The sky had barely cleared from the divine storm that shaped the world when the three newly formed guardians—Sierra Madre, Cordillera, and Caraballo—found themselves standing in solemn silence. Their bodies were young yet ancient, their spirits raw yet filled with purpose. Though mountains in flesh and bone, they were very much alive—breathing with the wind, listening through the soil, and feeling the pulse of life stirring in the distance.
A warm breeze passed between them, the breath of the Great Creator lingering like a blessing.
They looked at each other—three titans carved with intention, bound by a destiny older than time itself.
"We will protect them," Sierra Madre whispered first.
Her voice was soft, calm, a tone like the breeze before dawn—gentle yet unwavering.
Her slopes glowed faintly with the first kiss of sunlight, her forests humming with new life.
Cordillera gave a solemn nod. His form towered, strong and unbending, his peaks proud and sharp.
"We must. Their lives will depend on us."
Caraballo, the youngest in form yet the wisest in heart, placed a hand on each of his siblings' shoulders.
"Not only protect—provide," he said, his voice like deep earth.
"We will be their shield, but also their home."
The three giants stood together, eyes sweeping across the untouched land before them—rivers newly born from melting clouds, forests growing like dreams from fertile soil, valleys waiting for footsteps not yet made.
Then time moved forward like a river discovering its path. Plants grew older, trees taller, animals multiplied.
One day, on the shore of the northeastern coast-beneath Sierra Madre's watchful gaze-a group of humans arrived on boats crafted from the trunks of ancient trees.
The guardians had never seen humans before.
They were smaller, fragile-looking compared to the giants. But they held fire in their eyes, curiosity in their stance, and hope in their steps.
Sierra Madre watched silently as they set foot on her land, touching the soil as though greeting a long-lost friend.
Cordillera observed them from afar, steady and unmoving.
Caraballo approached closest, sensing something different about these beings.
The humans built small huts, fished in the rivers, gathered fruit from the forest, and whispered prayers to the sky.
One of them-a young woman named Dalisay-often wandered the edge of the forest. She would gently press her hands to the bark of trees and whisper:
"Gabayan mo kami, diwata ng bundok."
One afternoon, she placed her hand upon a massive balete tree rooted deep in Sierra Madre's slopes.
And for the first time since the age of creation, Sierra Madre spoke to a human.
"You are welcome here, anak ng lupa," she said, her voice echoing like soft thunder.
Dalisay gasped, falling to her knees. "Diwata...?"
Sierra Madre knelt, her towering figure breaking through the forest canopy. "I am a guardian," she said. "And you-your people-are the first children of Ilaya."
Dalisay touched the ground reverently. "We will honor this land."
Cordillera stepped forward then, towering like a god. "See to it," he warned gently, "that you do."
Caraballo smiled at the humans, kneeling so he looked less intimidating. "Hindi kayo nag-iisa. We will watch over you... if you also watch over the land."
Thus began the first covenant between guardians and humankind.
The people lived in harmony with the mountains. They learned to read the winds, to hear the warnings of the rivers, to understand the language of the trees.
They became one with the land-farmers, healers, weavers, hunters.
And the guardians grew fond of them.
When storms came, Sierra Madre stood firm.
Cordillera held the waters back.
Caraballo healed the land after every calamity.
The people thanked them with rituals, songs, and offerings.
Then the wind changed.
At first it was only a faint sound—a trembling, tiny, fragile cry carried across the breeze.
The guardians froze.
The cry grew clearer.
A wail.
A call.
A spark of life.
The first human had been born.
Sierra Madre clasped her hands to her heart, bark and stone shifting like flesh moved by emotion.
Her eyes softened with ancient tenderness.
Cordillera took one thunderous step forward, earth shaking beneath him.
"Look at its limbs—small now, but one day strong.
Perhaps someday, he will climb my cliffs and stand on my highest peaks."
A rare warm smile softened the warrior-mountain's face.
Caraballo leaned forward, eyes gleaming with excitement.
"His cry… listen to it. It pulls his parents together.
See how they run to him.
That unity—that love—reminds me of you, Sierra."
Sierra Madre's cheeks glowed like the morning sun breaking through clouds.
She whispered,
"And he will have your heart, Caraballo—gentle, connecting, healing."
The three giants lowered themselves until they were close to the earth, watching the small family hold their newborn son in trembling, joyful arms. The mother cradled him with reverence; the father stood like a shield, still breathless with awe.
Humans—so fragile, so warm, so alive.
Cordillera's chest rumbled.
"We will watch over him. Over all of them."
Caraballo nodded.
"We will stand between them and the storms.
Between them and the dangers the sky may bring."
Sierra Madre extended her hand.
"Let us make our vow now."
The three titans joined hands—stone to stone, soil to soil, spirit to spirit. A pulse of light spread from their touch, flowing through rivers, forests, valleys, and plains. The very land of Luzon trembled with life.
Together they declared:
**"For every wind that howls, we shall break its force.
For every rain that falls, we shall soften its blow.
For every danger that rises,
we shall stand between them—
unmoving, unyielding, unbreaking."**
And as they swore their oath, the cry of the newborn human echoed around them—pure, loud, endless.
It filled the giants with a sense of purpose deeper than roots.
It was not long before other humans followed—families growing, communities forming, lives blossoming in the shadow and shelter of the three guardians. The people flourished under their watch.
They built homes along the rivers Sierra Madre protected.
They cultivated fields that rested safely behind Cordillera's towering spine.
They traveled valleys and trails that Caraballo shaped gently with his hands.
The guardians loved them—quietly, endlessly.
They gave shade.
They gave water.
They gave protection.
And the humans, in return, offered songs—melodies sung in firelit nights, praising the nameless mountains who kept them alive. They did not know the giants listened. They did not know the titans smiled and the songs warmed their spirits just the same.
For generations, the people of Luzon lived in harmony—planting, harvesting, singing prayers to the rivers and trees. They moved with the seasons, took only what they needed, and respected the mountains that protected them.
Sierra Madre watched mothers teach their children how to gather herbs without harming the forest.
Caraballo guided hunters to take only the old, the weak, the few—never more.
Cordillera stood tall whenever typhoons roared from the east, breaking the winds and softening the rains.
Life was peaceful.
Life was balanced.
But peace, like all things, changes when new footsteps arrive.