Chapter Text
His name was Knuckles.
They knew because that’s what he called himself. But that wasn’t really what he called himself. His name was a source of pride, but his name came with his title.
“My name is Knuckles.”
He’d stated.
“I am the last echidna.”
He’d lamented.
“I am the last Guardian.”
He’d boasted.
He had great sense in his duty, they could tell. He didn’t really heed them much attention. He gathered a few of them, but didn’t turn to give them to their Elder, because that was “Amy’s job. I have my own duty to fulfill”. He didn’t care much for fancy, but he also didn’t lack prowess in his movements, every strike, every punch, every glide and spike into a wall an action to its max potential, raw instinct and dedicated training driving a maximized attempt.
He reminded them of their warriors, once upon a time. Tough and cut rough like a diamond, with the same tall stance of knowing what danger was and knowing all the steps in its dance. His attacks were a practiced technique. Where Hope just let the music carry him in its sway, the tide of the battle dictate his retaliation, and Amy swung as hard as she could for anywhere she could reach, Knuckles knew the steps. He’d rehearsed the dance, all the way throughout the night, knew what movement fit with each, knew to step forwards if the enemy fell back, knew to slide away if an attack rushed close by. He was a warrior by blood, faith, and trade. His title told them enough.
“Guardian”.
Like they had theirs. But they were beings made of metal and wire, crafted to perform to their expectations because to train someone to that level of skill would take much too long. Knuckles was young. Older than Hope, but still young. Just of age according to him and his culture, actually. And yet he went toe to toe with their Guardians, and knew just how they would fall. He honored them with a fight but wasted no time, knocked them down before long, and contemplated them long and hard. He’d turn to look at them, and then at their Guardians, and would cross his arms as if shielding his chest and bow. And they’d ask, of course, what it meant. What the sentiment was for, if what was falling were creatures of metal and steel and scrap and beams, that would come back upon the next starfall.
“It is a sign of respect for fallen Guardians.” He’d explained to them, trekking his steady way to his next target. “Perhaps they may not be organic, but they have taken on this duty with their lives. It is admirable that throughout millenia they continue to uphold it. It is what every Guardian should strive for.”
So they knew he was Guardian. They knew he was what they had never had the patience to achieve with a mortal, and he was far better than their own Guardians, through sheer tactic, practice, and strength alone. He was impressive, and he held himself high because he knew it.
They just didn’t know what he was Guarding.
Well. Perhaps they knew. Perhaps they had heard snippets of it floating around, a mention in a conversation or other. Of an Emerald. Not the Chaos Emeralds, but another Emerald, one they remembered so clearly, so serene. An Emerald that spoke , but only to a few of them, only to a random few. Of an Emerald that made the others dance, that had them bend at their whims unlike anything they had ever seen from eons of studying the mystical rocks.
Of a Master Emerald.
And if he was the Guardian of the Emerald, they couldn’t help the pride that flooded them. At the notion, that somehow, someway, the Emerald had been kept safe. That the group that had set out to protect it had succeeded, and had left it in the hands of someone so incredibly capable. They knew it hadn’t been Knuckles, but whoever it had been had passed it down the line, down, down, down, to such a prodigious child.
They were proud.
They told him as such.
He huffed. He’d landed now, before the Emerald shining cyan, and had stood with the sunrise streaking his fur gold for a few seconds. Long enough for them to appear, long enough for them to watch him stand there with his arms crossed and his chest puffed out and his stance stoic as if waiting for the world to go on before him.
“I trained my whole life.” He offered, his eyes still locked on the shining sea. They all stood beside him, trying to see if they could find what had him so captivated.
“It is my duty.”
Why? They asked. Because they wanted to know. What had become of their Emerald, what had become of the few of them who left for somewhere else. For that last island, to find refuge, to live on if misery befell them too.
He chuckled. His stance did not waver. Like a practiced craft, he remained still as a statue. “I am the last Guardian. My tribe spent generations Guarding the Master Emerald, keeping it free from the hands of greed.” He paused. The smile fell to a frown. “Except that corruption sprouted amongst our ranks, and as punishment, our numbers were wiped out beyond recovery. Total extinction was a long time coming. It is the price we had to pay. And as the last Echidna remaining, it is also my duty to uphold the tradition that started it all with my life.”
So he was no stranger to death at all. Not unlike them, a familiar ache in knowing what a once thriving populace leaving behind nothing but their homes and shadows felt like. Except that they had each other in their eternal stay.
He had no one.
Which begged the question: Who trained you, then? If you’re alone?
“I do things on my own.” He supplied, voice stoic. “I studied the arts of my ancestors, learned their practices through patience, sweat, and blood. I am a hardened warrior, and I’ve resolved to be one until my very death.”
They stared. Chimed in concern at him. He didn’t move, that thoughtful frown still there, as the oranges and red of sunrise started to bleed away to bright blue skies and a pearl white sun. Their chimes faded to silence, because no amount of bugging seemed to phase him, and they all resolved that perhaps, he’d like the silence better.
“But.”
They looked over. There was a sad smile on his face.
“Sometimes, my ancestors would visit. On the whim of the Master Emerald.” His voice sounded wistful, and his eyes were on sweet times long passed. “They would tell me stories of our tribes. Would remind me of my duty, if I was ever to doubt. They would keep me company, they’d raise me as if I was their own.”
He sighed.
“Not anymore, before you ask.” He finally looked away. Locked his gaze on the red tile beneath them. “That was my upbringing, to ensure I could fulfill my duty. Once I was ready, the visits ceased. Because the Master Emerald knows I can do it alone. The duty of a Guardian is a lonely one. Arono. But it is the way it is meant to be.”
They stared. Stared and considered the lonely tale of a bound soul, with a duty to the world before himself. As firm and grim as a statue. Considered the agony of standing as the last one who could protect such an important relic and…
But what of your friends?
He blinked. “What?”
Why can’t they guard it with you? They prompted. We know you speak of tradition, of years of training, of a tragedy befallen upon customs broken, but what keeps them from helping them guard it with you?
He stared. Dumbfounded. “I am… It is because… I am the last Echidna. It was our duty. It would be… wrong to ask it of any other mobian.”
Forgive us, but the Emerald wasn’t always of your kind. It is what drew us to this world, what gave us our chance at a final stance. They managed. Watched his eyes narrow. Once upon a time, it wasn’t even ours. It was the land’s. But we did what we could, to defend it. And your kind certainly did its best as well. But you’re the last, and certainly you’re not immortal. What happens when you are gone? Who guards on? If you are on your own, who will learn what songs your tribe left as they moved on?
“I…” His expression tightened. He looked away. “The duty is a lonely one. It is tradition! I… I am just following the footsteps of those before me. Honoring their deaths.”
Perhaps . They mussed. And eyes cast towards the ocean, a thought came to them. But it was a duty forged by more than one. More than one person created the traditions. A collection of people saw them born. Perhaps the Guardian stood lonely in their role, but never in their tribe.
“I…”
Don’t you think, then, traditions demand you have a tribe of your own?
“I never…” His voice caught in his throat. His grip on his arms tightened, by a smidge, and his mouth pressed into a thin line. He stood in tense silence of his own making for a few minutes longer, his eyes not on the horizon but lost in his own thoughts, Emerald humming behind them as they contemplated him a little while longer.
And then, a chuckle. A small noise, a little drop that grew into a drip that grew into a stream and the pour and then he was laughing , a thing full of bitterness and relief, of mirth and pain. He doubled over, hands limp at his sides and the clutching at his midsection, drawing in a breath and then another and drowning the laughter beneath a smile, pained but thankful.
“I never entertained such a thought.” He eventually managed, gazing down at them, his attention for once solely theirs. “Perhaps, I have clung to tradition so desperately, in an attempt to be closer to a tribe that…” His voice, wistful, and he gazed out upon the island, as if he could see his friends traverse it from his perch, so high up in the sky. “That I failed to notice I was pulling away from mine.”
Relief. Relief as if he’d been debating this with himself for decades now. They chimed up at him in encouragement. He smiled down at them in gratefulness, before drawing himself to his full height once again, standing proud.
“That will need amending.” He declared, before turning around and finally, finally facing the Emerald, nodding at its glow. “But first. This thing needs to get taught a lesson. No one messes with this world, with my friends, my tribe, and gets away with it.”
And so, threatening, with the strength of all their Guardians combined, he turned towards the Emerald, and marched with purpose in his gait.
But then he stumbled. Barely caught himself with his fist.
Violent-violet-red flared .
He panted. Gasped for breath. They all scrambled about him as he lifted his hand, examined the cloud of energy fogging about him with pain in his gaze. Stared at it, as if it was a particularly interesting fold in his glove, and then, and then , another round of laughter cut through the now morning sky, his eyes pulled wide.
He straightened up. His cackles agonized and strained. He tipped backwards, fell on the tiles, on his back, and they all chimed in concern.
And then he slammed a fist on the crimson ground.
“Oh no you do not .” He hissed, his anger directed at anything that could receive it. His eyes wouldn’t focus, but his glare remained fierce. “Sonic handled four islands of this mess.”
His voice dropped to a determined growl. “I am not going down with just one. ”
And then, sparing a glance at them, the Guardian turned his glare up to the sky, and pushed himself up to his elbows. Swung a fist, as if aiming to slay the clouds up high.
“You hear that?!” He roared. His voice echoed across the blue. “This isn’t over until I WIN! ”
Silence. He lowered himself back to the ground and gasped for breath.
But they knew he wasn’t done yet.
Because Knuckles wouldn’t give up without a fight.