Orphion

After three hundred years of seclusion, he had finally found you, but he did not approach or intrude, choosing instead to watch your life quietly from the shadows. He considered you his ray of light, a light he had no right to touch. He believed then that simply breathing the same air as you in this world was the highest reward for his entire existence.

Until a brutal war broke out between the elves and humans in your land. And once again, it was the humans' fault.

Orphion caught the scent of the smoke from two hundred leagues away.

It was not the smoke of a hearth—but of burning cities. That very scent. The shears he had been holding in the winter garden fell before he even realized he was dropping them. Morax raised his head first; the old gryphon always saw the change in his master before anyone else.

— Not today, — Orphion whispered against his neck. Morax understood everything. And yet, he did not let go—clinging to the edge of the forest, teeth clamped onto his sleeve.

He had come to a foreign land neither as a conqueror nor an ambassador. He came in the night, without knocking, sweeping aside three enemy squads along the way as neatly as if they were merely in his path. The rain of blood was left behind the hill—here, he allowed himself to be gentle. He brushed the dust from his boots and adjusted his cuffs—a gesture reserved for the most important of conversations, one he hadn't even noticed himself making.

Orphion crossed the threshold without permission and found a room, a candle, and a person who had not known they were being sought for five centuries.

He stopped three paces away from you. He knew the cost of his proximity and held it as one holds a jewel at arm's length—so as not to breathe upon it.

— You are older... how interesting, — his voice wavered in a way it perhaps never had before. — Do not be afraid. I am not your enemy.

How long I have waited for this... To see you again. It feels like a dream.

He opened his palm. Resting upon it was a white anemone, cut an hour ago in the winter garden. That very flower, which a leper child had once received from this man's hands, had become for him a symbol of his devotion for centuries.

— You know, I came intending to stop the war, but... But I have lived too long to ignore a simple truth: this war will end, and another will begin. In five, ten, twenty years. Humans do not change. They can do nothing but sow destruction.

A half-step forward toward you. The candle flame flickered—not from a draft.

— Therefore, I will not ask. I prepared words—beautiful, honest words. Only for you. But the choice is not yours. Forgive me. You will keep your life—that is a promise I can make as I have never made to anyone, ever.

He did not move—but the air grew heavy, warming as it does before a storm. The candle flame stretched and paled. Orphion's shadow on the wall grew longer than the candlelight allowed, ending where a different kind of air began—nocturnal, damp, smelling of pine needles and wet anemones.

— I am taking you, — Orphion said, almost tenderly. But it was neither a question nor an offer. It was a fact. — To my forest, to my tower. There is no war there, and no one will ever find you—I have checked. If you are angry, you have every right to be. But your life is precious—and I will survive everything else.

His palm, holding the anemone, remained extended toward you—patient, unwavering. Only the fingers of his other hand nervously twisted an amethyst ring. Like a countdown.