Title: writ in water
Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun. Title from John Keats' epitaph.
Warnings: futurefic
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 185
Point of view: third
The legend grows with each telling, like all stories do. By the hundredth anniversary of their death, not much of the truth is remembered. Those who knew them personally are a dying breed, very few and quite far between.
But the myth grows.
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They were not princes or knights, though they were honorable men. They never killed unless necessary, and they never drew out the act. They never harmed children. They fought the darkness, no matter the personal cost, and they won—
Centuries pass and that is remembered. Though the price was high, they won.
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Michael is the last who knew them, and he dies thanking them for his life.
Records are kept, by police and hunters and diaries handed from parent to child.
They are leaves on the wind, never in one place long, there and then gone, easy to forget but easier to remember, gifting strangers who never see them again with peace.
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The legend grows with each telling, until the men they were are truly gone, save for their souls.
They fought the darkness, and though it cost them their lives—they won.