Guardian's Redemption

Epilogue: Union

Destruction of unfathomable proportions had reaped its harvest of the now dormant valley. A solitary figure was filled with sorrow as it gazed down upon what had once been a thriving city. His temper an echo of the sky above. The last fingers of twilight struggling against the unstoppable march of the night.

Night, thought conquered in the all too recent past, now birthed long forgotten horrors of antiquity. These days only foolish men were caught beyond the boundaries of protective stockades and a warm fire; when the sun dipped toward the horizon. The shadowy figure's face twisted into a ironic grin.

"But these days, no one could accuse me of being either," his words lost as a breeze gusted on the ridge where he stood.

Pockets had evolved in the changing world. A mutation, whether a curse or a blessing, he didn't truly know. All that mattered, at this point, was that he was alive, and the memory of his family was vivid in his thoughts. The past was a place which many longed for in their dreams. Those simpler times now out of reach for most. Electricity was scarce, though it could be found in scarce areas. He had persuaded the people he lived with not to use it, to embrace nature, to learn.

"Awfully quiet, aren't we?" an old gravely voice grumbled with a boom behind him. Pockets looked back to the old man who was struggling to place his feet as he walked. His cane curved far too much that it even looked like it was to break at any moment. Beard, white and pure, hung to his waist. The last of the sun's rays shined off his smooth dome as he craned his neck to see over the ridge as he climbed. The new arrival's piercing blue eyes took in the ghastly view in a moment before dimming to a seemingly, senile glare.

"Gazing into the past," the young man whispered so softly that even his inhuman ears almost never caught it.

Pockets waited patiently as the old man cursed at a small pebble, claiming it was a booby trap laid there by some imaginary woman to cause him havoc. Finally the two stood side by side, neither speaking as light faded from the world like a sputtering candle. "Disgusting color," complained the hunched over ancient as he spat a gob of phlegm into the dirt.

A smile crossed Pockets' hidden face for he knew on a previous encounter with the old man that the ancient despised his choice of color for his robes. He looked down to the forest green garment that held his facial features beneath its own shadowy prison. He couldn't help to admire the light gleam from the runic symbols in this twilight. "Green is easier on my eyes," he smiled when he heard the snort.

"What do we look upon?" the grump asked, not really caring.

Pockets looked down upon the mass of intersections, burned out homes, and skeletons of businesses. "Before the day of Terror, it was known as ... let's just keep the name in the past," he replied. He paused a moment to recall the devastation. A day of judgment where mankind had come to a abrupt halt. Hell had been released upon the mortal plane, nearly wiping out all life.

"Pockets," hearing his name broke him from his reverie of seeing himself playing a game of dice, paper, and the imagination with friends, traveling to school, and spending time with his family. "Where do we stand?" The old man's tone was stern and calming at the same time.

Pockets knew that the ancient was trying to distract him from the horror of his own memories; personal images of that once easy life. "Ahutanum Ridge," he responded simply. He would not give in to emotion so easily.

"And are you prepared for what is to come?" The words sent a chill through the Pockets' spine.

"Of course," As powerful as Pockets had become, he knew the forces that would be arranged against him were formidable. The shrouded figure grinned in anticipation.