The lands have stopped hoping, stopped trying, stopped living - Lord Merrysteel

Days had passed where he did nothing but stare at blank pages. Hours on end he stared at the map he pinned at the wall. He glanced over the roads, the mountains, the rivers that flowed to the Frozen Sea. Garvin had heard tales of ice that was as blue as the sky and wondered if they were true. He wondered how it would feel standing on top of a mountain. And he wondered how the great library would be inside. Yet there was nothing to write. Or worse, there was everything to write about. But was it worth writing down? A dream he had, a poem, a thought, it all felt so stupid to waste paper on.

It was then he thought of the story his mom told him. He dipped his pencil in ink, and wrote.

A story of the Dragonslayer - by Garvin

He had read many books about all kinds of heroes that roamed Ar’Moor. Yet somehow there was little mention about the Dragonslayer. Why was he unknown? Many heroes were praised. Villagers joined up at the square when a heroes passed trough just to see them. And then it would be discussed for weeks on end. He remembered the last time, when Fadella came trough town. He sat on his fathers shoulders and watched her. He remembered brown hair, and a belt full of goat heads. No one knew where she came from exactly, but stories were told of how she passed trough Femoria. The woods west of Greed, known for her magical creatures.

He wrote about what he knew and heard. And imagined himself on the adventures with them, as a bard, as a man who needed help, as a fellow hero. All of which he was not. For every word written in his meticulous handwriting, there was a week of doubt where nothing really happened. The old memories of his mother visited him in his sleep. He never felt connected to his town, and every day spent as a reclusive increased his aversion.

One day, he heard loud noises. His house was on the hill, in the centre of town, close to the market. Maybe someone tried to steal something or there was a fight going on, though it didn't sound like it. Garvin sighed and stared at the map again. But his curiosity was greater than his annoyance. As he looked out of his only window, he saw men, women and children all grouped in a large circle.

This was most unusual, but Garvin could guess what I meant. A Hero arrived in town! He didn't know if he was allowed to feel exited or not. Eventually he gave in to his curiosity and investigated the matter. Once outside, he heard so many voices that it was impossible to focus on any conversation. So he sneaked trough the crowd, to see it with his own eyes.

A large man walked in the middle, as the crowd kept a distance from wherever he moved to. The man had an enormous axe strapped on his shoulder, and Garvin immediately knew it was Brand. The hero known for his burning axe and the legend that he entered a dungeon to save a farm-boy. Allegedly his tea was still warm when he came back. An enormous bag of loot and the boy, resting on his shoulders.

The sound was almost deafening so close to the epicentre. People cried his name. ‘Brand! Brand! Brand!’

Giggling children pushed past Garvin to see their hero up close. Ar’Moorians had a tradition of welcoming their heroes. Even if they didn't know all their achievements.

People pushed around to have a clear view, and somehow Garvin found himself at the end of the circle once again. He didn't see himself getting a chance at getting a second glance of Brand. He was too old to climb on his fathers shoulders now. Not that he was around, anyways. It was then that he heard someone curse as easily as some say goodmoring. He turned around to notice a cloaked figure, sitting on a chopped tree-trunk, giving names to everyone who passed.

‘Manure head, idiot, ass. What are the bloody odds.’

Nobody seemed to notice him, as they were focused on Brand. Except for a bearded, old man who walked with a cane. He seemed fed up with the stranger.

‘What is your problem, son?’ he said in a dry, old-mans voice. ‘Who are your to criticise him?’

‘And who are you, president of his fan-club? Keep on walking, grandpa,’ the stranger said.

Garvin felt himself freeze inside, like he was the one targeted.

‘You should show some respect!’ The old man yelled at the cloaked figure.

‘If you didn’t earn it by now, there’s nothing I can do.’ He answered, like talking about sunshine and butterflies.

The old man came closer and swung his cane. But before it hit his skull, the stranger grabbed the stick and threw it on the straw roof of the house behind him. Garvin would have missed it if he blinked, he had never seen an arm move that quick. As the stranger’s cloak rippled like water, he could see a nose and a wild beard. And two dark eyes.

‘Get lost, and finish your days in peace.’ The stranger said, then he pulled his leg over the other and merrily continued cursing at the people.

Garvin awoke from his trance like state. Shocked he ran up to the old man and gave him his arm.

‘Are you alright?’ He asked him.

‘He will hear of this! I tell you!’ The old man yelled. He began to march towards Brand. Garvin, unable to let him go now, supported the old man as they passed trough the crowd. Somehow the old one made enough ruckus for the people to turn their heads.

Somehow Brand noticed something was off as well, he stopped marching and watched them ploughing trough the crowd. The whole crowd got quiet. Not more than a sporadic murmur, a whisper of people explaining and people seemingly understanding.

For what felt like an eternity they made their way trough the crowd until finally Garvin saw the hero from up close. He could feel his heart beat like crazy, and felt light in his head.

‘That man!’ the old man said whilst pointing behind him. ‘That man just took my cane and threw it on the roof!’

‘Is that true?’ Brand asked Garvin. He had brown eyes, but they seemed to be smoldering like a furnace.

‘Yes sir, Garvin said with a dry mouth, like it was the hardest thing he ever did. All villagers held their breath. ‘A man insulted him for no reason at all, sir.’

‘I will take it from here, boy.’ Brand said as he held the old man up by his arm.

Garvin quickly stepped back, until his back hit the crowd. His arms felt weak.

‘Who dares to attack an old man?’ Brand yelled. Everything remained silent.

‘Well, he started it!’ The mysterious man yelled from the other side. Quickly people made an opening and revealed the stranger still sitting on the trunk. The two were standing in an eight shaped crowd. Two circles against another, like a giant standoff.

‘You!’ Brand exclaimed. ‘Why?’

‘I always had a problem with parading.’

‘Parading, you say? I come trough the village for I have a quest nearby. Whats your business here?’

‘Insulting old men,’ the stranger said, sill not having moved an inch.

‘Dear people of Woodholm,’ Brand exclaimed. ‘This man was once the Dragonslayer. A famed hero of Ar’Moor, and look at him now, attacking defenceless old men!’

Garvin gulped, this couldn’t be the man that saved his parents, could it? The very hero he adored since he was a child?

Like a storm, the people started slandering him. ‘Cursed be you!’ One man screamed next to Garvin. Brand moved forwards with long strides and the people closed in. They stood ten feet apart from each-other, when brand stopped moving. The two were now in eye of a storm.

‘He calls himself the Dragonslayer yet he never slew a single dragon! Calling me a parade. Ha! I suggest you leave this town immediately. And may you never return!’

‘Or else what, exactly?’ The Dragonslayer asked. ‘You're gonna kill me, is that it?’

‘No need, you already killed yourself. You will listen to me and go away. But before you do, you will apologise to the old man.’

‘Never gonna happen!’ The Dragonslayer said, while getting up. He walked away and the crowd split open.

‘You can't avoid responsibility forever!’ Brand yelled.

‘Watch me!’

The people cheered and cursed. For Brand and the Dragonslayer, respectively.

Garvin could see how Brands hand relaxed. He released his axe.

Some villagers got a ladder, and with Brand overseeing the operation, they got the walking stick back. Nobody had an eye for the Dragonslayer anymore, except for Garvin. He didn't understand why his hero had fallen from grace. What had happened to the once legendary man for him to have acted like that? This was not the man his mother told him about. Garvin walked to the end of the village and watched the Dragonslayer walk away. He wondered what he was thinking about.

As Garvin walked back to his house, some people greeted him. Bizarre, he thought, but nothing more.

‘Hey Garvin!’ someone yelled. He turned around and saw Darren. The lumberjack boy who would marry Mathilda this very summer.

‘Come to the inn, Brand wanted to speak to you.’

‘Oh, eh, I was planning to eat something, you know? At home.’ His stomach completely disagreed with that lie.

‘Ah come on, you can eat at the inn. My fiancee is waiting for me, so lets go.’

Darren was carrying meat, it seemed, wrapped in a damp cloth. His hands were red. And as much as Garvin wanted to hate the lumberjack boy, there wasn’t really anything to hate. Which was somehow more upsetting.

Garvin sighed and followed him to the tavern. He had never seen it as crowded as today. The sun was barely at its highest point and everyone seemed to be there. It was easy to understand why. They had moved the tables to create a free space. There Brand was seated, surrounded by dozens of villagers. Darren quickly disappeared behind the counter with the meat. He saw Mathilda pouring mugs of ale. The place smelled like sour ale that drenched the tavern from floor to walls and tables to chairs.

‘There he is! The one who stood up for old Rodding! Here, have a drink on the house!’ the taverner, Mathilda's dad cried out. He was a friendly man but he never had much with him. Neither against, as he could recall, so Garvin just smiled and came closer.

The men cheered as Garvin was pushed a mug of ale in his hands. Dozens of hands pushed him towards the centre and led him next to Brand. For the second time he felt lightheaded as he tried to-

‘Cheers, mate!’ Brand yelled as he raised a mug.

The whole tavern yelled with him. ‘Cheers!’

Brand began to sing a song in a tune that everybody knew, but the lyrics were different. He was quickly joined by a by a tall woman playing a flute. Men tapped the table.

It was a night

When he came to town

With a frown on his brow

And no horse but a cow

Where is your steed?

The women cried

I'm sorry to say

But the beast just died

And where is your sword?

The men all asked

I lost it in the river

Failing my task

And what about your shiny mail

Children begged to know

I forgot it somewhere, between

The mountains and the snow

I forgot from what I flew

Which is foolish, yet true

Can somebody tell me where I am

For I don’t know the land, nor what to do!

At the end everyone laughed and heaved their mugs. Ale fell on the floor which soaked it up like a sponge. It seemed weird to sing about the Dragonslayer, and not about Brand. But he didn’t have the clearness to think that trough. He just reacted in silence, as he most often did.

‘You stood up for justice, lad.’ Brand said to Garvin when the fuss calmed down. ‘Thats a brave thing to do.’

Garvin’s face turned red. He could barely remember the last compliment he ever gotten. And never from a prominent figure as Brand.

‘Ar'Moor needs people like you.’ He continued. ‘Everyone thinks heroes are those who fight monsters and protect the lands. And thats true, in a sense. But its equally important to stand for what is right and good, and not depend on someone else to do it. Act like you think you should act.’

‘Thank you,’ Garvin murmured.

He remained distant and silent, as he sipped his ale. He felt the growing urge to stuff himself full. But even that thought made place for another one. Slowly formed a sentence that he mulled over and over. Like a pearl growing in an oyster.

‘Can I come with you?’ Garvin asked him eventually.

‘With me?' Brand almost choked in his drink. 'Out in the wilderness? Laddie, you are asking no small things.’

‘I want to see the world.’ Garvin said. It would be stupid to say he hated this place, amidst half the townsfolk.

‘A hero needs a quest, something he needs to fulfil, and it must be something worth doing. I can’t find your reason to venture out, you need to do it on your own.’

‘How do I start?’ Garvin asked.

Brand sighed. ‘The thing is, boy. Heroes are born, not made. There is a power in each of us, that give us the strength of ten men. Its not something you find along the way, its something you leave with at the beginning.’

‘So, you're saying.’ Garvin stammered.

‘I meant what I said. Be a hero, here, in the village. Take care of the people. Its the best thing you can do.’

Garvin agreed with the man, but it wasn't what he wanted to hear. He wanted to slap him in the face and ask for some damn motivation. Not to hear him tell that he couldn’t. But Garvin just sipped some more. Until his eyes fell on Mathilda kissing with Darren behind the counter. Men were whistling and clapping as they both smiled redfaced. Garvin wondered if he could ever feel happy like that. Or at least as present in the moment.

He strayed some more, listened to old stories that he forgot as soon as the next one started, then he left. No one was paying attention now, as a group of men were singing the song again on a wobbly table. The men and women drank, and Brand roared boastfully, reenacting an adventure he once had.

As Garvin closed the door, a serenity befell him. The rest of the village was surprisingly quiet. Garvin looked at the sandy road as he wandered trough town. Was this it? Was this the moment of his life he would tell his grandchildren about? The day he stood up for an old man? He shook his head.

‘I didn't even stood up to him. I just helped. It was nothing. I did nothing.’ He said to himself.

He entered his small cottage and sighed as he shut the door behind him. He stared at the map of the land. Then he looked away. He noticed the books he owned. This place was full of them. Every book was a story. And he possessed the books. But what stories did he really have?

He sighed and prepared for bed. Then he sighed again and closed his eyes. Then he sighed again and fell asleep.