Fresh Start

When the only people who came to my door were demons and assassins - that's when I knew I needed a fresh start.

I've been an adventurer since I was sixteen years old. I started out like most did; I had a sword, a bow, and three spells to my name (parlour tricks compared to what I can do now).

A local heroes' guild took me on - signed me onto a party of five, alongside a healer, an archer, a cutthroat, a wizard, and a brute. I was the warrior, the kind of hero that dabbles in a bit of everything, and is always ready for any quest.

We did it all. From bandits to banshees, taking on werewolves, wargs, and wyrms, and toppling trolls.

Our party grew very close over those many years. We shared every triumph, and endured every hardship. We vanquished tyrants and vampire lords, saving the world more times than we dared count. It was no surprise when our wizard proposed to the healer, or when the archer and brute decided to set up an orphanage together, and the cutthroat opened their own salon.

Retirement didn't come so easily for me at first. I spent a good while as guildmaster, then as a councillor's personal guard. And we just sort of... drifted apart. We decided to leave the fight to the new generation, and focus on letting our scars heal.

Unfortunately there were still those who didn't get the message. I'm a legendary hero who's wrangled krakens and reduced liches to dust, and yet I still got ambushed by wannabe assassins and petty thugs when I'm out and about. Or I'd be at home, eating dinner, and a portal to the hells would open in my dining room. I'd be asleep in bed, and a clan of goblins would be wreaking havoc outside on the lawn. I honestly couldn't remember the last time I'd actually gotten to sleep or sit and eat a meal without interruption.

And so I decided to start fresh. Everyone in my home country knew me, so I went abroad. I packed as light as I could, sold my estate, split my trophies among my old party, and changed my name. From now on, I'm no one. Not a hero or a legend, just a humble farmhand who lives in a cottage on the edge of the woods.

It felt awesome for no one to recognise me. I went into town for supplies, a merchant bumped into me, and they told me to "Watch it!" Not 'sorry' or a realisation of who I was, followed by grovelling or begging for my autograph. It was as if I were sixteen all over again - my story only just begun instead of the next chapter.

And just like being a sixteen-year-old, I quickly had to learn budgeting all over again. Farmhands are paid a pittance for the work they put in - I think I'd forgotten that.

I started as a cabbage picker. My back was killing me afterwards, and all the other farmhands were much younger than me. I've slain dragons and fought giants, but I'd still never used those muscles in my lower back. I also got one hellish sunburn. The others warned me to wear a hat - I just assumed they were having a laugh, those things looked ridiculous.

The first few weeks were really tough. In my old age with all my scars, everything hurt. I wanted to give up with every day that passed - go around telling people who I was and hope they give me handouts for my greatness. But how conceited does that sound? So I kept at it. I soaked my aching muscles in hot water, I went foraging for medicinal herbs to treat my arthritis, and I went to bed early every night (no more late-night tavern-crawling for me).

And that was when something extraordinary happened. The farmer came to my door with a freshly baked pie and a bottle of tonic. The local herbalist brought me a new foraging basket. My neighbour's whole family showed up to help me fix up my cottage. The cobbler mended my boots for free, the tailor brought me a set of clothes, and the butcher started putting extra rashers of bacon in my weekly order. Then, there was a woman at the end of the lane - widowed, with two grandchildren. She brought over a bag of wool and taught me how to knit.

Those people had very little to spare. No titles, ranks, or great feats to boast. And they knew nothing of me, the real me, yet they welcomed me as family. Because every bit of effort, no matter how small, meant so much. An extra hand meant another thousand vegetables saved from caterpillars, slugs, and weather every week.

And I didn't stop at cabbages. With the turn of the seasons came the barley harvest, the apple pick, and lambing the ewes. We made cider and ale (some of the best I'd ever tasted by the way), I learned how to bake, and we held a huge celebration for the harvest festival.

I taught the local kids how to fish and hunt, and how to identify mushrooms, like I'd done on my travels. By the time winter came, I knew everyone and everyone knew me. It was like having a huge extended family.

Now when I go to sleep at night, I think back to my heroing days. Every calamity I averted, every evil entity I vanquished - it was all for people I'd never met. I know I'd move heaven and earth for my new family.

I thankfully haven't had any more assassins or demons show up at my door. Life in the village is slow, but by no means easy. I do miss my party every now and then, though I wouldn't wish for the thrill of battle or delving in a dungeon like I thought I would. And now I see kids in the village who are like the child I used to be - hungry for adventure, itching to see the world. I wish I could tell them that the greatest adventure is wherever they are... yet I know none of them would believe that until they've done searching.