I wrote this before I started Those Who Endure, and I just now got around to add it here.
Have thy rest, Champion
A world without fire is a strange thing indeed. The silence is endless, the darkness infinite. To someone who enters here, it is unsettling, wrong. To their mind, this world doesn't exist until they shine a light upon it.
To him, the darkness holds no meaning anymore. To him, it is the absence of light, nothing more, nothing less. It is no Abyss waiting to swallow all existing things, it is no paradise where death is just a mirage.
It just exists.
And he exists within it, unmoving, silent. Waiting.
The world is peaceful; sometimes, one could simply forget to keep living, and it would change nothing.
Only the weight of the iron pressing on his skin keeps him from drifting off into an unending dream. The heavy chains, they bind him to his duty still. But it is no longer the duty he was meant to fulfil.
No longer does he pursue the Flame.
Once, he had spent eternities staring into the blackness. Wondering, watching, for just a small spark, a hint of an ember, a sign that there was hope, however fragile.
The darkness knew no end.
He had failed.
And he had accepted it.
Sometimes, the white haired woman still steals into his dreams. He longs for her presence, keenly as ever. But the guilt has long ago vanished. In his mind, she smiles at him. She doesn't reproach him. Why should she; to the sightless, darkness has no meaning.
No, he has made peace with his failure. But still he lingers, waiting, listening…
Footsteps disturb the silence.
Here they come again. The searchers. The fireless wanderers. Fools.
They are like him; they seek the fire. For a perceived higher purpose, because somebody told them to, or for plain greed.
It makes no difference.
Sometimes he just wants to lie down and let them pass. Let them see their future, the inevitability of it.
But he doesn't. They would not understand like he has. They would find the secrets hidden within, and they would use them for their own selfish goals. Because in the end, they fear the darkness, the unknown. They don't realize that the world they are trying to save is already dead.
A light shines upon his tomb. The footsteps approach, falter, stop. For a few fleeting moments, the silence returns. Then, the sound of steel scraping on a scabbard.
They don't ever turn around.
Cold metal brushes against his arm as he rises, as his fingers tighten around the shaft. The last insignia of his past life, the only thing his memory clings onto. They made it for him, so long ago, when he set out on his task. Friends. Their names are long forgotten. They meant well.
The halberd slices the air, the ancient metal gleaming in the faint light. The latest opponent retreats slowly, shield raised.
Someday, one will come to overpower him. Someday, a worthy opponent will deliver him his death. On that day, he will gladly lie down.
But not without a fight. That much is certain. He may have forgotten his name. He does remember what he is.
A champion.
A champion never gives up without a fight.