You're not a hero.
Maybe you used to be, maybe you used to save worlds and kingdoms and lives, be a shining bright beacon of hope, be something grandiose and mighty, something worthwhile. But even if you were, that was a long, long time ago, a time that humanity can no longer remember, that even you can barely recall.
Maybe you were like the fair-haired king in your mind's eye, just and beautiful, the one face you've never been able to forget. Maybe the two of you were the grand ones, a king and a sorcerer, the world at your fingertips, the greatest heroes in all the land.
He died a hero.
You lived a villain.
You don't care, you can't care, no matter how many lives are lost or ruined, no matter if the world could be destroyed or just a single town, you just can't bring yourself to try to save it, save anything. Your days of saving were in the past. That was the part of you that died with the king.
You shouldn't change, you know this. You don't know how you know, but you do. Maybe the king told you not to, but all you know is that there is guilt and regret coursing through your veins at all times, when you let another day pass, a week a month a year a decade a century pass, still stuck in this horrible rut of nothingness and pain.
You're barely human; sometimes you suspect that you aren't even that, you're some sort of creature, some monster that used to be a part of humanity but the death of the king broke your soul beyond repair until it became something twisted and dark. Or maybe you weren't even human to begin with; maybe you're a being of the Old Religion, a sort of dragon or beast that took a human's form.
But even if that was untrue, you wouldn't count yourself among them, the people of the earth, with their souls good and pure and true. People like the dead king.
You don't know how to stop, how to stop this blackness that has consumed you. You know that you're waiting, that something is coming, something that fills you with hope and life and goodness, so you hold onto this fragment of a memory all that you can, for it gives you something to believe in, something to hold on to even if the most horrifying moments of your life. There's someone out there, someone who is coming back.
It infiltrates your dark with just the tiniest sliver of life.
You're grateful for it; it's your purpose in this half-life, this accursed immortal existence, a never-ending cycle of surviving but not truly living.
You need the king to live.
You don't remember much of him, but you remember his light, like a star leading you on your way, giving you meaning. You hope it's him that's returning, that's coming back to you. You don't know his life or his significance, but you know him.
If you saw him again, you might remember, you might know why this life was necessary, why you chose it, why he was worth all of this. Because you're not sure of much, but you're sure this is for him.
He must be incredible, if he could reduce you to this.
He must be the epitome of beauty, his soul the purest there ever was, his life the most noble, if his death left you choking for air, drowning even though there was no water, dying although there was no sword in your side.
He must be amazing if he was the reason you chose to live for tens of thousands of years, chose this ceaseless pain, chose this overwhelming darkness.
He must be worth it.
And somehow, despite everything, you know he is.