Some Millennia Ago

For the first time since the dawn of the Known Times, the thirteen leaders of the Realm Immortal sat gathered in one place. The times were troubling, the situation dire.

There were Kings and there were Queens. Monarchs and Lords. Even one unhappy, impatient young Magus. Among them, there had been wars and there had been peace. There had been treaties and truces, declarations of war and surprise invasions. This was the way of their world, and each, in their own ways, thrived in it.

But something had changed, something unexpected and unprecedented. Something troubling enough for them to agree to this meeting.

“He intercepted my entire army,” a King said. “Just stopped them, dead in their tracks. I had to call for a retreat.”

“Well, you were about to slaughter an entire race,” a Monarch pointed out.

“Not all of them,” the King countered, a little sheepishly.

“I don’t see the humor in this,” a Queen argued. She jabbed her finger across the wide oval table, directly at the young Magus. “I was just about to reclaim my land in Seraphora when he interfered.”

The Magus scoffed. “Please. You were walking directly into my trap. But you are right about one thing: his interference cost me dearly.”

“Cost you?” the outraged Queen cried, rising to her feet and slamming her hands onto the table. The Magus’s Champion took a defensive step forward, which caused every other Champion to step forward towards their master. “Why you pretentious, obstinate, foolish little imp of a—”

“Enough,” a King, the eldest among them by nearly five hundred years, interrupted. He had been watching the interactions with great amusement, with an ever vigilant eye always looking for weaknesses. He had seen plenty; some new, some well-known. But if they weren’t able to deal with the problem at hand, none of that would matter. And so far, none of them had. Not alone. Which was why he had called for this unique, once-in-a-lifetime meeting.

“All right, then,” a tired-eyed Monarch started. “You asked for this meeting. We all came. So, what’s next.”

The eldest King rose and flicked his wrist towards the door. The two guards—beasts, perhaps, was a better word—turned and opened it.

In walked a man. He was thin and he was tall, with pale skin and black eyes. He strode in confidently, his chin raised, his hands clasped behind his back.

There were sudden murmurs of outrage from some at the table.

“How dare you!”

“You summoned one of them? Without our permission?”

“This meeting will not continue! Not so long as there is a Knower in the room.”

The Knower showed no reaction to the clamor, save for a hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Settle down, settle down,” the eldest King intoned. He had, of course, anticipated this response. But had he informed the others of the Knower’s involvement, would they have come? As his mother had always told him when he was a boy, it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission. An axiom that had served him extremely well over the centuries and had led to great prosperity.

“You claim to take this new threat seriously,” the eldest King continued. “But I am unsure if you grasp the magnitude of the danger. To all of us. If you did, I doubt you would be objecting to the Knower’s presence.”

A Lord thumped down into his chair, arms folded, lips pursed in a pout. “You should have told us.”

The eldest King nodded, placating. “Perhaps. My apologies.”

“Well, he’s here now,” a Queen said. “What has he learned?”

The eldest King smiled in gratitude. The Queen had been an ally once, and though their relationship had long since been torn asunder, her continued affection was unmistakable.

“Well, then,” the eldest King said, gesturing towards the Knower. “Knower. What have you learned.”

The eldest King sat back in his modest chair, the same size and adornments as all the others. The rest, despite their objections, leaned forward in eager anticipation for what the Knower had to say.

“Thank you, your highness,” the Knower said, bowing politely. “Thank you all, Lords and Ladies. For your attention and your intention. As I believe you know and understand, I, like many of my people, have been gifted with the rare gift of Insight. But what you might not know is that I, unlike many of my people, have not only nurtured that gift, but augmented it. Substantially. I have attended lectures across the known world, sat at the feet of great teachers in lands undiscovered, and studied with a passion unmatched.”

There was an audible sigh from a Queen, who made no effort to disguise her disgust. She rolled her eyes and muttered something about “the impertinence” under her breath.

The Knower continued, unabated and unbothered.

“I anticipated the Great King’s summoning. I anticipated this meeting, and that each and every one of you would attend. I have, in fact, anticipated nearly everything that has occurred here this day.”

“Okay, we get it,” the young Magus said, his preternatural good humor abandoning him. “You’re ahead of us all. Great. How is that helping us with our current problem?”

“Yes, yes,” the Knower said. His grin widened.

“Don’t say it!” the Magus snapped, standing up and jabbing his finger in the Knower’s direction.

“I anticipated you would ask that.”

Despite themselves, small pockets of laughter could be heard at the table. The Magus was not among the amused, though, and his hands suddenly began to glow an ethereal blue. The Knower regarded him with curiosity and that same knowing grin, but otherwise remained unmoved.

The eldest King rolled his eyes. “Sit down, Magus.”

The Magus’s eyes remained locked on the Knower for a moment longer, his teeth clenched and his glowing hands curled into fists. Then he scoffed, waved his hand at the Knower dismissively, and sat back down.

The Knower continued.

“Despite what you all might think of me,” he said, “I am very good at what I do. I dare say there are none better, and never has there been. I have achieved complete mastery of the gift of Insight. And I am never wrong.”

There was quiet. He had their attention. He seemed to savor it, let the moment continue just a little longer.

“But this… man? The one who has caused you so many problems, and continues to do so? I did not anticipate him. Not his arrival, nor his abilities. Not his actions, nor his motivations. He is, in that way, completely unique.”

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“How so?” a Lord asked.

The Knower turned to him. “He is immune to my Insight.”

A Queen scoffed. “Your ‘insight’ is nothing more than a trick, magician. A cheap game meant to manipulate those with…” she glanced around the table, making sure to meet every one of their eyes. “Lesser qualities.”

The Knower turned to her, still unmoved, still grinning. “You know that isn’t true, Faelira.”

Queen Delune’s eyes widened and her jaw fell open. The use of her proper name—one none at the table could possibly know—was all the proof she needed. This was no trickster.

“If you know nothing,” a King started, attempting to move the proceedings along. “Why are you here? What use are you to us?”

The Knower held up a finger. “Ah. I said I didn’t anticipate him. I didn’t say I knew nothing about him.”

He had their attention once again. This was what they had come for. This was why they were here, when there were so many matters that demanded all of their consideration.

“Here is what I have learned,” the Knower started. Suddenly, his posturing—and grin—was gone, replaced by steely eyes that served to convey the gravity of the knowledge he was about to impart on them.

“His abilities are not magical. At least not any known magic. His power source, while unknown, is nearly limitless. Which means his power is nearly limitless. He has no weaknesses. I do not mean I could find no weaknesses. I mean he has no weaknesses.

“His motivations, while they may seem foolish to you all, are simple and they are clear. He means to help.”

“Help?” a Lord asked, baffled at the concept. “Himself, you mean.”

The Knower shook his head. “I mean no such thing. He means to help everybody. Man and woman. The elderly and the newborn. Human and Aeonic.”

“But not Kings, Queens, Monarchs, or Lords?” A Queen asked.

“No. Not unless your intentions are pure. You see, he fancies himself… well, a guardian, I suppose.”

“Of who, exactly,” the young Magus asked.

The Knower’s grin returned. “Why, of humanity.”

“Humanity?” a Monarch asked. “As in, all of humanity?”

The Knower nodded. “Yes. You see, he possesses something none at this table can be accused of possessing. Despite your standing and despite your stature… Despite the people who follow you and the people who adore you… None of you can say to possess this one unique quality.”

“Get on with it, Knower,” the eldest King said.

“Very well,” the Knower said. “The quality he possesses, the thing that makes him so unique and so dangerous... is a pure heart.”

“Oh, come on,” a Monarch said. “A pure heart? What’s so rare about that? Why, I—”

The Knower held up his hand. “You don’t understand, my Lord. This is no mere claim on his part. His heart is truly pure. His intentions are nothing but good. He has power, yes, and he means to use it. But for the benefit of humanity. Not for the benefit of those gathered at this table. Your days are numbered, I’m afraid. Your ideas are antiquated, you ways obsolete. Or will be, very, very soon. Kingdoms will fall, and kingdoms will rise. But all of them—all of them—will do so under the watchful eye of this…”

“This what?” a Lord asked. “What is he?”

The Knower shook his head. “A question I can’t answer. But he wants the people to see him, and know him, and trust him. Believe in him. He fancies himself a noble knight of old, I think.”

“This is all nonsense,” a Queen said. “He is still just a man. This talk of no weaknesses? Nonsense. Every man has weaknesses.”

“I don’t think so,” the eldest King said. He pulled at his long white beard absently. “In fact, I don’t think this is a ‘man’ at all.”

“Not a man?” the Magus asked. “If he’s not a man, what is he?”

The eldest King raised his eyes, met each and every one of his peers. “A god.”

Some Millennia Later

“I’m tired,” the Godknight said.

His friend laughed, a pleasant rumble that shook the cliff face they were resting on.

“What’s so funny?” the Godknight asked, smiling back at his friend.

“You do not get tired, my friend.”

The Godknight laughed in turn. “I know. But if I could, I imagine I would be.”

“It is good to imagine,” his friend said strangely. His friend often said strange things. Strange, yet somehow poignant or insightful.

“I don’t think this is working,” the Godknight continued. His good humor was fading.

“What is not working, my friend?”

“This!” The Godknight rose and swept his arms out towards the landscape in front of him. An enormous canyon cut a dramatic swathe through the mountains that surrounded it, a kaleidoscope of colors flashing off the walls that line it.

His friend frowned, confused.

The Godknight sat back down. “I don’t mean this land. This land… well, it’s just as beautiful today as the first time I laid eyes on it all those centuries ago. I mean this world.”

“It is a big world,” his friend said.

“I know. And it’s not working.”

“So you say.”

“So I say.”

The Godknight’s shoulders slumped. His friend noted this, thought he did actually look tired.

“I’ve been helping,” the Godknight started, fidgeting with some grass between his folded legs. “I’ve been saving. I’ve been preventing. I’ve been solving. I’ve been forcing them to stop and forcing them to start.”

He looked up at his friend. “For so long.”

“It is what you are meant to do, my friend. You are very good at it. You keep the peace.”

“That’s just it,” the Godknight said. “There is no ‘peace.’ They still fight. They still war. I put one down, another starts up. I try not to interfere. You know that. I’m not their ruler, or their master. I’m just their guardian. Their protector. I step in when I need to. Otherwise, they can do as they please.”

“As it should be.”

“Should it?” the Godknight asked, turning to face his friend.

“What do you mean?” his friend asked, more confused than disturbed. “Of course it is.”

“I mean… maybe I can do… more?”

“More? How could you possibly do more?”

The Godknight sighed and tossed a pebble into the canyon. He could have thrown it clear across, had he chosen to. But he didn’t. He just let it fall.

“I have this dream…” he started.

“You don’t sleep,” his friend said. He had a way of pointing out the obvious, a way the Godknight found both charming and endearing. “So how can you dream?”

“Not that kind of dream. More like… a vision. Of a perfect world. Where everyone lives in peace.”

“A noble dream,” his friend said. “But a dream, all the same. Humanity is flawed, my friend. They always have been and they always will be. You can’t fix them, nor can you change them. Nor should you try.”

“So, what? Just keep repeating the same cycle, over and over, for another two thousand or so years?”

His friend shrugged.

“I could do it, you know,” the Godknight mused dreamily. “Easily.”

“Rule them?” his friend asked, surprised.

“No!” the Godknight cried. He seemed offended, but something in his reaction came off as disingenuous. “I would never do that. Ever.”

“Good.”

“But I could make a place. A place, away from everyone else. And anyone could come, come and live in peace. Real peace.”

“The people need you,” his friend said, and left it at that.

The Godknight sighed and stood up. “Well, I have to be going. A typhoon is about to hit off the coast of Candoda. A lot of people are going to need my help.”

His friend smiled. “You are a good man, my friend. Perhaps the best of them.”

The Godknight smiled, as best he could. “Thanks, old friend. You’re not so bad yourself.”

He rose into the air and began flying over the immense, majestic canyon. A moment later, he was gone.