Henry stared at the end of the spindle, mesmerized by the sharp, gleaming tip.
In the past, his idea of heroism had been found on the battlefield, at the end of a sword, with the scent of sweat and blood in the nostrils. He'd always thought heroes were made by grand quests that got everyone's attention and changed entire lands.
His own courage had been born of necessity, forced on him by his experience of the sleeping curse. He'd had to be braver than he'd ever been before, but he'd hardly had a choice.
As he looked from the metal tip to the face of his grandfather, he finally understood the truth. Being a hero meant being one when no one might ever see what you'd done and the outcome was far from assured. It meant being willing to give up all sense of certainty for a dream of rescuing another. It meant having a choice and making the right one, even when there was nothing glamorous about it.
Sometimes, being a hero didn't mean fighting for your rights. Sometimes it meant dying, sleeping, letting go of power, so that someone else might live again.
Henry wrapped his arms around his grandfather, and he realized something that would change his life forever: The real definition of heroism was sacrifice, and sacrifice took the most courage of all.
