Tale of the Week 281: The Hero of Legends - VOTE THREAD

**theSilentKiller** · August 19, 2018, 01:50 PM

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Twist a Cliché Nr. 2: The Hero of Legends

Picture of the statue of Ogier the Dane by Hans Peder Pedersen-Dan

This is Part WO of a TotW - Series calles "Twist a Cliché". Inspired by Lortano's article In Praise of Cliché, the idea is that each TotW would present a character, setting or subject which has become a cliché. The challenge is to 'twist the cliché' - to add something different, unexpected or surprising.

The Hero of Legens
We all know the hero of legends. Often following an ancient prophecy, the righteous hero is destined to defeat the evil, surpass a strong foe or lead his people to better lives. He is strong and smart, overcomes all problems no matter how hard and no one but him can do it. The writers had to tell us a story with a 'hero of legends' - but he/she shouldn't be that infallible, perfect hero... Who do you think managed to twist the cliché and which story did you like best?

Keywords Keywords
Knight
Courage
Defiance
King
Mountain

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Submission 1

Submission 2

“For the love of Galan you are incessant. Keep quiet!”

“Ach, boy, A’m not as lood as you seem to think. After all, you’re only hearing me in your oon heid.”

“Don’t remind me.” Matt whispers, his words dripping with day-old exasperation warmed by the close steppe sun. Ahead of them is a low ruinous wall, half-consumed by ivy, time, and one industrious rabbit who long ago decided a burrow lined in smooth cut stone would do nicely. Behind that wall lays a Knight gently snoring through a nose broken as often as promises.

“What are we doing here anyway?” the boy snaps, the words clipped and accusing. “I thought you were done with this sort of thing, and you know I won’t go along with this.”

“Oh, A know it right enough, but you seems to be thinkin’ that A’ll be needing yer leave.”

Matt peers over the wall and sees beside the man two women of negotiable affection affectionately negotiating with a tightly bound sack of jingling opportunity and he makes a decision. “Well, if you’re going to be like that, I think we might just be moving along then.” Matt says nonchalantly, bluffing his way to higher ground.

“Right right.” Morn peevishly responds. “If you must know that there moontain of courage had me by me pommel some ways back and I dare say I wasnae pleased with the task he put me to.” The blade’s hue darkens slightly at the memory, flashes of violet and jade pulsating along the cross-guards and fuller. “’Tis no’ right to use a thing in such ways.”

Generously, Matt lays Morn aside, turning the blade’s back on him, but still he can see throbbing along its edges veins of scarlet and chartreuse, traces of shame and regret forced upon him by alien hands. Matt no longer whispers, but his voice remains low, calm. “Morn,” he begins, “you are no longer in the service of a king or lord or even some petty knight.” Turning the blade back around Matt continues. “And you certainly do not serve me. You serve only yourself, and I am here as your friend. So tell me, what would you have us do?”

For a moment the blade is silent, colors gently shifting and blending along its length as it contemplates a new world of choice and freedom. “A would have us do a thing never ‘fore done by my kind. A would have us do justice!” Morn finally says, defiance igniting his words as they sear into Matt’s mind.

“Then justice it is.” Matt answers. Morn leaps into his hands as Matt leaps over the wall, scattering the women and their dubious gains, and the knight rather regretfully wakes to the point of a sword held at his throat.

The lines and patterns of Morn swirl and shift and slowly the knight’s eyes widen in fear as recognition dawns. “Ach, so ye do ‘member me.” Morn taunts. “Then that will save us some explaining.”

Submission 3

Edith pushed her way through the brambles. She did not feel the cut of thorns, only the sting of tears.

“Madam,” called the maid behind her. “I beg of you – do not go, do not endanger your life.”

Edith stopped as she came upon the edge of the woods and the foot of the very hill itself. The grassy slope shone in the moonlight, wet with blood and the glimmer of shattered armour. The air was thick with the smell of flesh; flies buzzed as dogs tore scraps from the dead. Through the dark, Edith could see scavengers pull boots from feet and rings from fingers.

She turned back to the maid. “My King will not be laid bare upon this mountain of death. Nor shall I let his crown fall into the hands of his foe.” Edith touched the maid’s arm. “Farewell, sweet dear.” Edith stepped from the trees and ascended the hill under the light of the moon.

A wind lifted her hair, fluttered her garments and touched her neck with fingers of ice. As she looked upon the slain she recalled her court. A hall of loyal knights and proud squires. A hall of prestige. A hall of God. Edith fell to her knees; her chest was pained by grief, her eyes by tears.

She felt her shoulder touched by a hand, her neck by a knife.

“The wrong place for a woman to be,” a voice said as another laughed. “Give us your jewels and be on your way home.”

Edith's eyes opened and she rose before the two men. “My home is lost, as is my husband. There is nought you can take but my life. Do as you wish. But know that you stand before the wife of a king who died in defiance and honour – as will I.”

Edith pulled out a dagger; the blade flashed silver, her hand steady.

The men stepped away.

“Queen Edith?” the man with the knife exclaimed. He bowed his head and raised a hand towards the hill’s crest. “Forgive our ways. Our King lays beneath his banner, spoiled by the enemy but never by his countrymen. Let us lead you to his place of rest.”

They led Edith to the crest of the hill where the banner hung, emblazoned with a golden lion. Beneath, lay her king and his crown. She turned to the two men.

“Be true to your King; bare his body to a place free of his enemy, as I will do for his crown.” Edith looked to the sky. “With courage and Gods help, we can defeat our Norman foe. Without…then we are lost to their conquest.”

Edith crouched and placed her palm upon King Harold's bloodied chest. “Until we meet again my love.” She kissed his cheek, rose and descended the slope as the two men watched her fade from sight.

Above, clouds masked the moon and the hill was cast into shadow.