Rain. It poured from the heavens towards the ground below, and he stood somewhere in between. Bent over and supported by the weather-worn stone, gazing onto the horizon as he did the day before and the day before that, he wheezed white breath into the cold morning’s air.

His post was hundreds of fathoms off the ground, and from its vantage point he could see for miles in every direction. In the springtime the land was beautiful. It hasn’t been Spring in so long, he thought to himself.

His blade lay in its sheath beside him, sharpened to perfection. Being alone on the wall all day left him little else to do but keep it thus. His hand went to its hilt and, pulling it free, he inspected it.

It was sharp.

On days like this, he felt the cold in his bones. It didn’t bother him once— so long ago, now— but the seasons change; Fall becomes Winter, and Winter becomes Spring. Spring, he smiled.

One day he will see that faraway torch alight, relaying the message of peace; and he will serve purpose once again.