A Hero's Lament

What had he done to deserve this? Surely, they knew all he had done was for their benefit. Yet there he was, pinned to the wall, his life essence slowly trickling away drop by drop off the sword that he had forged.

The very sword that would have been the cornerstone of his great work. The sword he would have used to raise a grand army. An army so vast no one could have resisted. With it, he would have ushered in an age of peace, an age of prosperity. But now those noble ambitions were but ashes in his mouth.

He hacked up blood as he struggled to draw breath into his aching lungs. He looked up and watched as the four young fools walked away. He recognized and knew each of them.

The young, dark-skinned woman was from a village just to the south of his castle. He had been there so many times before. The music and joy that pervaded the village had always been a delight to him. However, the last and final time he visited, there was no music, there was no joy. Only screams.

They had knowledge of an ancient form of binding magic that he needed in order to forge his grand sword. But the elders had been unwilling to share, even to a long-standing friend of the village. It broke his heart when he watched the thatch roofs go up in flame, how his soul ached when he put the lash to the back of an elder in order to extract his secrets. He planned to build a memorial over the ruins in order to honor the village’s sacrifice.

The blond-haired man in silver plate armor came from the mountains to the far north, where a grand temple dedicated to a God of art and smithing was. He had only been there once, but knew of them well through their reputation and masterful works.

When he traveled there to barter with the high priests, the beauty of the temple awed him. It was a masterwork of architecture. He passed by grand pillars of white marble that dwarfed small mountains. The polished alabaster floor was like the surface of a calm lake that stretched for as far as the eye could see. The works of art that hung upon the jet black onyx walls made him weep.

He made sure to save as much of their great works when he brought the place to the ground. They had left him with no choice. He had come to barter for a precious, rare metal that only they had. But they refused to sell, and he knew he could not just take it and expect to escape with his life. It still weighed on his soul seeing those great pillars crumble. But the Vita Metal he carried eased the loss.

The pale-skinned elvish woman was the princess of a kingdom to the west of his own. She was the one face he had expected to see. Her people were a proud but elegant race of elves whose imperial might rivaled his own kingdom’s. He had never seen such fine warriors in all of his long travels.

He approached the elven queen with his plan, one in which her people, both living and dead, would be called upon to bring order and peace to the world. And much to his surprise, she had agreed. Even going so far as to ask for his hand as her king consort.

Their union proved short-lived, unfortunately. He had been so close to completing his grand work when tragedy struck. The princess had been secretly fighting against his plans, and when his queen had found out, she sent for her daughter in order to convince her of the virtue of his grand plan. The queen failed, and her daughter murdered her. He still remembered the smell of iron as he held the queen close to him as she bled out. The queen, with her dying breath, had asked that he forgive the princess for her misguided actions and to continue his great work. So he did and assumed the mantle of king and ruled his beloved queen’s kingdom like she would have wanted. Though deep in his soul, he knew he could never forgive the princess.

The last man was a tanned skinned farmer boy. The young man hailed from the east of his castle, just a day’s journey away. He could admit he knew next to nothing of the boy. Only that the boy’s father had once been a long and trusted companion of his.

It had never been his intention to kill his friend or burn that village to the ground. He had come to his friend in order to convince him to join him in his quest. But his friend was unwilling to take part in it, saying it was “Tyranny and Genocide.” He continued to try to convince his friend but things quickly got heated, with his friend swinging a crop scythe at him.

Guilt and remorse still clawed at him even as he hung there, bleeding out. He never wanted to strike his friend down, but his friend left him with no choice. To make matters worse, the sound of their argument and fight drew the attention of the rest of the village. So when they saw him strike down his friend, they raised their own arms against him. He was still embarrassed to admit that he panicked and only realized what he had done after the fires blazed out of control. The last thing he remembered before he fled was the sight of a young boy standing over the body of his friend, hatred burning bright in his eyes.

And now here they were, walking away, not even realizing what they had done. All those elvish bodies desecrated and destroyed, never to rise again and bring peace to the land. Two kingdoms were brought to ruin with the death of their king. So many great works were destroyed with the destruction of his castle. And the sword that he had sacrificed so much to create abandoned along with him in that empty tomb. Everything had been lost.

What had he done to deserve this?