The Hero, Whoever You Are

by m maldonado

The Hero stared down at the world, not really seeing, but looking anyway. He saw nothing and everything all at once, and didn’t really pay any attention to the details. He just knew that it was all going by too fast for him to understand.

From his perch on the mountain the entire valley below could be seen in a single sweep of the eyes, but it was so beautiful that anyone traveling up the peak would be delayed several days, drinking in every blade of grass, every little bird, and savor the smell of the flowers on the oncoming breeze. This valley was one of the greatest treasures of mother earth, the kind she keeps in a gilded box in her dress and only takes out to look at when no one else was around.

The valley was the whole reason The Hero was here, and he was disappointed. There wasn’t enough beauty, enough life, to make him happy, here. Or anywhere else, for that matter. If this place did not satisfy him then the world was of no more use to him. It could go to Hell in a hand basket for all he cared.

The Hero shifted, his hands ending up clasped under his chin, elbows on his knees. He tried in vain to remember his name and sighed when all he came up with was The Hero. He knew that wasn’t his real name, but for years there’d been nothing else to call himself. He wasn’t Whoever anymore, only The Hero. He had a sword, a shield, muscles, long hair and never died when he fought deadly enemies. He was The Hero.

The Hero could remember when he was Whoever, though, and smiled whenever he did.

Whoever had been a farmer, in a village out of the way of all the dreadful battles being fought by stupid men with pretty gold circles on their heads, which were swelled with so much hot air that it was a wonder they didn’t explode and scald everyone around. The village had been by a nice, bubbling brook and an amazing forest that Whoever had romped through as a boy and his son after him. The village depended on Whoever’s crops to survive, and he never let them down.

His wife…his wife was a blur. He could 0nly remember her smile, which had melted him when they’d first met, and her laughter, like angels in the wind. These little bits of personality were pleasant, but not enough to resurrect the real thing.

The village…his son…his wife…gone, forever. Soldiers had arrived, demanded, and when they had what they wanted only three inches of ash and charred bones was left. Whoever, having gone to another village to ask the news and trade a bit and found that village burnt to the ground, arrived at his destroyed home ready to die, by his own sword if necessary. His sword had been taken, though, so he wandered, never bothering to stay in any town long enough to get attached, for fear of being robbed and raped like before.

He’d become The Hero only by accident: he happened to be holding a newly purchased sword with which he planned to end his pain when a group of the king’s soldiers were driven out of town by a glowing rock falling from the sky and hitting the captain, who was killed instantly when he and his horse slammed into a nearby boulder. Everyone who came out to ‘find out what that noise had been’ instantly labeled him a hero, and he was rewarded with cheers and a shield, and a horse. They then spread the word, from town to town, until he was known far and wide. He was eagerly awaited wherever he went, and could never escape from any who challenged him. He never lost, either.

The Hero paused. Now that he thought about it, not only didn’t he lose, he didn’t do anything either. He’d never had a chance to use his shield or his sword, and there was always a large, smoking hole where an enemy had once been, every time.

Had The Hero been Whoever he would of thought this was odd, but to The Hero it was old news. He no longer cared, and was in fact angry at whatever kept on saving his unwanted hide. He wanted to be defeated, just once, since once was all that was needed to end the pain that hacked and slashed at his insides every damn day, not even waiting for the wounds to heal before attacking again. The scars he had were not ones you could see.

The Hero looked up and watched as all the King’s horses and all the King’s men got back together again at the entrance to the wondrous valley. The Hero knew they were after him, and waited patiently for something to stop them from killing him as they charged for the mountain, archers at the ready.

Nothing happened for a while. Then, a high-pitched whistling came into being behind The Hero, who turned to look.

And, for the first time in several years, he smiled.

A rock not unlike the one that had birthed The Hero long ago was hurtling through the sky, heading right for the mountain on which The Hero sat. It burned bright blue, ringed with green.
The Hero grinned and stood up straight, arms spread wide, his chest open and vulnerable. Behind him he heard the chorus of twangs as the archers let loose their pointed deliverers of death, poisoned probably.

He waited with wide eyes for either killer to reach him, but a voice got to him first.

The Hero didn’t take his eyes off the rock.

And with that the rock crushed the man once known as Whoever and The Hero, who just now realized he was only Himself.

When the soldiers arrived at the top of the mountain, all they could find was a scorch mark on the rock and a sword. They left immediately, afraid of ghosts.

Later on, a man who planned to throw himself off the mountain found the sword. He examined the black smudge nearby and decided that his family needed him more than he needed release.