Tale of the Week 296: Hero of the Hour - VOTING THREAD
Hero of the Hour
The Flying Carpet, a depiction of the hero of Russian folklore, Ivan Tsarevich (source)
Keywords
Crisis
Panic
Breathe
Mask
Resolve
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Submission 1 She heard rustling out past the treeline, a low susurrus of sound that intimated the presence of something. Something certainly unpleasant. Something likely inhuman. Something dangerous. She kept her eyes locked on the swaying branches covered in their sickly leaves, gentle reminders of The Crisis that had destroyed the world she knew, and she waited.
For hours she watched the unchanging sights, noting with mild disinterest the lengthening shadows, and when darkness had fallen, she began to slink back toward her camp. It was a short walk, and uneventful. With night closing fast, she arrived with a coolness clinging to her shoulders. A fire could warm her. It could keep the frost at bay. But there were monsters out there, and they would do far more than “go bump in the night”. And so, again, she curled against the fallen tree and waited for exhaustion to force a sort of sleep upon her. It was the best for which she could hope.
She woke the next morning at what should have been dawn, but there was no sun to greet her. There was a lightness in the east, but the sky was painted in streaked grays and pallid browns, another reminder of the great catastrophe. No matter. She rose and headed to the wood’s edge, back to where she had heard the noise the previous day.
As she came upon the place she slowed, picking her steps with care. In silence she stalked ever closer to the treeline and the meadow beyond. Her breathing was regular and slow, her heart steady. She was a beacon of cold determination. And yet there was a hint of panic rising within her. Something on the wind perhaps. Something she could not consciously understand, but that her mammal brain knew to mean doom.
With each step she fought the feeling, did her best to compartmentalize and box away the fear at the back of her mind, but she could feel her mask of resolve cracking. She railed against the animal urge to flee, managing another dozen stuttering steps forward, and as she walked those final paces she wondered why she had come back. It wasn’t out of necessity, for the grasslands held nothing of value. Nor was it for any sense of security in knowing her surroundings; she knew exactly what ringed her on all sides, and that was precisely why she had been hiding in the forest so long. No, it was a terrifying wish to be done with it all, with the hiding and fear and unending watchfulness. She wished to sleep easily again, to lay her head down and not wake at every little sound that broke the night air. She wished to have peace.
And realizing what it was that she longed for, she stood tall. Rising from behind the bushes that shrouded her, gazing into the fields, she saw serried eyes staring back, and she waited for them. She waited for peace and quiet to finally be hers again.
Submission 2
A fortnight they’d traveled, Aleksandr and Ishar, and for a fortnight they had seen death and destruction unprecedented in the Southern Plains. Ishar’s once colorful patterns, purples and reds lined with the freckles of the Dwarven gold that gave him life, had been reduced to the filthy gray-brown of dust and dirt. This land, our land will not be brought to ruin like this, Aleksandr, the creature spoke in the familiar voice only Alexsandr could hear, do not panic.
For years Ishar had been the calming voice in Aleksandr’s head, and their mental bond had saved his life more times than he could count, yet Aleksandr had yet to see a crisis of this magnitude. The black tentacles of The Corruption, kept at bay for a millennia, had broken through Eros’ Keep. The threat wasn’t just to Aleksandr’s people, but to all existence.
“We can still make it home in time, Ishar,” Aleksandr started to mumble under his breath; even after ten years he still often forgot the creature knew his very thoughts before he could utter them “Anika will be safe.” Ishar seemed to push himself at a faster pace at the mere mention of her name, leaving Aleksandr to catch his tattered cloaks with the hand that did not hold the reins of the creature.
“Easy there, buddy, the map says we’re almost home. We don’t want to overshoot it.” The creature heeded his order, and for the next two hours they flew towards the sunset, until they reached the city where both man and creature, two yet one, were made. The situation was worse than either could have feared. The Corruption, its twisted tentacles blackening out the already darkening sky was encroaching upon Athos with great haste. The heroic duo, thinking, acting as one flew downwards to face it.
Landing on the stone road, a road he had traveled many times with the caravans before the days of darkness, in front of the city’s main gate, Aleksandr unsheathed the sword Anika had given him the day he had left for the last time. She’d told him it would be the weapon of a great hero, as she was wont to do, reciting her prophecies, but until now the title of hero she and so many bestowed upon him had felt like a mask he wore, a persona he carried on with out of necessity. But in this moment, defending his home and the woman he loved, Aleksandr’s resolve had never been stronger. The sword he had named after her, Anika, was shining as bright steel against the darkness closing in.
Emerging from the shadows came the first creature of many, a one eyed troll 10 feet tall, its rotten green skin barely covered by the black armor of its legion. They had seen worse. Are you ready? Ishar asked, as the creature lumbered forward. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” the two minds thought in unison.
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