There was a man, say, a few hundred years ago, who thought very highly of himself. By all accounts, he deserved it; by his gauntleted hand, kingdoms fell, countries were razed, kings deposed, and assassins betrayed.
No one knew much of how he managed such a feat. Though he was just a man, there were none who could compete.
He traveled this land, which we now call Fervale, and came across a storyteller who had heard nothing of his tale. So the man spoke, his account long and detailed, of all the things he had done, over what men and places he had prevailed.
The storyteller listened quietly, patiently. For storytellers know how to wait, and wait this storyteller did.
When the man was complete, his legend wrapped up, the teller began his own tale; one somber, close-up. The hero did not like this story and tapped his feet and rapped his knuckles. What do heroes know of waiting, when they have replaced their brains with muscles?
He did not let the storyteller finish, holding a hand in the air. “Now hold on, friend, this isn’t fair. I told you an exciting story, one of victory and lore. You dare to return me with something which is such a bore? My tales are of brilliance! Why, they tell you of a man known by millions, nay, billions! The greatest man in the world!”
The storyteller frowned—his story had meaning. Particularly, one the hero needed gleaning. But the man was too impatient, gathering his things to carry on his way. So the storyteller conjured one more phrase, the last thing the hero heard him say.
“You blather and boast, but I know the truth. At the end of the day, you’re nothing but a boy in a suit of armor who was taught not manners, but to be crude. You believe yourself above everyone else, set apart, amazing. But travel wide and far; you will find yourself lacking. You will come to understand this, it I swear. Now off with you, since that is all you care.”
So the hero left, his time wasted, and paraded off to a kingdom he had vindicated. There was a woman there, in his passing, he had adored. Not thinking of the storyteller’s warning, he searched high and low for her, finding not message nor ward.
He approached her home, her father awake in his smithery, and the hero asked, “Hello, sir, isn’t the air wintery?” When the man did not respond to his jovial words, the hero continued, “I’ve not come here for swords. I remember your daughter, young, and fair. I believe she had an interest in me, and I now, I appear!”
The smith’s eyes were ringed, deep and black. “I have no daughter, you selfish hack. Be gone with you.”
The hero was not used to such treatment. What had he done to deserve this man, so vehement?” So he asked again, but to no success. The man had only weapons to sell, and further regrets.
The hero moved on, disturbed, but convinced. “That storyteller, old coot, he must have done this!”
He stomped to the gate, so tall and embellished with bronze, but found it, strangely, and incoherently, gone. The guards weren’t there either; it was a strange sight. So the hero walked on, straight into the night.
A mile down the road, he glanced backward. He stopped, swayed, gaped, and staggered. There was no kingdom behind him, no walls or towers. Just an empty field, and a valley full of flowers.
“This can’t be right,” he said with a start. “It was right there! I couldn’t have forgot!”
Yet checking all around, he found no sign of a city. Feeling horrified and confused, he moved on in a jiffy. “It must be a trick of my imagination,” he thought, carrying on. “Not that old storyteller, how far I believed he had gone.”
And so the hero pushed forward, and walked, and walked. But never did he run into another town, until eventually, he stopped.
“This isn’t right!” he cried to the sky. “Where has everything gone?” His victories were vanished, his kingdoms, kaput. All that was left, strangely, was himself, and he looked upon the rest of the world.
The sky was a dull shade of white, no, grey, no, black. His backpack was almost empty, wait, no, there was a crack, in the bottom of it! Something was very wrong. All of his things were gone.
And he was alone, standing in a void, wondering where to go. The hero wandered here and there, but found nothing.
He had believed himself the greatest man in the world. Well, now he was. For he was all alone, alone in his realm, and there was no one else to bother.
The storyteller laughed from his seat. “And that’s why you always, always, when a man tells you a story, let him complete.”
That was a short story I wrote when meeting with my monthly writing group! We try to stretch ourselves with prompts, time limits, and challenges. You’ll see more of my stories that were produced through that group over the coming weeks, mainly because I’m working hard on refining and adjusting The Final Hero and have a backlog of them.
The prompt for this particular one was, “Write a story that might be told around a campfire.”
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