Gilarcha’s neck is being stretched, slowly their head being tipped from one side to the other, its elegant length being swooped around in semi-circles. They feel the resistance, the tightness, the deep deep slumber still trapped inside. Then they feel the fingers which start to pad in and around crevices, kinks and knots; gently, slowly, cautiously lifting their head up, a slight pull and a gentle twist before placing it down again with the care you’d afford a new born.

Not my fingers, not my hands.

Gilarcha is neither man nor woman; neither beast nor human. Gilarcha is our future. Gilarcha is divine. Gilarcha holds the secret to our survival. Gilarcha must be saved.

There’s a dull droning humming starting to fill the air around them. It’s a horrible sound, one that portends doom, death, the end. How can this be?

Make it stop. Make them stop.

The fingers keep padding at Gilarcha, now starting to move down their body. As they land on different places it’s as though Gilarcha realizes their existence for the first time. Shoulders, chest, tail, wings, legs, fingers, toes. Jolts of life sparkle into their body.

I can’t see, I want to see, where am I?

Gilarcha has been laying in this cave for longer than anyone can remember. They’ve been protected by enchantments and goblins; folklore and fairies. Children of this country are told stories of Gilarcha’s strength, their powers, the hope which they have all absorbed into their very being from generation to generation. As their world crumbles around them and good men die horrible senseless deaths, the story of Gilarcha, the promise, the weighty expectation they hold for Gilarcha has kept this people fighting, kept them believing, kept them hoping that one day Gilarcha will return and save them.

Pulsating moans becoming more rhythmic, undulating hums carrying wisps of life. The sound is shifting, taking on a new shape, new energy, maybe the start of something? How can this be?

Don’t stop. Keep going. Am I where I think I am?

Pad, pad, pad go the fingers. Darkness starting to lift. No sight yet. Gilarcha tries to open their eyes but they are weighted, bound, unable to make out anything other than a cloudy dreamy haze. Fingers moving across their head moving quickly, moving slowly. Their body now being pummeled and beaten and pushed and pulled, stretched and contracted, stroked and scratched.

Moans and hums transforming into song, a sweet stretching aching song of redemption, of hope released by a thousand voices that reverberates and echoes around the rocks, bouncing off each surface, the beauty of which brings tears into their eyes.

I’m here, I’m alive. How long have I been here? It must be close to a thousand years.

Tears well up, tears trickle down, tears puddle under their neck. Tears bring light, tears bring color, tears bring shadows, tears bring sight. And then finally tears bring back memory. And with that memory comes sorrow, the memory of their people being banished to this land, the memory of the wars that ripped all decency from their hearts, the memory of a people hardened and turned cynical towards the world. The memory of a sacrifice that had to be made, of a deal turned bad, of a hope gone wrong.

Silence now. Just a feint shuffling, rustling, whispering. Soft breathing, expectant breathing, nervous breathing. Gilarcha’s eyes are adjusting to the cave, to the moving shadows on the walls, the plumes of light, the multiple faces peering at them.

So now it’s my turn, my time. I am whole again and I must save them. Good Lord I really thought they would have figured it out by now. Ah well, here we go….