped out another weed. 

“Things are a bit slow these days…” A claw scraped idly against the ground. “One can never be too sure.” 

Slow. That was one way to put it. More like things were as dead as the garden in front of him. “I declined. Obviously.” 

Cecil had wanted the monster, not a Guardian. Guardians were meant to lessen suffering, not cause more, and it had been well over a century since Bastion had used his other gifts. There was enough fear in the world already; he didn’t have to manufacture it to sustain himself. 

Bastion shook the soil from his fingers before moving on to the next weed. This one was practically strangling the violets. “He called me the Last Guardian.” 

“Well, it’s true. You are the last.” 

Bastion let out a derisive snort. “As if that means anything now.” 

He’d been young enough to believe his mother’s visions singled him out for something greater. The Last Guardian. Not merely a Guardian, but the one to outlast all the rest. At the time, he thought he understood what that meant. 

Now, he was no longer sure. 

“It does mean something,” Greg said. “It means you don’t have to spend your time tending the garden.” 

The overgrowth had claimed most of the statues, and moss covered the rest, thickening in the hollows of inscriptions long since forgotten. Clearing all of the monuments would take a week, if not longer, but there was no shortage of time. Not for Bastion. “Someone has to.” 

He scraped some moss away, revealing a name. Victor. 

Only a first name, and not even the one he was born with. Like all the boys, including Bastion himself. Their past—and everything they once were—was left at the door the day they entered the sanctum to start their training. 

But Bastion had seen Victor’s dreams.

 Arthur. Night after night, his mother would call him that, but Bastion always made sure to wake him before she died. 

A dry rumble rolled from Greg’s chest. “Do you remember the time Victor climbed to the top of the giant oak?” 

The highest branch, where it forked above the sanctuary’s roof. Victor’s boot was stuck between the branches, and there were leaves in his pale blonde hair when Bastion reached him. He’d never forget the look of panic on Victor’s face when—

Bastion buried his hands in the dirt, seized another weed, and ripped it out in one clean motion. “I don’t think about Victor.” 

One of Greg’s wings twitched, and Bastion’s gardening interested him more than it normally would. “You know, you’re the last Guardian left, so—” 

“Don’t call me that.” 

Greg cleared his throat with a low scrape of stone. More than likely, the title had been a slip of the tongue. It was hard to avoid. “What I meant to say is that you are now the highest authority.” 

“The only authority.” 

“Precisely. So unless you’re into self-flagellation, I think it's safe to think about your friends.” 

Whatever they allowed themselves to love, they also allowed themselves to lose, creating the very suffering they sought to relieve. Greg knew all of this, despite being the one exception to the rules against attachment.

Bastion rose, wiping his soiled hands on his pants. Greg, who had seemed imposing enough among the statues, barely came to his waist. “You’re far too sentimental for something called a grotesque.” 

“I had to be. I cared for children.” A faint curl touched the corner of Greg’s mouth. “What’s your excuse?” 

Considering what he was, most dismissed his mother’s vision as delusion, though there was a certain logic to it. To alleviate fear, one must first understand it. “And where are those children now?” 

Greg’s carved eyes stared up at him. 

“The others, I mean.” The boys had been young when they had entered the sanctum. Time had taken care of the rest. “The ones not like me.” 

Around them, names disappeared beneath moss and creeping vines, some of them almost swallowed entirely by the earth. Greg’s gaze dropped to the ground. 

 “Exactly.” Bastion lowered himself in front of another stone, burying his hands beneath the tangle of roots and soil at its base. “Guardians don’t have friends.”


(These characters will part of a larger world I've built for my series of books. I used the Open Topic to jump ahead in the story since I've been wanting to write them for some time. I hope you enjoyed them, and that it works as a standalone. Also I almost gave Bastion a title of Master but thought better of it when I realized it would be Master Bastion and had a good laugh).