Jeremy Somnos; The New Protector

The weatherman had either lied or simply made a blunder, and in the minds of Mr. and Mrs. Weaver, there was little difference between the two. The result was the same: a dreary, tempestuous day that had been promised to be bright and cheerful. Rain drummed against the window, pooling into puddles that reflected the gray sky, and gusts of wind rattled the branches of the trees, making them sway ominously.

"How could they get it so wrong?" he muttered under his breath, frustration creeping into his voice. It was supposed to be a good day. 

The man's name? Mr. Weaver. You see, he was the Operations Manager of a food distribution company rather oddly named Nommad—a name that, despite its charm, had been misspelled from the very start and never corrected. He was a jolly fellow, with a figure that was pleasantly round, almost cuddly in its appearance. He practically trusted the News for everything he planned. In stark contrast, Mrs. Weaver was a slender brunette, graceful and poised. More than anything else, she adored watching people, though to be perfectly honest, one might say she was rather fond of snooping. Their differences always lead others to wonder how such a couple could possibly have ended up together. Yet they had, quite happily, and they shared their lives with a delightful little boy named Arlo, who at the age of two was a bundle of mischief and charm.

Mr. Weaver straightened his back, a small act that felt monumental after a restless night. As he glanced into the hallway mirror, it stared back, reflecting a rather uninspired figure. His entire outfit was a wash of bland gray, the kind of color that seemed to absorb all vibrancy from the world around him. Even his tie, a dull cream, appeared resigned to its fate of mediocrity. 

With a soft, tuneless hum escaping his lips, he shuffled down the stairs, the familiar creaks of the wooden steps softening his mood. 

At the bottom of the stairs Mr. Weaver spotted his wife and son. Food lay strewn across the floor, a chaotic mosaic of bright orange puree and soggy bits of toast, remnants of a mealtime gone awry. The only bit left was that clinging stubbornly to Mrs. Weaver's spoon, a final morsel that seemed to mock her efforts. 

"Little rascal sure knows how to keep his momma busy." he chuckled as he passed by and into the kitchen. Mr. Weaver smiled to himself as the eggs slid out of the pan, golden yellow and perfectly cooked.

"You better not make a mess too, dear," Mrs. Weaver teased, her hands now resting on her hips as she surveyed the remnants of breakfast scattered across the floor. The spoon lay in the sink, bits and chunks still on it; she had given up. 

Amid their playful banter and lighthearted teasing, they were blissfully unaware of the fleeting flash of crimson that darted past the window—a vibrant blur that bore an uncanny resemblance to a hat, a hat so flowy, long and red it seemed to have leapt from the pages of a whimsical tale.

At a quarter past eight Mr. Weaver set his plate of food down, pecked Mrs. Weaver on the cheek and lifted his flailing son into the air. Spinning him around before handing him off to Mrs. Weaver. 

The door flew open, a voice echoing behind him. "Good luck at your meeting!" 

He had almost let the thought slip from his mind, a glimmer of opportunity that might just lead to a promotion. As he climbed into his car, his umbrella, in a rather uncooperative manner, folded inwards, forcing him to wrestle with it before he could pull away from the driveway.

The rain poured down incessantly, obscuring his view and causing him to miss an odd spectacle just beyond the reach of his windshield. A woman, her eyes wild with a hint of madness, stood shivering in nothing but a bathrobe. 

By the time Mr. Weaver had parked, the rain had ceased its relentless drumming. In his haste, he clutched nothing but his briefcase, acutely aware that he was perilously close to being late—so much so that he found himself breaking into a run. As a man of considerable stature, the exertion left him glistening with sweat by the time he arrived at the office. With a hasty dab at his forehead and a quick adjustment of his suit, he steeled himself and pushed the door open, stepping into the buzzing atmosphere within.

The meeting unfolded just as one might anticipate—rough and tumultuous. There had been shouting on all sides, a cacophony of frustrations exchanged, but amidst the chaos, Mr. Weaver had conjured a grand idea that left his colleagues momentarily stunned. Practically as soon as it ended he left the room and took a step outside. The scent of fresh rain lingered in the atmosphere, weaving a delightful tapestry of earthy aromas that filled his lungs, refreshing in its embrace. He was smiling to himself walking down the street; when he saw something quite odd. 

In the middle of the street stood a garden gnome. 

Not a living, breathing gnome, of course; that would be simply absurd. Yet, there it stood, adorned in attire that certainly seemed too vibrant for mere ceramic. The gnome's coat was a striking shade of blue, fluttering gently in the lingering breeze that danced through the air. Atop its head perched a bright red hat, pointed and proud, adorned with tiny rivets that glimmered like stars. Unlike the cold touch of ceramic, it appeared to be fashioned from soft cloth. He blinked and the gnome disappeared from his sight in that brief instance. 

His mind endeavored to dismiss the peculiar sight, rationalizing that perhaps someone had simply picked it up, or maybe it was just a person of short stature dressing up early for Halloween—though a full month in advance struck him as rather irrational. So wrapped up in these thoughts was he that he stumbled over his own feet; in any other circumstance, he would have surely caught himself, but the ground was treacherously slick beneath him, betraying his balance and sending him tumbling. As such he fell right on his rump; the water immediately soaking into his clothing. A stranger's hand reached out tugging him upright. 

"You really ought to be more careful, especially on a day such as this." The next words were quiet and came out slurred as the man muttered, "Darn little buggers, why do they have to be showing themselves today of all days?"

Mr. Weaver blinked in confusion, taking in the appearance of his helper. It was rather bizarre. The man was tall and gaunt, with wispy gray hair that seemed to float around his head like a halo. His eyes were a startling shade of silver, almost glowing in the pale sunlight that peeked through the clouds. A robe that looked all too similar to a bathrobe was wrapped tightly around him. 

"I beg your pardon?" Mr. Weaver sputtered, brushing off a bit of muck from his now-damp trousers. 

The strange man tilted his head, regarding Mr. Weaver with an unnerving intensity. "You saw it, didn't you? The little folk are about today. They don't often show themselves, but when they do..." He trailed off, glancing around nervously. "Bad things happen. Bad indeed." 

Rather rattled, Mr. Weaver offered a hasty thank-you to the man and practically fled the scene, though he did so with a cautious gait, mindful of the slick ground beneath him. Words rang in his head, just a crazy man nothing more. 

Except as he wove through the crowds, his eyes darting nervously from face to face, Mr. Weaver began to notice things he'd somehow missed before. Here and there, dotted among the sea of sensible raincoats and umbrellas, were figures that seemed to have stepped out of another century entirely. A man in a violently purple top hat. A woman swathed in what looked like a velvet curtain. An elderly gentleman sporting a lime-green bowler and... were those pantaloons? His steps quickened; it was none of his concern, just a gathering of eccentricities. After all, rain had a way of bringing out the kooks in the neighborhood, didn't it?

As he settled into his desk chair, the image of the garden gnome—yes, that's exactly what it looked like—lingered in his mind. Despite his efforts to focus on work or answer phone calls, his thoughts kept drifting back to that strange encounter. It's bright red hat and swaying cloak, even the fact that he could swear it had blinked. He couldn't shake the memory, and it caused him to make no progress on any of his projects throughout the day. By the time five o'clock arrived, he was still stuck on the same tasks. 

Mr. Weaver's drive home was steeped in an unsettling silence. The radio, stubbornly uncooperative, crackled with nothing but static, no matter how many stations he attempted to tune in. The clouds had rolled back in, low and heavy. As he turned onto his street, rain began to fall, his gaze was drawn to the house across the way. Every light was extinguished—no, that wasn't quite right; every single blind was clamped tightly shut.

He was so preoccupied with the house that he completely overlooked the pointed red hat peeking out from the hydrangeas in his garden. 

Mr. Weaver stepped into his home, his mind still churning with the day's peculiar events. Mrs. Weaver's familiar voice washed over him like a comforting blanket, but he found himself struggling to grasp the full meaning of her animated chatter.

"…and then Mrs. Thompson from next door came rushing over in quite a state," Mrs. Weaver was saying, her hands fluttering about like agitated birds. "She swore she'd seen a tiny man in our garden, if you can believe it! Red hat and all, just like in those old fairy stories. I told her she must have been seeing things, but she was absolutely certain…"

Mr. Weaver's nervous chuckle cut her off, "Yes quite the wild imagination." 

Mabel—Mrs. Weaver's voice rattled on and yet Mr. Weaver was no longer listening, his focus not set on the TV. "…and in other news, just in! Reports are flooding in of an unprecedented number of meteorites falling from the sky. But that's not all, folks. Alongside these cosmic events, there have been sightings of people dressed in peculiar outfits. Let's take this as a friendly reminder that Halloween is still a month away, on October 31st, not September 30th." The TV screen flickered as an ad began to play. Mr. Weaver's hand tapped gently against the armchair he had just sunken into. What was going on? 

"Mabel, what do you think?" Mr. Weaver's hand waved wildly at the TV. 

"Huh?—" Her eyes shot towards the TV, "Ah it's probably just some attention seeking group online. Be all over the news for weeks."

Mr. Weaver didn't reply; simply sinking deeper into the armchair, yeah she was right; his attention returned to the TV. He was overthinking it all. It was simply stress from his meeting. 

And yet, oh how wrong his thoughts were. 

Complete darkness had fallen over Glade Street. Every house was dark, no lights shone except for the street lamps. If one looked their eyes would be instinctively drawn to one lamp in particular. It was flickering. The flickering sped up going faster and faster until suddenly it stopped; grew as bright as the sun on a hot day then the light vanished as the lamp post went dark. A single man appeared beneath it. 

Now if the light was on one would see a most peculiar man. Middle aged in appearance, a wiry yet muscular frame could be seen through the simple white robe that swept to his feet; it was quite worn with all kinds of holes and rips throughout it. A muddy splotch covered one of the sleeves entirely. His eyes couldn't be seen; they were hidden behind a pair of rather lopsided sunglasses. This man's name was Magnus Loretz.

He took a step forward, his hands were fidgeting awkwardly with the folds of his cloak. Without looking up a sad smile appeared on his face. "Hello my dear old friends, I should have expected you to be here to witness such an atrocity."

A rather gruff yet high pitched voice responded, "Is this truly the only way?"

Magnus' eyes lifted, settling on a man who looked an awful lot like a garden gnome. Grim, hollowed out eyes stared up at Magnus. The man would have barely reached Magnus' knee caps. He had on a blue sweater coat, a red top hat, black pants and a pair of high heeled boots.

"I wish there was, I truly do."

The small man sighed, it seemed to carry with it the weight of centuries. "Very well, Magnus. We shall bear witness, as is our duty."

It was then that he let out a grunt of triumph, for from the innermost pocket of his cloak, a key appeared as if conjured by magic itself. This key was small and iridescent, shimmering in such a way that it seemed almost transparent, catching the light with every subtle movement. He fiddled with it in peculiar ways, spinning and shaking it until a look of satisfaction crossed his face.

At last, he ceased his fidgeting and turned his gaze across the street, where a sense of determination washed over him. With purposeful strides, he advanced until he stood directly before a particular door—the Weaver residence. The key floated from his fingers, beginning to spin in the air. It whirled so rapidly that it whipped through Magnus's hair, yet not a sound accompanied it. The keyhole on the door frame began to warble and warp, shifting into an old-fashioned design—round at the top and tapering off into a neat triangle at the bottom. It started to grow, expanding until it filled the entire door frame, its edges shimmering with a strange light. With a deep breath and a rather forlorn look, Magnus stepped forward, walking through the now-enormous keyhole. As he passed, the door returned to its original form, the peculiar transformation fading as if it had never occurred at all.

With a determined stride, he ascended the stairs, moving as though he possessed an intimate knowledge of the path before him; it seemed he had set foot inside the house many times before. Yet, if you were to ask Mr. or Mrs. Weaver, they would insist otherwise.

His voice came out softly as he muttered simply, "Ah here it is."

Magnus paused for a fleeting moment before the door, his heart racing with anticipation. With a steadying breath, he lifted his hand and turned the knob. As he stepped into the medium-sized room, his gaze was immediately drawn to a crib nestled carefully against the wall. A baby lay wrapped snugly in soft blankets, blissfully unaware of the peculiar happenings around him. From beneath his cloak, Magnus produced a rather unusual quill, its ornate design glinting in the soft light. With a flick of his wrist, a golden stream of shapes and lines flowed from the quill, swirling around the infant and forming a shimmering bubble that danced in the air. The bubble expanded and contracted gently, a mesmerizing sight, until—pop!—it burst into a cascade of sparkling motes, yet no sound accompanied its explosion. The lines deepened on Magnus's forehead. The only discernible difference lay in the child's features. What had once been a mess of jet black hair was now a rather pleasant blonde, and his eyes—previously a striking heterochromia one blue, one green—had settled into a rather unremarkable shade of brown.

With great care, Magnus reached down and gently lifted the child from the crib, cradling the little one in his arms. He slipped quietly from the room, the soft creak of the door scarcely disturbing the serene stillness that enveloped them.

As he descended the stairs, the floorboard beneath his feet let out a telling creak. He froze, holding his breath, every sense alert, but the house remained eerily silent. Mr. and Mrs. Weaver were deep in slumber, blissfully unaware of the intruder in their midst.

At the foot of the stairs, Magnus paused, his eyes scanning the shadowy contours of the living room. The clock on the mantel ticked steadily, each tick amplifying the gravity of his actions. He clutched the child closer, feeling the warmth of the tiny body against his chest, a flicker of hope amidst the uncertainty.

"I'm sorry, little one," he whispered, his voice barely escaping his lips.

As if sensing his presence, the baby stirred slightly, tiny fingers reaching out, grasping at the air. With that the man disappeared from the home; a solemn gnome stared at where Magnus had disappeared. "You really did it, you really did it."

Not very far away; he reappeared.

A woman's voice echoed out, "Is that the boy?"

Magnus turned his head towards the sound. A woman stood tall and imposing, her face sharp and fierce, framed by a cascade of muddy brown graying hair that danced in the gentle breeze. Her glasses perched low on her long nose, giving her an air of authority that was impossible to ignore. 

He smiled sadly, "Ah, Mrs. Thompson, I wasn't expecting to see you here in my lowest moment," he said, a hint of irony lacing his words.

Mrs. Thompson, however, didn't respond, she simply stared at the child nestled in his arms, her expression blank and unreadable. Silence hung heavily between them, stretching on for what felt like an eternity before she finally broke it. "He's dead. You knew it was coming, didn't you?"

Her tone was questioning, yet it carried an unmistakable finality, as if she already understood the answer without needing it spoken. 

Magnus answered her anyway, "Yes I did; I knew it was coming for quite some time." 

"And you did nothing to stop it? Why? What reasoning could you possibly have? You've all but doomed us."

Magnus shook his head, "No one could have saved him." 

Mrs. Thompson sighed before she extended her arms, and with a heavy heart, Magnus gently passed the child over to her. A basket materialized beside them, woven with care and imbued with a quiet magic. Mrs. Thompson picked it up and carefully placed the child inside. Magnus placed the letter gently atop the sleeping baby, who stirred slightly, twisting uncomfortably. 

Rather quickly, he turned away, a solitary tear slipping down his cheek, and with that, he vanished from sight. Mrs. Thompson stood alone, her expression as cold as stone, a mask of composure in the dim light. She swept down the walkway towards the house, her footsteps echoing softly against the cobblestones. The basket was placed ever so gently by the door, a delicate offering in the stillness of the night.

That night was marked by death, a disappearance, and the arrival of a baby. 

Then, Mrs. Thompson was gone, gnomes slowly began to appear out from behind trees and pots; even they left.

That morning Mr. and Mrs. Weaver screamed in horror. And a lady with blonde hair, and blue eyes—who went by Emma Somnos— was rather perturbed to find no husband in her bed and a baby boy at her front door. 

But all throughout the night a strange whisper flew about in the air: "His name is Jeremy."