A red leaf spiraled down onto the grave, which glowed as brightly as the day it was made. The lush grass was dancing in the cold breeze along with several flowers, which praising people had placed on the resting place of the heroes. A petal quivered on a rather old flower, placed there two weeks ago, alive as if magic had helped it. The petal broke off and was whisked into the gentle wind. To the careful eye, one could see the sparkling it left behind in its wake.
The rusting gate creaked in the wind and made the vines that grew around it shiver. Not many people had been laid to rest here since the marble gravestone had been placed at this emotion-filled site. It was to keep the memory fresh, the villagers would say, to keep the story alive. The story of a caring, ever loving family who never stood down from the darkness. A family who valued trust, love and friendship above all else. A family who had ended the creeping, lurking, shuddering bloodshed.
Many a people had entered the peaceful graveyard and felt a wave of something wash over them. Yet no one seemed to figure out what it was. Calmness, some had said while others proclaimed spirits of the heroes who had long since passed into the afterlife. Maybe it was the spirits, for that was the most rumored suggestion. Possibly, they had come back and watched the living world. What for, though? To see their friends weep for them? To explore the life they had not lasted in? To watch over their son, who had not even been two years old yet, but had survived the horrific events?
Or was their son the reason of the villagers' visits? Their son, the living hero of the world. Maybe they came, not because they had known the saviors personally, but because they knew the name of their son. Because they knew the name that their world worshiped and praised. Even so, the grave never had a week without visitors.
Some say that when the wind blew softly, as it was this peaceful afternoon, you could hear whispers. This rumor had started long, long before the heroes had been laid here, though most started believing it after they had come. Before the dreaded night, it was said that there were cries of terror and screams of death. It was said this was the spirit's last screaming words, or their worst memories played out for the living. After the heroes came, though, all was calm. Odd, most thought of it, very odd indeed but the visitors had an explanation for themselves and anyone who asked. That the old ghosts knew the heroes needed time; time to adjust, time to themselves, time to search. In the flowing breeze, a careful ear can hear voices; male and female.
"We will see him someday, my dear, I know it." The male whispered.
"Or maybe," the female always replied "He will see us first."
Another petal flew off the forgotten flower and gently hit the glowing grave. It slid down slowly and passed each and every word on the shining grave as if polishing it. Right before it reached the bottom, it hit the words that represented the long gone, but not forgotten, heroes; the words that would slip out of everyone's lips when they read it ever so quietly.
The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.