Author's Note: If you're interested in getting a commissioned short story, please reach out. My DMs are always open.
Word Count: 1359
PPT Icon By  MuttonMaw

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With an overwhelming feeling of wonder and excitement, Gherard stood at the mouth of the cavern with an unflinching smile that stretched from ear to ear. The wind that beckoned him inside with a breathing rhythm felt cool on his face and settled his breathing from the long hike that brought him here. His feet were sore and blistered in the handmade boots that wrapped them, but the pain was a minor inconvenience in the long run. Dropping his brown leather pack on the dusty ground with care, he unbuckled it and grabbed the waterskin that held cool water from the village spring before leaving it and entering the dim depths of the temple.

The structures inside the cave were not unlike the caves he’d traversed as a child, the hanging spikes and daggers jutting from the ground setting the stage for the world within. He remembered playing with the other elves in the village, sneaking out of the village late at night armed with small torches and pretending to voyage into the unknown like the stories the elders read. Sometimes he would nick one of the training swords from Maester Felrus and embody the role of the demon of the dark when he was older, scaring the youngest ones that would follow him and inevitably be punished for doing so.

Pulling a torch from his belt and lighting it with a whisper of fire, the deep blue light began to spread to the darkest reaches of the room. A nostalgic smile grew as he thought that no punishment ever stopped him from following his heart, as though he knew that where he was now was destiny. The rocky cavern floor seemed to flow ever upward as he continued, the path growing increasingly steep until a fleeting worry made him wonder if he would slide down with a slight misstep. He dug his sore heels into the dirt with the following steps in response and continued to trek into the vast emptiness that begged at him with each breath.

He had been chosen for this by the elders because of his prowess, he knew. He had spent the last 3 years of his life working to prove his loyalty and dedication to the village to get this opportunity, hoping against hope that he would wake up one morning to the knock at the door that brought his salvation. It had been almost a decade since the last Keeper was chosen and Gherard knew that it was only a matter of time before the cycle came back around. He had been eating a breakfast of boiled oats and summer fruit when the door to his hovel rattled with the frail knocks of what could only have been an Elder. His daughter had been startled to the point of tears as he darted from his chair towards the entrance, knocking his bowl to the floor in the reckless charge.

His free hand grasped the golden symbol around his neck that dictated his position as Keeper, a withered tree with a single fruit on the lowest branch, and his thoughts turned to meeting the ones who had been chosen in the past. Maester Ulresh, the man who saved the village from starvation in the coldest winter they had ever seen. Maester Oldreth, the woman whose tactical prowess forced the humans and dwarves from their land in the Great Emancipation so many years ago. To be considered an equal among them was a gift within itself, but as the floor began to turn from pebble-covered earth to smooth and brushed stone he knew that he had finally reached the entrance to the true temple that he sought.

The wind of the cave pushed against him harder here, the room itself expanding into what looked to be a cathedral hewn from the rock. The flickering azure light that spewed from his torch seemed to die as he moved inside past the redwood pews that lined the edges here, the size of the room giving him the feeling of being incredibly small. The silence that began to fill the chamber unsettled him as he realized that he didn’t know where to go once he’d entered. He had assumed that someone would come to greet him, to bring him into the fold with open arms and regale him with stories and praise of deeds long past. The only sounds were the whispers the trailed in the wind that seemed to come from no-one and the dripping magical flame that he held aloft in search of the source. As if reading his mind, a voice began to come from a place deeper inside with a booming voice that was both a scream and a hiss.

“Come closer, my child,” it called to him from the pitch, “I wish to meet you Gherard, son of Elinor, speaker of names.”

His heart began to race, the terror of the disembodied voice coupling with the relief of knowing that he hadn’t made a wasted trip. He stepped forward again, each footstep a slight hesitation as he followed the echoes that led him to the one who knew his mother. She had been chosen when he was just a babe, leaving his father to fumble with raising him alone. Her exile had been seen as blasphemous since she had a family and Keepers were always alone, but the Elders reinforced that the will of the Gods could not be questioned and that the family would be cared for until her return. His own daughter would be cared for, he knew, and when he came back from this pilgrimage he would see the family he hoped she would create for herself.

“You were chosen, Gherard,” the voice began again, “but do you know the purpose?”

A test, he thought. This was the final trial to determine his worth in joining the Covenant of the Keepers, and with a confident stare into the blackness in front of him he shouted his answer for all to hear.

“I was chosen as a Keeper for my status of paragon in my village,” his pride coming through in each word as he held the torch high, “I am to be honored with my place among the Keepers, as my mother before me and multitudes of other heroes.”

“Heroes,” the voice mused in a tone that was like a stifled laugh, “You believe yourself to be heroic?”

“I do not,” Gherard responded defiantly, understanding this question as a determination of pride and humility, “I am but a humble servant of the Elders, seeking to do what is right for my home.”

“A servant of the Elders, indeed,” the voice spoke once more before a heavy wind flew through the hall, snuffing out the flame in his hand and bringing the claustrophobic darkness to encompass everything around him. A deep ruby glow began to shine through, following by a blinding flash of orange flame that spouted from the lips of some ungodly lizard that stood on all fours in front of him. The flame had caught a massive chandelier, the wood burning like a candle and giving a warm light that felt cold as Gherard saw the bones that littered the walls.

Skeletons beyond count rested against them, the shadows of their last moments etched onto the walls like grotesque murals. The bloodred eyes that met his turned his blood to ice, halting not only his movement but his thoughts as well.

Everything was silent as the demon moved closer, flames fluttering from its maw like crackling logs in a fireplace. Its teeth were the length of swords, the wings stretching across the room like leather pulled taut across massive bones. It stopped above him, looking down at him as you would an insect.

“Heroes,” he echoed once more in a mocking tone, “I think not.”

“You…” Gherard searched for the words that wouldn’t come, “I don’t understand.”

“The sheep that are led to slaughter never truly understand their purpose,” it growled condescendingly as it leaned down close enough that he could feel the flame lick at his face, “and yet, they follow the shepherds all the same.”