And then the man told him,

“Why go down this path?

It is treacherous;

The path is crooked,

With no place for stable steps,

And below is a ravine that leads to hell.

Surely there is another path?”

The hero shook his head and offered a bitter smile,

“The way, I have consulted oracles for,

I've asked wise men to advise me,

And I've asked the artists whether the path was poetic.

This they told me and this I say to you,

They say there is no reward without risk,

To succeed I must risk death,

I must tempt fate,

Daring the heavens at every step,

To strike me down where I stand,

To banish me into hell.

For the path I’m on,

The reward I seek,

Is not something that should lay with untested hands.

If this path I can walk,

At the end I would claim,

Though there was no place safe to stand,

Though the path was crooked and the high winds threatened to topple me,

This was the path to what I sought,

And this was the path that allowed me to claim it.

If the path were a garden of roses,

If the path assured me of my standing,

It would not be a reward I claim,

But the sustenance of bottom feeders.

Even if I was given a chance to turn away, I could not.

My path lay laden with nails and traps,

But this is why god molded me as he did,

This is why I was tempered to this step,

Simply to risk my fall into the abyss.

In truth, I need no reward,

But alas, I was crafted and this is the path I must walk.”

The man shook his head.

“Pointless,” he said,

“Better to have been satisfied with the mundane.”

The hero laughed a heart-wrenching bellow,

Tears flowed from his eyes,

As his mind wandered to what could have been,

If he had been so blessed.

“Alas, I was crafted this way.” He said,

Mourning, for himself and for the world.