There were many open tomes scattered all around the study. Hiernos was scanning through all his books, but by all accounts, the incident that happened to Henry shouldn't have happened. The ritual had been used by the tribes that settled near Nimeta for over a hundred years, not one of them recorded an incident bearing a similarity to the thing that happened to Henry. His many crows were there to help him, scanning the open books and some still retrieving relevant books from the shelves.

Eorphin entered the chamber. She saw a distressed Hiernos. She too was disturbed, but for another reason than Hiernos. All of them, all the deities of the temple were perturbed by the incident. They had canceled the rituals for that day just in case that their setup had been contaminated. They continued their rituals three days afterwards, and it went on without a hitch.

A pensive expression was on Eorphin's face. She approached the studying Hiernos.

"Hiernos," Eorphin spoke. "Have you found what happened to Henry Greymight?"

Hiernos violently closed the tome he held. He had worked himself to tears on this endeavor, but every book that he turned to only told him how little he knew. He was a god of knowledge, but even he couldn't find out what happened. He was teary now, but he tried to keep his composure and not to collapse into weeping.

"Nothing," Hiernos answered. "I've tried looking at all the books I have collected, but all of them couldn't answer that question."

Eorphin pitied the sorry state of the god. "Why don't I help you try to find the answer? Surely the two of us searching would help." She gave Hiernos the warmest smile her lupine form could give. Hiernos's face lit up at those words.

~^*^=8=^*^~

Reminiscing on all his memories, Angar found himself in a dark cave whose air stank of wine. He approached the walls and saw that the minerals that composed them were all the things that had happened to him. He put one of his gloved hands upon the mineralized memories and felt the emotions that fossilized alongside them.

He turned to look at everything else. Everywhere around him was composed of this mineralized memories. The wall, the floor, the columns that descend from the ceiling, and the spikes which reach for the heights. A stream of unknown substance flowed along the contours of the floor.

Looking further into the cave, he could see statues. It was statues depicting the likeness of his friends, family, and acquaintances. Many of them had been left behind in the village he came from. He touched upon their stone faces and felt the feelings that had been fossilized. He could feel the warmth and kindness impressed upon the stone of his mother. The guidance and strictness of his father poured through the connection. The joys and sorrows he felt when played and frolicked with friends leaked from the orifices.

Then suddenly, the world was set ablaze. The very rocks that composed the cavern glowed and burned, but they didn't emit any heat. The cave was as cool as it had always been. The fire cradled Angar, caressed him with their silky flames. With the burning touch of the holy flames, the world around him was being transformed.

The bare rock of the cavern transformed before his very eyes. The memories fossilized were being purified. The caved distorted and warped as his past was put to order. All the mortal matters sublimated in the sacred flames, leaving behind only his heroic legend.

Where there was once rocky floor, there was now a level plane of compacted dirt. Where there were once uneven walls, there were now vaulting edifices of brick and mortar. This place was the culmination of his legend, the culmination of his heroism. All that had defined what kind of hero he was isolated from his mortal life.

This place was reminiscent to the temple's training grounds, which made sense. These training grounds was the cradle of his legend, the place where the mantle of heroism was set upon his shoulders.

The statues of the people of his previous life was wiped from the dream. Their likeness deleted from memory, replaced by the imagery of his friends of comrades armed and armored. They stood atop stone pedestals upon which was a plaque declaring their names. Strangely, Henry's name was engraved but his likeness wasn't captured in stone. His pedestal was left empty even after the flames had completely subsided.

The flames had burned away all the mortal snarls to his fate and made his legend true. It made him more real, superreal. His legend was made his own.

The flames subsided, and he was made anew. A child had entered the flames, but the man that had exited them was a true hero. He stepped down the platform to meet the friends that awaited him on his seat. Jemma and Aspen were praising and congratulating his new body, but his dearer friend, Henry was leery to his changed fate. He assured him that he's better than ever, and that he would have a legend of his own just like him.

~^*^=8=^*^~

Renard was sitting on a stump outside his house. He was carving a crutch from some cedar wood. He was carefully carving it so that whoever was to use it wouldn't get splinters under their skin. He made sure that it was just as pretty as it was functional. He engraved all kinds of animals along its length: bears, wolves, and crows gathering together to keep watch over the one who held this crutch.

Soon the crutch was done. All it needs now was is some lacquer or varnish to protect its wood from rotting. His son would surely love it. It was once of the best woodcarvings he's in a while. He was excited to show it to his dearest Henry.

He turned to their house with the crutch in hand. He held it behind his back as he opened the door. There, inside the house, was Henry sitting a bit sadly on the dinner table. He was slowly going through the stew of meat, corn, and carrots that he had prepared for him. He was in his playful fox hat as he ate through his meal.

His right shin had been put in a splint after an accident at the temple had broken the bones. It brought him great pain whenever he tried to walk on his own. For the past week, he had to be carried by his father up and down from his bed. But today, Renard had made him something that would change that.

His son smiled at him as he saw him enter the house. Renard smiled at his now joyful. His child was injured when he was brought to him, but it was better than Henry ending up deceased.

"Surprise," Renard told his son as he showed the carved crutch. Henry was overjoyed at the item his father had worked on. He loved the animals that he had chosen. While they were far from realistic, he could appreciate style and still feel the spirit of the animals inhabit the crutch.

"Thank you," Henry said to his father. He reached for the item, but his father pulled it back before he could grab it.

"Up up up," his father stated. "It's not finished it. It needs a coat of lacquer."

He then left his son to enjoy himself on his cooking and climbed up the stairs. There, he produced a key from his pocket and unlocked a rarely used room. This room had once been the room of his late wife. Bless her soul; she had been a wonderful partner. He hoped she would be proud in his raising of their son.

Opening the door, he found himself in a room that had been turned into an art studio. All around him, numerous crayon drawings were pinned upon the walls. On one side of the room, he could see a wooden desk where a neat stack of blank sheets was placed. Beside the desk was a cabinet whereupon his art supplies were stored. Dyed wax sticks, pencils, quills, ink bottles, and cans of paint and lacquer were put upon its shelves.

Renard placed the crutch upon a mantel of sheets. The sheets were there so that the floor would be easier to clean up. He prepared a can of lacquer and a clean paintbrush. He dipped the brush into the can and liberally coated the crutch in the substance. He would turn the crutch so that every side could be evenly coated. The animals carved into the wood seemingly reveled in being bathed in lacquer. Its reddish-brown wooden color deepened with the substance, transforming its color into a much deeper and richer red.

Renard procured a few sheets a set of crayons. He held one of the dearest colors to him, green, and began scribbling a picture onto the sheet. At first, it was a basic stick figure but after many scribbles, the drawing transformed. He switched his crayons time to time whenever he needed another color. Soon, his creation approached finishedhood. Impressed upon its sheet was a drawing of Henry Greymight, his son clad in green. In place of a human head, he had drawn a fox head.

Now for the finishing touches, he took the hazelnut-colored crayon and began scribbling a crutch in his son's hands. He tried to copy as closely the likeness of the crutch, but he could only put so many details upon a sheet.

The drawing had been finished, and he pinned it alongside many others like it on the walls. They were all crayon drawings. It was a hoard of images that accumulated over the years. The drawings chronicled the changes of his son, from a wee baby to now a teenager. It wasn't only his son that was chronicled here, nor was all the drawings pinned all his.

Some of the drawings had been created by his son. Some of the drawings depicted him, his wife Rachel, and their friends. They were put in the middle of the growing galaxy of art, right beside a crude drawing of their home. A magnificent patchwork mural that grew every passing year.

This was their son. The culmination of all the things their child is and has done. Renard and Rachel had spent countless nights rifling through all the memories rendered in parchment and wax.

Renard cherished it all the same as he cherished his real son.

Renard picked up the lacquered crutch. It was sticky in his hand; it still needed to dry. He went down the stairs and locked the door behind him. He was quite happy that his child had finished his meal. He saw that Henry had become idle on the table.

"Look at this, Henry. Your new crutch!" Renard excitedly announced. "It's going to need to dry though, but you should be able to use it tomorrow."

Henry examined the wooden item and was quite happy with what it was. It was going to help him stand on his own. He had gotten tired of being confined indoors. He counted the animals that were engraved on its length. There were three bears, four wolves, six crows, and seven dragonflies. He hadn't seen the dragonflies the first time. They were subtle, carved in a chain across the length.

"What's its name?" Henry excitedly asked.

"Pardon?"

"You know how your spear and hoe had their own names, Frontier and Revolution. What's this crutches name?"

"Er..." Renard wracked his head for an apt name. Before long, the crutch's name popped up. He held the crutch in his two hands before baptizing it as:

"Second Chance."