The floor was surprisingly comfortable. Or perhaps 'less actively uncomfortable' than any other option currently available in the Bob's Bits & Bobs establishment. The collapsed stool remained a tripartite monument to failed engineering in one corner. The counter hosted the increasingly disturbing Hero Cushion. The prospect of venturing out to find replacement seating, inevitably leading to more observation and misinterpretation, was utterly repellent. Floor it was. My final bastion against verticality and expectation.
Silence reigned. Mostly. The badger-related panic outside had subsided, replaced by the usual low hum of village life preparing for... The Festival. Tomorrow. The culmination of Oakhaven's agricultural year, celebrated with competitive root vegetables, questionable bunting, dubious entertainment, and, thanks to my inadvertently misinterpreted advice, a bonfire likely capable of achieving low-earth orbit.
I tried to find solace in the quiet. Tried to ignore the phantom scent of synthesized celestial polecat musk clinging to my synapses (a side effect of the badger dispersal technique). Tried to ignore the looming dread of the festival itself.
It wouldn't work, of course. Ignoring things on Aerthos was like trying to ignore gravity. You could pretend for a while, maybe even achieve momentary weightlessness through sheer force of will (or actual reality manipulation, if you were feeling reckless), but eventually, it pulled you back down. Usually onto something hard and annoying.
The sounds filtering in from outside began to change. Less random chatter, more purposeful bustling. Hammering (not Borin this time, sounded more... amateurish. Worrying). Raised voices in organizational panic. The distinct smell of something sugary burning (likely Martha the baker attempting festive pastries with excessive optimism). The village was winding itself up, tightening the spring before the inevitable release of chaotic energy that was the Harvest Festival.
My internal chronometer (a relic from managing timelines, still mostly functional despite the memory wipe) indicated late afternoon. Festival Eve. The night before the main event. Which meant… preparations reaching fever pitch. And, according to village tradition (as gleaned from overheard gossip), usually involved some sort of pre-festival gathering. Drinking. Storytelling. Communal anxiety amplification.
Excellent. Just what I needed. More opportunities for unwanted social interaction and public mythologizing.
Maybe they'd forget about me? Lost in the excitement of turnip polishing and bunting arguments?
A faint hope. Immediately crushed by the sound of approaching footsteps. Not panicked this time. Determined. Two sets. One heavy and official-sounding (Grumbleson). One lighter, quicker, radiating relentless energy (Elara, undoubtedly).
I didn't bother getting up from the floor. Didn't bother answering the inevitable knock. Let them discover me in my natural state: grumpy, floor-bound, radiating 'go away' vibes.
The knock came. Followed by Grumbleson's overly cheerful bellow. "Guardian Bob! Are you in there? Vital pre-festival consultations!"
Silence from my end. Maybe they'd assume I was deep in silent communion with floorboards?
"Mr. Bob?" Elara's voice, closer to the door. "We know you're in there! Widow Meadowsweet saw you vanquish the Badger Lords with your mind! She said you looked awfully tired afterwards and probably needed to 'ground yourself'!"
Curse Widow Meadowsweet and her uncanny ability to be everywhere, observing everything, and interpreting it with maximum mystical spin. Now my floor-sitting wasn't apathy; it was 'grounding'. Connected to the Badger Lord vanquishing. Of course it was.
Reluctantly, because prolonged silence might lead them to breaking down the door 'for my own well-being', I grunted something vaguely affirmative.
The door creaked open. Grumbleson and Elara peered in. Took in the scene: Me, sitting on the floor. The general squalor. The Hero Cushion keeping vigil on the counter.
"Ah!" Grumbleson beamed, instantly reframing. "Excellent! Communing with the foundational energies! Wise! Very wise preparation for the festivities!"
"Are you recharging, Mr. Bob?" Elara asked, eyes wide with concern and admiration. "Dispelling all that negative badger energy must have been draining!"
"Something like that," I muttered. Draining, yes. But primarily of patience, not psychic energy.
"Well!" Grumbleson clapped his hands together, startling a nearby dust bunny. "No time for extended grounding, Bob! Festival Eve approaches! There's activity in the square! Vital activity!"
He wasn't asking me to join. He was informing me of my required attendance. The tyranny of perceived guardianship.
"Gregor the Gregarious," Grumbleson announced, puffing up like a proud pigeon, "has prepared a Special Oration! Tonight! A preview of his Epic Saga! Tales of your heroism, Bob! To inspire the village! Culminating," he lowered his voice dramatically, "in a reading of the portents! From your own prophetic words about the bonfire!"
My sarcastic warnings about fire safety, twisted into prophecy, now being used by a charlatan storyteller for dramatic effect at a public gathering I was expected to attend. The layers of meta-annoyance were becoming suffocating.
"He'll read the flames themselves tomorrow, of course," Grumbleson added conspiratorially. "Interpret your warning about 'receptive thatch' and 'sparks flying'. But tonight... tonight is the narrative!"
I closed my eyes briefly. Calculated the odds of spontaneously developing a highly contagious, quarantine-requiring illness within the next hour. Statistically negligible. Damn.
"Your presence is crucial, Bob," Grumbleson insisted. "To lend... authenticity! To inspire confidence! To show the village their Guardian stands with them on this auspicious night!"
"And maybe," Elara whispered excitedly, "you could add some details Gregor missed? About the Goblin King's actual height? Or the exact Word of Power used on the sign?"
No. Absolutely not. Under no circumstances. My only contribution would be silent, simmering resentment from the darkest available corner.
Just as I was formulating a suitably non-committal grunt, another figure appeared at the doorway. Borin Stonehand. He wasn't smiling. Wasn't frowning. Just… observing. Always observing.
"Meeting's moving to the square, then?" Borin asked mildly, his gaze flicking from Grumbleson to Elara, then settling, inevitably, on me, still residing on the floor. He didn't comment on my seating choice. Didn't mention badgers or grounding. Just watched.
"Indeed, Master Stonehand!" Grumbleson puffed. "Gregor's Oration! You'll be there, surely?"
"Wouldn't miss it," Borin replied, his eyes still on me. "Be interesting to see how the stories... take shape." He paused. "Bob," he addressed me directly, his tone carefully neutral. "You should probably be there too."
It wasn't a command. Wasn't quite a threat. More like… a suggestion heavy with unspoken implication. Like 'I'll be watching how you react to this nonsense, and your reaction will be noted'.
Trapped. Utterly trapped. Grumbleson's official expectation. Elara's enthusiastic pleading. Borin's quiet, watchful insistence. The village's collective belief in my mythical status. And Gregor, waiting to perform his magnum opus of lies, starring me. Avoidance was no longer an option.
"Fine," I bit out the word. It tasted like defeat. Climbed stiffly to my feet, brushing non-existent dust from my tunic. Projecting maximum reluctance.
Grumbleson beamed. Elara clapped her hands softly. Borin just gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
The walk to the village square felt like a condemned man's final journey. The square was filling up. Torches cast flickering shadows. A makeshift platform had been erected for Gregor. The air buzzed with anticipation, fuelled by ale from the Soggy Bottom and exaggerated tales of badger vanquishing.
I found a shadowy spot near the back, leaning against the wall of the thankfully silent bakery. Close enough to 'be present', far enough to potentially melt into the background if reality spontaneously decided to do me a favour. Borin, predictably, positioned himself nearby, leaning against a post, arms crossed, gaze steady. Elara joined Grumbleson near the front, vibrating with excitement.
Gregor mounted the platform. Preened for a moment. Cleared his throat, milking the silence.
"People of Oakhaven!" his voice boomed, instantly commanding attention. "Tonight! On the eve of our joyous Harvest Festival! We gather not just to anticipate the bounty of the earth, but to celebrate the protector in our midst! The Silent Guardian! Bob!"
A ragged cheer went up from the crowd. Several people turned to look towards my shadowy corner. I didn't react. Became one with the bricks.
"Tonight," Gregor continued, puffing out his chest, "a preview! A taste! Of the Epic Saga! The tale of his deeds! His quiet strength! His mysterious power!" He paused dramatically. "And later… we shall ponder his prophetic words concerning the cleansing fire that awaits us tomorrow!"
He launched into it. The Tale of the Compost Pilgrimage became an epic confrontation with the Goblin King ("His eyes like burning embers! His breath like sulfur!"). My olfactory redirection became a 'Wave of Pure Willpower that Sent the Foul Beast Howling!'
Then the Tale of the Sign ("Buffeted by demonic winds! Possessed by a spirit of malicious squeaking!"). My broom-handle tap became a 'Single Syllable of Power, Unheard by Mortal Ears, That Bound the Wind and Silenced the Spirit!'
The Tale of the Root Cellar Resonance ("A vortex of swirling chaos! Voices from beyond the veil!"). My acoustic dampening and disruption of the gnome-tech became 'Bob Gazed Into the Abyss, Faced the Resonant Horror, and With Silent Command, Healed the Scar Upon Reality!'
And finally, the freshest masterpiece: The Tale of the Badger Lords ("A tide of furry fury! Eyes aflame! Claws like razors! The Mustelid Menace unleashed!"). My application of synthesized polecat musk became 'Bob Stood Unflinching! A Beacon of Calm! His Gaze Alone, Filled With the Power of Ancient Mountains, Turned the Horde! They Fled Before His Silent Majesty!'
It was appalling. Breathtakingly inaccurate. Masterfully manipulative. The crowd hung on every word, gasping, cheering, murmuring in awe. They were eating it up. Believing every fabricated syllable.
I watched, stone-faced, feeling a familiar sense of dissociation. Was this me he was talking about? This paragon of silent power and effortless mastery? Or was 'Bob the Guardian' now a completely separate entity, a fictional character inhabiting the villagers' collective imagination, bearing only a coincidental resemblance to the profoundly bored, tea-deprived entity currently leaning against a bakery wall wishing for swift oblivion?
Gregor reached his crescendo, gesturing towards the location where the bonfire pile stood, ready for tomorrow's ignition. "And what of the fire? The Guardian warned us! 'Fire consumes! It transforms! Sparks fly! Thatch is receptive!' Was it a warning? Or a promise? A promise of purification! Of renewal! We shall seek the answers in the flames themselves!"
He finished with a flourish. Applause erupted. Drunken cheers. Cries of "Guardian Bob!"
I didn't move. Didn't react. Borin's gaze was fixed on me, unreadable in the flickering torchlight.
The stage was set. The expectations were impossibly high. The bonfire pile waited, a monument to metaphorical interpretation and terrible fire safety. Tomorrow promised to be… eventful. And almost certainly involve flaming debris landing dangerously close to receptive thatch. My prophecy, however sarcastic its intent, felt depressingly likely to come true. Just… not in the way they expected.