A Hero's Due

By Sarah Daniel

Orange, yellow, shades of pink, and white were strewn all over the magnificent heavens.

Cheers, hollers, and grins on the sea of faces around the raised wooden platform. The baker, the merchant, the barmaid, the man with the sick cat, the matron who gave me bread when she made too much—familiar faces as far as my sight allowed.

Splat.

I looked at the object that was hurled in my direction. A rotten melon. That melon was the lead to a flurry of similar goods. The cheers turned to jeers, the grins to sneers. I looked at the faces I often identified with smiles—now twisted with hate. They would have thrown rocks, but the Inquisitor on the other side of the platform kept them to victuals.

My visage contorted in rage and hate—but, above all, betrayal.

Not two years ago, this very same crowd lit candles and incense sticks in my name, and instead of rocks, they rained flower petals and colorful bits of paper on me. They sang songs about me, prayed for me to lay my hands on their young ones to bless them, and fed stories of my heroic deeds to rapt children—like one fed a fiend opium.

I slayed the creatures that haunted these lands, raged against laws that made the rich opulent, annihilated the despot that ruled this country, and set the chosen mortal as the people's emperor. I was their Hero. Their Saviour.

I reeled back as a brutal clout was delivered to my middle. The friendly face I once shared ale with now wore armor and leered vilely at me. The lacerations on my body, the blood from the whipping, made my vision blur. My head throbbed, and I let out an agonizing grunt.

The demons in my head taunted me, gloated at my pain, and sneered that I deserved this—for I was an incompetent fool. For I bore the blood of all the men that died under my command. For the friends I saw tortured to death. For killing the men who obeyed orders from another, just as I had.

The god in my head looked down his nose as he sat on his ornate throne and praised me. For my actions had been for the greater good. For I was chosen. For I was superior. For I was the Hero. The Saviour of men.

Clippity-clop.

I barely registered the sound before I slowly raised my head. My blurry vision caught sight of two figures—a man and a woman—swathed in silk, stepping onto the platform, regal and magnolious. My breath hitched at the sight of her. She looked beautiful, untouched by the hardness of the world.

As she stood close, her perfume filled my nostrils. The familiar scent of jasmine and frankincense plunged me into memories of a thousand promises made under the stars and the sweet sounds of her in my arms.

As the emperor—the new Saviour that I had placed on the throne—spoke of righteousness, of the eradication of the creatures tainted with the blood of the beasts of hell, of my death, I was distinctly aware of the jeers that grew louder with each passing second. My eyes, however, were fixed on the empress.

"Wench," I spat at her, staining the hem of her viridian dress with a mixture of blood and saliva.

For this woman was my undoing.

Where I once saw love and desire, I now saw greed, ambition, and disdain. She was mine once, but she had chosen power over love, condemning me to ruin.

A sharp blow to my head forced me to my knees, and my vision swam. Heavy steps approached me, and I closed my eyes. Perhaps I should beg the heavens for mercy, but where was I to find mercy when I, the Saviour of the people, was now the greatest Traitor of them all?

The scent of the executioner's sweat, the dried blood on his axe, the sharp smell of wood—drove all thoughts out of my head.

I felt the weight of the axe in the air, held high and mighty.

The face of my confidant—my sole loyal companion—rose unbidden to my mind; his trusting smile, even as he bled to death.

And then—oblivion.

By Sarah Daniel