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There is a stone statue in the center of a mossy field. Vegetation coats its crumbling surface, hanging over the face carved into the monument. At the foot of this statue lies a plaque, rusted and worn yet still comprehensible in its old age. Here lies the Secret Keeper, it reads, Watcher of life and death, and guardian of those caught in its traps.
Tic.
He had been a young Watcher back then. The last in a long lineage, a millennium of tradition underneath his skin. Yet he was brand new, he thought. He was captured only a few days ago. Or was it weeks? Years? Perhaps fifty years went by every time he closed his eyes; he would be none the wiser. He could see too much and knew too much, past, present, future, now, then, once, twice, never. The constant assault of time, events, names, and feelings was almost too much for his once mortal brain to handle. The date was the least of Taurtis’ concerns.
He was ever so thankful for the constants; they were the only things keeping him sane. The coldness of the void never left the tips of his wings, brushing them dark in color. The shimmering blue border–invisible to mortal eyes yet all too blinding to a being, a monster, a creature such as himself–stayed as an icy barrier from him and the mortals he once lived amongst. The young yet ancient people scattered across the landscapes below him: ones revived at every death, drawn to each other’s burning hatred and companionship like burned moths still seeking the brilliant warmth of a flame. They would never stop their murderous chase, and he found comfort in their constant evil. These people, hermits and emperors alike, had joined the list of his constants.
Tic.
He was not allowed to interfere in their lives, but the close observation of a few might be a welcome reprise from the overwhelming nothingness of the void. He could tuck them away, a dozen or so, and turn his attention on them and them solely. There were ways of entertainment, ways of entrapment whilst never laying a finger in their direction. So what if he whispered a suggestion in the ear of his favorite of these mortals, Xelqua? He had broken no rules. Xelqua was allowed to be touched; after all, he was practically one of them.
Xelqua, his favored one, was supposed to be captured in the same way Taurtis was. He was destined to become a Watcher; a fate written in the crooks of his heart and the void between stars. Xelqua had fought the dragon too, had slipped into the void, and captured the very same way he had been. They were brothers once, he thought, or perhaps just close friends. Did it matter? Xelqua had escaped before becoming one of them. Taurtis had been assigned to recapture him.
Tic.
“Gather them.”
Tic.
“Bring them here.”
Tic
“Let them find each other; let them tear themselves apart.”
After years of waiting, of whispering, Taurtis finally heard the first horn ring. Fourteen people across a tiny corner gathered and sealed by the same barriers that barred them from his grasp—fourteen warriors, young and scrappy and unfamiliar.
The death games had begun.
They were given three revivals before being wiped off their memories and sent back to roam the landscape, unharmed and uncaring of the circumstances that they had found themselves in just minutes before. Yet this revival came with unfortunate consequences. Whilst making the arena, Xelqua had made a fatal error; for every death that occurs within its borders, the newly revived person came back insane. Slowly but surely, their lives began to fall. A scarred young man was the first to die in the trials, succumbing to mania with every revival that occurred. Yet he held on to that final life with such fierce veracity that many had lost their third before he was sent away.
Amongst these fallen people were two people of note; one a canary in the coal mines, the other a king of scarlet blood. The canary was the first to lose his third life, dying of an arrow in the heart. His bloody yellow feathers floated down to the sandy ground: A warning and promise of pain for the thirteen others. The Red King, donning an ax as stained as his robes, helped serve this promise of war. It was he and the scarred one who fought to the very end. The scarred one won. It was he who accompanied Xelqua to the winner’s circle, crazy with anger. It was he who died by Xelqua fist, buried on top of the mountain they called home.
Tic.
It worked. The experiment had worked, and the Watchers wanted more. They wanted to grab every one of these warriors, to steal them and bring them up as a Watcher. So he once again reached down and whispered in Xelqua's ear.
Tic.
"Entertain us."
Tic.
"Spill their blood."
Tic.
"Contain them."
Tic.
Blue barriers are raised around a forested landscape. Three more of the revived joined their ranks; a girl as brilliant as the moon, who happened to be Xelqua's sister; a businessman with a pale face and an oath to never take another's life; and a girl of pink hair and fiery rage. They were valiant warriors, they were fighters to the very end. Even when each week a new member would be touched by one of the Watchers with a bloody ultimatum–kill another friend or die a slow and painful demise– they were resilient.
The canary died too soon.
One by one they fell, following the canary’s warning call of war. Red eyes flooded the barriers, alliances broken and a winner once again stood among the scarlet bodies limp on the ground, their screams echoing in the air and Taurtis' ears. A man, with dyed hair and stardust in his skin, fell to the ground in grief, the last one standing in a field of blood. They were whisked away by Taurtis’ magic, given a chance to remember the games. Given a chance to escape the Watchers’ snatches before they ever wrapped their talons around him.
Tic.
The Watchers were furious at his intervention. The revivers should’ve been theirs; the winners should’ve been theirs, they argued, and Taurtis had stolen that from them.
Tic.
They grew bored. It would be so easy to whisper into Xelqua’s ears, to start another game. But he was a winner, he knew the consequences of the games. He remembered.
Tic.
Blue barriers rose high into the sky, created by Xelqua’s own hands. He drew out new rules; still, three lives governed their capture, but their health, their life, was tied to one another. The scarred man was tied to Xelqua. Yet far more interesting was Xelqua's sister tied to Starborne man. She was far more reckless than he, he swore off their tie. She was abandoned by every single warrior. She went insane; a scarlet flame of damnation with packs of wolves at her side.
The canary call had sounded.
In the end, it was only the Starborne and her; in the end, there were two winners doomed to death. The Starborne stood staring into her eyes, smiling with one last bittersweet victory as he dropped a match to his feet. They both crumpled to the ground, both escaped the Watchers' grasp. Both remembered. Their screams seared themselves into his consciousness.
Tic.
They were furious. No longer would the Watchers wait so patiently to capture their winners; no longer would they escape so easily. They made preparations, hung cages, and carved the void into a prison of their liking. They pushed Taurtis to make Xelqua create another game. He refused.
Tic.
Blue barriers. There was a timer now, hung on each of their necks. They had twenty-four hours to live; they would lose an hour with every death and gain thirty minutes by taking another. The warriors created grand networks in the sky; from these explosives rained down and exploded those below. The Watchers were becoming reckless, influencing the direction of the dynamite and pushing people off of the network.
The canary fell, crashing to the ground with void-stained fingers.
The deaths were drawn out, painful in the way that the three lives never were. At last, Taurtis could not bear to hear the screams. He clawed his way through the barriers, stopping before a young blonde man. Taurtis reached towards him, taking control of his limbs and cutting the remaining warriors down. He ended their suffering.
The suffering was not his to end.
He had bent the rules far too much; the void was simply pushing back. His wings began to turn to granite, his limbs to rock, his cloak to moss and vines. With one last pull of his power, he grabbed the warriors and yanked them into an empty field, forever free from the Watchers' grasp. Between one breath and the next they sat under the safety of a clear blue sky. Between one breath and the next he was stone.
Slowly, the warriors began to remember. Slowly, the canary once again stretched his wings, free to fly away from the curse of death. Slowly, life moved on, flowers growing in the cracks of Taurtis' cloak. Houses were built. The seasons changed. And changed. And changed. Decades, years, months, days, minutes flew by.
Slowly, somewhere in a massive statue of stone, Taurtis could finally breathe.