Topic: No Hero

SwordChild

Date: 2009-07-22 11:03 EST
The drinking and festivities seemed set to continue well into the night. Maela moved among the revellers, a vague, sorrowful smile on her face for those of them who clapped her on the back, or cheered her name as she passed. All praising the hero of Silverton. And all forgetting that the task of defeating Zanbar Bone, the Night Prince, had been taken on by a party of heroes, each more heroic, more deserving of this welcome than she. Each dead, and lost to history.

She was nothing in comparison to those who had been lost. A thief, a child of the streets, a rogue and jack of all trades, always in it for the profit more than the renown. And yet they had taken her in, Hughnon, Kilestra, and the others; they had taken her under their wing and tried to teach her that there were other ways of life. And where had that got them' Unmarked graves in burnt ground once owned and controlled by the most evil of the foes they had faced.

Her thumb rubbed over the golden ring on her forefinger. Once, she would have thought it a kingly prize, worth all the risks taken to gain it. That golden eyes stared up at her now, mocking her living when others had died. With a growl, she tore it off her finger, skinning her knuckle painfully, and threw it into one of the many bonfires set about the town. What good was gold now, when the only ones who had ever believed in her ability to do good were gone" Let it join them in a fiery grave, for all the good it did them in the end.

Memories of that terrible dark encounter filled her mind. Of Yanus, the huge barbarian man with the softest of voices and the kindest of hearts, falling to the Djartian lich to win them the golden prize now melting slowly in the heat of the victorious flames. Of Gunfri, the quiet little halfing cleric, throwing herself onto a skeleton's sword to save her, Maela's, life. Of Hughnon and Kilestra, the husband and wife, human warrior and elven mage, crumbling, decaying before her eyes under the touch of the Night Prince. All gone ....and she the only one left of them, the only one who could finish what they had started.

And she had finished it. She owed them all too much not to run as she had so wanted to. Surrounded by the bodies of her friends, she had trusted in the power of the mark upon her forehead, the tattoo that had protected her against Zanbar Bone's power long enough to drive him to his knees, to force him into falling while she sealed his fate with the compound Gunfri had insisted was the correct choice. She had fallen too, lying beside her companions as the Night Prince crumbled to dust, decaying as he had decayed them.

What did she have to show for her heroics" Wealth, of course; the people of Silverton were very grateful, after all. But it meant nothing anymore. By rights she should have died with them, she should even now be a lifeless body, a soul finding release in the flames she had set before leaving that cursed place. Instead she lived, was hailed as a hero, marked forever with the sign of the bloody encounter she had survived. The unicorn and sun burst emblazoned upon her forehead was no subtle thing, yet anyone who had ever heard of the talisman would know her for what she had been through. Even now, she imagined the stories would be making their way through into folklore, of the weakling thief who left with a strong party, and was the only one to return, the only one to survive the deadly touch of the Night Prince. And how would the people know her? By the tattoo that marked her forehead, of course, the talisman that had saved her life.

Maela bit back the bile that rose in her throat at the thought of being considered a hero of her home land. It was wrong, and she knew it. She was no hero. She had been in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and sadly burdened with an overabundance of morality gifted to her by her companions. She had known it was a bad idea to go up against Zanbar Bone, yet she had gone along with their plans. She had followed them to their deaths, and earned torment for it.

But she owed them her life, and for that she would not simply cast it aside and return to her old ways. Well, not entirely. She was a rogue, a thief, and she knew her skills well. She would just have to find a better outlet for them. The singing and cheering echoed in her ears, and she turned away, disgusted. Whatever happened next, it would not be here. She had to find a new life, a new home ....where people did not know what or who she was. Or who she had lost, in trying to discover that for herself.