This battlefield has been seen before,imagined in the eyes of hundreds, perhaps thousands of minds great and small since the time of its happening.

The story has been told, again and again. But imaginings are no match for memory.

There are shadows here, a place of darkness. The earth was his womb in the beginning, and it's been in the earth, or else close to it in the wild, that he's always felt the most comfort.

Here, in his own darkness, for the first time in weeks of restless and aimless wandering, he rests.

Behind closed eyes the memories continue. It wasn't evening, or morning, but bright and high noon, the hottest part of a cold day. Swords had clashed, the Guardians acting their place as the last defenders.

By the time the lines had broken below them, the numbers of the enemy had diminished. Not enough to give them victory, not nearly. But there had been few enough to give the last remaining defenders a chance to delay, long enough to hear the news that the King himself would be with them soon, and with reinforcements from an unexpected friend.

Even so, as he and Jason, the holder of the First Amulet of the Guardians, look down upon the coming enemy, he hears his captain give a resigned sigh and speak almost as though to himself.

"We won't make it. Not all of us."

Sapphire eyes open onto darkness, complete but for the faint glimmer of light from the heart of the amulet at his own neck. The last, as far as he knows, to be held by any - his keepsake, his treasure, his ward. So long as he holds it, no others can be chosen, but by him.

The days have passed, long since gone, save perhaps in his memory and in other stories. He had been there, to see it all come crashing down. He'd walked the wreckage of a golden castle, had stood upon the shore and watched as the Isle faded from the realm of man. Had been there when the Sword had been cast back into the waters from whence it came.

Had seen the hand that had taken that fabled blade, one known to him, retreat into the depths.

It had been the last proof of the Holy Isle that had been his home for so long. With that retreating hand and the vanishing of the sword, there had been no more reason for him to stay.

It has been long indeed since those days, times of glory and joy, of peace and prosperity...and finally despair and tragedy, as all that was good and worth keeping in the world had been utterly torn asunder.

But the Guardian has never ceased, never wavered, never lost his edge.

He knows he is not alone in these depths, the womb of the shelter above.

But that presence, like a fish out of water, seems so familiar, and he feels the memories move in him again.