Old Man Fisto
Holding a reflective shard of what was once his shield, Fisto brings it up in front of his face and stares. His beard has grown snow white and his eyes are now dim and gray. A scar across his left cheek is a gift from a scorned lover. The scar above his right eye remained a constant reminder of his arch nemesis Jitsu. His hair, also void of any color or shine, has grown long and haggard, flowing over his shoulders like bleached twine.
He hears a cry in the distance, and his legs ache to break out running, searching for the needy and desperate. But being a man of his word, he forces himself to stay and ignore the scream. That was, after all, the agreement.
When the heroes lost the war and Grayskull fell into Skeletor's hands, the gods intervened and brought an end to the conflict. So long as no Eternian would be enslaved or murdered by one of Skeletor's legion, the heroes would scatter across the lands and allow Skeletor to enjoy his absolute victory. It was not an easy decision to make, but He-Man knew the odds had finally favored the evil ones, so he offered up the terms of a treaty to spare further damage to Eternia and its people. Many of the heroes were stunned and confused by the happening; a select few openly protested but their objections mattered not. It was a long time ago, but not a day goes by where Fisto doesn't drown in regret and ponder what might have happened had the battle lasted just a while longer.
Whether it was a good sign or bad sign was unknown, but the screaming had ceased.
On his broad shoulders once rested the hopes and dreams of countless countrymen. In his spirit he wielded the courage to keep safe all who were threatened and abused. His large, metal hand signaled an undying hunger to eradicate wrongdoers and subdue the savages that stalked within the shadows.
But now, with slumped shoulders and a broken spirit, his body shakes not from the rush of battle but instead from the icy wind blowing around him. Though his hand remains unchanged, the man who uses it is no longer a champion of children and hero to commoners. He doubts they even remember his name.
But he remembers theirs.
Each and every one.
Every time he hears a scream.
The End.
A/N:This is probably going to be the last short story for a while. I'm going to try working on a longer tale of how things got to where they ended up, and then possibly a follow-up of the Heroes trying to take back Eternia. Thanks to all who've offered comments and advice!