By Silver Sailor Ganymede
Her fate was perhaps the worst that could be dealt to any, a fate a thousand times worse than death itself. Eternal imprisonment for a crime she did not commit; solitude so immense that most would have long ago been driven insane by it. Her garnet eyes are empty; her soul lies dormant until it is needed, for what use would thoughts and emotions have in such a situation?
She watches the mists swirl around her, their ardent vapour her only company in this hell. She sees the images in her mind, projected by the mists, the overlapping times and realities, each simply a river leading into a great sea, the stream of time that she has been condemned to protect.
Sometimes she will turn away from the mists, close her all-seeing eyes and try to escape to the fringes of insanity. I suppose it is needless to say that she may never escape; the gods would never be so kind.
Neither would the gods be so kind as to grant her insight into her own future, if indeed one exists for her, so she is instead forced to remember tomorrow through the eyes of others and pray for what might happen today. Of course nothing ever changes; time flows steadily onwards and the guardian is damned to live on unknowing, forever.