A sword, perhaps three or four inches in length, is tattooed on each guardian.
Each sword is unique. It has been designed for this guardian and no other. Some are simple, others intricate and ornamented, depicted in elaborate detail in black or sepia or gold.
Should a potential guardian answer in the negative, the sword that has been designed for them will be catalogued and never inscribed on skin.
Few say no, here, after all they have seen. Very few.
Those who do are also blindfolded, their hands bound behind their backs.
A long, sharp needle is inserted quickly, piercing the heart.
It is a relatively painless death.
Here in this room it is too late to choose another path, not after what they have seen. They are allowed to choose not to be a guardian, but here, this is the only alternative.
Guardians are not identifiable. They wear no robes, no uniforms. Their assignments are rotated. Most stay within the Harbor but several roam the surface, unnoticed and unseen. A trace of golden dust upon a palm means nothing to those who do not understand its significance. The sword tattoo is easily concealed.
They may not seem to be in servitude to anything, but they are.
They know what they serve.
What they protect.
They understand what they are and that is all that matters.
They understand that what it is to be a guardian is to be prepared to die, always.
To be a guardian is to wear death on your chest.
ZACHARY EZRA RAWLINS is standing in the hall and staring at the scrap of notebook paper when Kat comes out of the lounge wrapped in her winter layers again.
“Hey, you’re still here!” she remarks.
Zachary folds the piece of paper and puts it in his pocket.
“Has anyone ever told you that you have stellar observational skills?” he asks, and Kat punches him in the arm. “I deserved that.”
“Lexi and I are going to the Gryphon for a drink if you want to come,” Kat says, gesturing over her shoulder at the theater major with the dreadlocks who is pulling her coat on.
“Sure,” Zachary says, since the operating hours of the library prevent him from investigating the clue in his pocket further and the Laughing Gryphon serves an excellent sidecar.
The three of them make their way through the snow away from campus and downtown to the short strip of bars and restaurants glowing against the night sky, the trees lining the sidewalk wearing coats of ice around their branches.
They continue some of the conversation from earlier, which segues into Kat and Lexi recapping the discussion from the previous class for Zachary, and they are describing site-specific theater for him when they reach the bar.
“I don’t know, I’m not big on audience participation,” Zachary says as they settle into a corner table. He has forgotten how much he likes this bar, with its dark wood and bare Edison bulbs illuminating the space from mismatched antique fixtures.
“I hate audience participation,” Lexi assures him. “This is more self-directed stuff, where you go where you want to go and decide what to watch.”
“Then how do you make sure any given audience member sees the whole narrative?”
“You can’t guarantee it but if you provide enough to see hopefully they can piece it together for themselves.”
They order cocktails and half the appetizer section of the menu and Lexi describes her thesis project to Zachary, a piece that involves, among other things, deciphering and following clues to different locations to find fragments of the performance.
“Can you believe she’s not a gamer?” Kat asks.
“That is legitimately surprising,” Zachary says and Lexi laughs.