?A hero is no braver than an ordinary man, but he is braver five minutes longer.?
Ralph Waldo Emerson
?The real hero is always a hero by mistake; he dreams of being an honest coward like everybody else.?
Umberto Eco
The bag of food sat on Glenn's desk, unopened and uneaten, amidst the other debris of his work: block samples of various unfamiliar woods indigenious to RhyDin, furniture designs on graphing paper ripped out of his sketchbook, smaller tools he hadn't put away yet. He couldn't bring himself to eat the food he'd brought home, or anything else, though he could feel the hunger rippling through his stomach. In a day or two, the food would spoil, go rotten, stink up his room. Glenn thought he probably deserved to live in that stench for a little while.
Glenn had just walked into the Inn, placed that same brown paper bag on a table, and started walking up to the bar, when it happened. He had blocked many of the details from his memory, but he couldn't forget the sight of that tall man, shooting lightning out of his hands, striking down another patron who had just been sitting there, minding his own business. He had just stood there, transfixed, terrified, as the other patrons sprung into action, including a couple of people he knew. He could hear the panic in their voices, see the shock on their faces. He felt that familiar, sickening nausea crawl up into his throat and choke him, and he wondered ? no, he knew, without a doubt, they had felt that awful feeling too. He had felt that creeping dread himself, the unshakable, horrible knowledge that someone close to you has died, and there was nothing you could do to bring them back. Just thinking about it now, his skin crawled, like ants were crawling up his arms and slowly picking the flesh from his bones.
Glenn had stood there, watching other people spring to this man's rescue. And what had he done? He had snuck back to his table, grabbed his sack and hurried up the stairs before anyone could notice him. Oh, he had told himself he was trying to avoid the wrath of the attacker, but that was a just a lie he had told himself to feel better, to help him sleep at night (it hadn't helped). He didn't want anyone there to notice him being a coward. But what could you have done? he thought, and then another thought rose up to answer him. You could have at least ran to get help elsewhere! You could have checked to see if he was alive! You could have just stood there and helped them, instead of running away! He shook his head, violently. And what, get cut done like he was? His next thought was practically a shout inside his head. Yes! Because that's what heroes do. Sacrifice themselves for the good of others.
?Then perhaps I'm no hero,? Glenn said to the empty room. His words came back, teasing him, mocking him, reminding him of the choices he'd made, the actions he'd taken and refused to take. ?I'm no knight in shining armor? ?I'm no hero? ?Sometimes I think this is just a place for heroes and villains? So where did that leave him? There were three types of people in this world: the heroes who fought evil, the villains who perpetrated it, and those who stood on the side and did nothing. His right hand suddenly clenched the cord of his jade necklace, as if to rip it off his throat. And what of those who could be heroes, who have the power to be heroes, and do nothing? What of them? He felt the sweat beading on his forehead as he grasped the necklace, his breath coming in more ragged gasps. Tense moments passed. His forearm strained with effort. Finally, he sighed and let go of it. Selfish!
Selfish, yes, but Glenn knew what the cost of not wearing that necklace was. His charade would be over. There would be questions asked, uncomfortable questions that he was not ready to answer. And besides, he'd only used his magic once. He didn't know how it worked. How to use it. It was just dumb luck the first time he'd tried it. And ultimately, all that came of that one-time usage of his magic was his own life. He had tried so hard to save her back then, had put his own life on the line, only to have the gods take it away a short time later. Why should I be a hero, he thought to himself, if the gods aren't going to hold up their end of the gods-damned bargain? The other voice in his head was silent. He formed a fist and slammed his right hand down on the bag, feeling the paper and then the styrofoam container inside give way. He brushed the remnants of food that escaped the bag into a trash can, then picked up the rest of the mess and threw it away as well.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
?The real hero is always a hero by mistake; he dreams of being an honest coward like everybody else.?
Umberto Eco
The bag of food sat on Glenn's desk, unopened and uneaten, amidst the other debris of his work: block samples of various unfamiliar woods indigenious to RhyDin, furniture designs on graphing paper ripped out of his sketchbook, smaller tools he hadn't put away yet. He couldn't bring himself to eat the food he'd brought home, or anything else, though he could feel the hunger rippling through his stomach. In a day or two, the food would spoil, go rotten, stink up his room. Glenn thought he probably deserved to live in that stench for a little while.
Glenn had just walked into the Inn, placed that same brown paper bag on a table, and started walking up to the bar, when it happened. He had blocked many of the details from his memory, but he couldn't forget the sight of that tall man, shooting lightning out of his hands, striking down another patron who had just been sitting there, minding his own business. He had just stood there, transfixed, terrified, as the other patrons sprung into action, including a couple of people he knew. He could hear the panic in their voices, see the shock on their faces. He felt that familiar, sickening nausea crawl up into his throat and choke him, and he wondered ? no, he knew, without a doubt, they had felt that awful feeling too. He had felt that creeping dread himself, the unshakable, horrible knowledge that someone close to you has died, and there was nothing you could do to bring them back. Just thinking about it now, his skin crawled, like ants were crawling up his arms and slowly picking the flesh from his bones.
Glenn had stood there, watching other people spring to this man's rescue. And what had he done? He had snuck back to his table, grabbed his sack and hurried up the stairs before anyone could notice him. Oh, he had told himself he was trying to avoid the wrath of the attacker, but that was a just a lie he had told himself to feel better, to help him sleep at night (it hadn't helped). He didn't want anyone there to notice him being a coward. But what could you have done? he thought, and then another thought rose up to answer him. You could have at least ran to get help elsewhere! You could have checked to see if he was alive! You could have just stood there and helped them, instead of running away! He shook his head, violently. And what, get cut done like he was? His next thought was practically a shout inside his head. Yes! Because that's what heroes do. Sacrifice themselves for the good of others.
?Then perhaps I'm no hero,? Glenn said to the empty room. His words came back, teasing him, mocking him, reminding him of the choices he'd made, the actions he'd taken and refused to take. ?I'm no knight in shining armor? ?I'm no hero? ?Sometimes I think this is just a place for heroes and villains? So where did that leave him? There were three types of people in this world: the heroes who fought evil, the villains who perpetrated it, and those who stood on the side and did nothing. His right hand suddenly clenched the cord of his jade necklace, as if to rip it off his throat. And what of those who could be heroes, who have the power to be heroes, and do nothing? What of them? He felt the sweat beading on his forehead as he grasped the necklace, his breath coming in more ragged gasps. Tense moments passed. His forearm strained with effort. Finally, he sighed and let go of it. Selfish!
Selfish, yes, but Glenn knew what the cost of not wearing that necklace was. His charade would be over. There would be questions asked, uncomfortable questions that he was not ready to answer. And besides, he'd only used his magic once. He didn't know how it worked. How to use it. It was just dumb luck the first time he'd tried it. And ultimately, all that came of that one-time usage of his magic was his own life. He had tried so hard to save her back then, had put his own life on the line, only to have the gods take it away a short time later. Why should I be a hero, he thought to himself, if the gods aren't going to hold up their end of the gods-damned bargain? The other voice in his head was silent. He formed a fist and slammed his right hand down on the bag, feeling the paper and then the styrofoam container inside give way. He brushed the remnants of food that escaped the bag into a trash can, then picked up the rest of the mess and threw it away as well.