The first time the guardian enters the temple precinct is the most terrifying day of its life—but, to be fair, it has not lived many lives. The temple is massive, its smells are strange, and the little guardian’s duty seems incredibly momentous. Protect these people, the god had charged it. Give them comfort. Ensure that nothing evil crosses the threshold.
An awfully big job for such a small guardian, especially as the giants who inhabit the temple gather around, cooing and prodding and handling it, stroking its fur and admiring how it can almost fit in the palms of their hands, overwhelming it with light and noise. It is almost more than the guardian can handle.
There is one who is different. One who is quieter. Gentler. One whose scent doesn’t quite match, not the way the others’ do, and that one makes a hiding place for the guardian, between the wall and their back, and the guardian scurries there and feels safe in the temple for the first time. It crouches there, feeling the giant’s heartbeat, and it learns something: the quiet one also knows fear.
* * *
As time passes, the guardian grows comfortable, fatter, larger, too large to fit in the giants’ palms—though never, it must be said, very big. It keeps a watchful eye on the temple threshold from its manse, there among discarded shoes and coats, waiting for an evil that never seems to come. The giants check on it, speak with it, keep it fed and watered, let it out to hop around the temple, and there is such happiness there that the guardian wonders about the need for it at all.
Then the quiet one comes as a suppliant to the guardian, sobbing, and the guardian does not know exactly what is wrong. It does not speak the strange, guttural language of the giants. But the quiet one, the one with the mousy hair who is always shrinking themself away, the one who is scared, that one scoops the guardian up and cradles it in their arms, staining its fur with tears. The guardian nuzzles against its face and squeaks out that all will be okay and makes a silent prayer that it will be so.
* * *
The guardian watches as the quiet one changes over the days and months and years.
The first thing is the fur atop their head, which is bleached shockingly blonde and then dyed the most luxurious crimson. Next come subtler changes: in clothing, in manner, in the coloring at the ends of their fingers and experiments in applied face paint. The other giants don’t seem to understand, seem angry at these changes, but their anger only confuses the little guardian. There is much the giants do that confuses it, but even so—can they not see the new twinkle in the quiet one’s eyes when they look in the mirror each day before prayer? Can they not see how their face falls when they mock them?
Can’t they hear them sobbing, when they sneak into the guardian’s manse in the dark of night and hold it close to their heart, whispering words that feel like dreams?
Very well, the guardian thinks. This one has crossed a threshold, and nothing evil will accompany them. Not so long as the guardian is able to hop into their lap and nuzzle against their chest and bring the god’s protection to this crossing, too.
* * *
The guardian does not know by what mechanism it is that the quiet one changes. It knows only that one day, they smell different, and that the new smell is right. This makes the guardian leap for joy until the quiet one laughs and gives it little kisses atop its head.
And the guardian knows that—slowly though it comes—the other giants eventually cease to anger. It does not know if they understand (certainly the guardian understands quite little) but it knows that they, too, now see the twinkle in the quiet one’s eye as they twirl for them in their new raiment. Whatever anger they felt before, they set it aside, and into the empty space, the guardian breathes kindness, protection, and love.
The quiet one is not so quiet anymore, but still, they pad into the guardian’s manse by the threshold and hold it close, and they sing their own little prayer of thanks as the guardian lays in their arms. The guardian remembers back to that very first day, hiding behind the giant’s back, and nuzzles against their chest, just a little closer, feeling the beating of their heart and the rise of their breath.
* * *
The years have been good to the little guardian of the thresholds, but they have been as long as they are kind, and now the world seems fuzzy, seems dark, becomes distant. It was sent here with a charge: Protect these people, the god had said. Give them comfort. Ensure that nothing evil crosses the threshold. Though it does not know what the coming darkness might bring, it hopes that the god is proud.
Also, it knows that this joy remains to it: it cannot see much anymore with its old eyes, but it still knows its friend. The loud one. The bright one. The one who crossed the threshold. That one cradles the guardian in their arms, and though the guardian knows that its time here, in this temple, will soon be at an end, all it feels in this moment is the warmth of their voice and the wetness of their tears on the guardian’s fur.
It still does not know the giants’ guttural tongue, but it nuzzles against the changed one’s face and squeaks out that all will be okay. It, too, will cross a threshold soon—but no evil will accompany it, so long as its friend is here.
* * *
Ⓒ Elijah J. Mears