Sentinels

“You will not move, you will not twitch a muscle. You are sentinels, and sentinels are living statues. You are no longer of this world, but above it. It bows to you.”

Under the ornate golden armor, emblazoned with a phoenix flowing like flaming liquid on his breastplate, beads of sweat pooled and dripped down his body. His still very living body. How was one to become a sentinel, above the world, to be that level of infamy? This was the first exercise designed to filter out strong from the weak. They were all worthy, they had all passed the trials, the tests of history, criminology, legend, and ethics, but being worthy alone did not make you fit to be a sentinel. A sentinel was better than everyone but the gods, and a sentinel, by their intelligence, worth, and strength were then chosen by the gods to protect the world they created.

The suns, both midday and early day glared down on the row of golden beacons, hundreds stretched across the crest of the fiercest desert, like jewels decorating a red coat of the gods. It seemed like hours had passed, the beads of sweat had turned into fountains. Jarnius could hear the clanking of others falling or fainting from the scorching heat. “Not me, not me, not me.” He thought to himself. “I am a sentinel, a master of will. I am chosen by the gods to protect and keep their world safe. The relic of arnuieta has had my name engraved on it since the dawn of time, for I am a sentinel.” He whispered the prayer over and over again. Never closing his eyes, always staying alert and observant of those around him.

The Captain walked in front of the cadet to his right, peered into the armor, pushed on their shoulder, whispered to his lieutenant and then approached Jarnius. Looking forward, refusing to blink, shrink, or crumble, Jarnius kept the prayer in his mind the relic of arnuieta has had my name engraved on it since the dawn of time. The captain pushed on his shoulder and he didn’t budge. He was a statue. He was above this world. He would not yield.

The captain spoke to the lieutenant, who wrote something down. Jarnius could see the word “arnuieta” and nearly cheered, but he knew they used every tool in their arsenal to unmake a sentinel, and vanity or pride were worthy tools. The prideful are never chosen, no. The prideful are sent to the games and made a spectacle. Jarnius would not fail like that. He had no pride to speak of, this was all he had and he could not fail.

The early sun had set, and the midday sun was low in the sky, allowing the first moon to peek over the farthest horizon. The gleaming row of golden dots was heavily broken, whittled down from hundreds to several dozen. Jarnius had not weakened, his arms had lost feeling hours before. Now was the wait for the frozen night when the midnight moon would rise. The golden armor was freeze resistant, but it would not stop flesh from freezing, or a weak person to freeze and lose consciousness. But Jarnius knew that once the second sun set, he was halfway through this fierce challenge – the easy half. For at night, not only must a sentinel tolerate the cold, but the ice wisps that came to torment them, to infiltrate their armor, even some could insert into one’s eye.