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The Wrath of Heroes

The Fickle Hands of Fate

By Kelly RobertsonPublished 2 years ago 10 min read
2
The Wrath of Heroes
Photo by Simone Pellegrini on Unsplash

Fate has never been kind to the heroes of this world. It lifts them up, sets them on its chosen path, then drains them of all their worth and spits out their corpses. A new martyr for the masses to worship. And for what? For the good of humanity, the good of the realm. Heroes make the greatest sacrifice- their lives forfeited in exchange for another revolution around the blazing sun.

But their legacies live on, handed down to the generations of children named in their honor. In the cities and towns that plaster their visage across their stone walls, erect statues, or stamp coins with their stoic faces.

A shallow comfort to those they leave behind.

Issorah knelt at the foot of her father’s statue, darkness wrapped around her despite the ambient glow of the flickering candles melting to the dais. She sucked in a shaking breath and willed her trembling hands to relax, anything to stop the manacles from clanking in the reverent silence. She could feel their eyes on her, judging her. Scorning her. How could she come from him, their disdainful glares said. A stain on an otherwise perfect lineage.

“Issorah ap Ilsevan,” the magistrate’s voice cut through the stillness, “you have been found guilty of the most heinous crime against the realm: Treason.”

Treason. Such a funny way to describe saving someone’s life. Issorah nearly laughed aloud, catching herself in time and uttering a soft cough instead. She turned her face upwards, focusing on the stony face of her father. They’d crafted him so far from her memory’s picture, all hard and chiseled lines, an indisputable symbol of strength and power. But where were the laughter lines around his lips and eyes? They’d struck away his smile, replaced it with a stoic line, and removed all the light from his eyes. He was stone, literally and figuratively. That was the real treason.

“Because of your actions, Rhoghari’s greatest enemy escaped his fate and lives to terrorize our great empire another day.”

“I didn’t know who he was,” Issorah protested over her shoulder, earning her a slap to the back of the head from her jailer. She shot a venomous glare in his direction but kept her mouth shut.

“You have been brought before the feet of our greatest heroes,” the magistrate continued, voice swelling over the gathered crowd as he swept his hands out towards the row of stone giants glaring down at them all, “to seek penance for your crimes and to see what Fate deems the proper punishment for your betrayal. Let the judgment of our greatest heroes be swift, and let the flame of justice be the last to burn down to the wick. The Vigil begins!”

With a nod of his head, the magister signaled for the candles to be lit. As one, the five attending mages flicked their wrists with a flourish, simultaneously igniting each candle held aloft.

None of the crowd departed, rather hunkered down to await Fate’s judgment over her. It wasn’t every day that the spawn of one of their greats faced sentencing. Tonight, the entire city of Velaspar would sit the Vigil.

Issorah breathed deeply and shifted on her knees, legs and back starting to ache. The silver-lined chains itched terribly, a guard against channeling her magic to escape Fate’s designs for her. She blew out her cheeks and studied her judges instead. Five statues, each one bearing a candle extended in their right hands, stood watch over Velaspar, each of them a hero in their own right, risen to divine status the moment their bodies went cold. Their expressions were hard and callous, as chilled as the bones they served to represent.

Eidorah, The Mother of Rhoghari and symbol of eternal love and compassion, stood at the far right, her stone hair and garments flowing like rich silk. Her death birthed an entire empire, her sacrifice the lifeblood needed to give them purpose. Very rarely did Fate let her candle burn longer than the others.

Beside her, the lithe figure of Ganam stood, bow slung over his shoulder and arrow clutched effortlessly in his left hand. Cloaked in wilderness, he stood for the very sentence he saved the Rhoghari from: exile.

Dominating the central dais stood Khovasht, his enormous two-handed sword held deftly in his left hand as though it weighed nothing more than a feather. His righteous stare bore down upon the gathered crowds beneath his iron helm with paternal wisdom. The pinnacle of heroes, the mighty Father of Rhoghari. Fate chose his candle more often than not, sentencing countless souls back to their gods. Issorah hoped against hope to avoid joining them.

Cloaked in shadows, shackles locked around her wrists and ankles, stood Judorrah. Hers was perhaps the only face that resembled anything other than perfect serenity, an image of pain and suffering in place of stoic resolve. Her lips contorted in a cry of anguish, stone tears dripping down her craggy cheeks, her eyes bottomless wells of sorrow and despair trapped in pale marble. Forever the Prisoner, Judorrah gave up her freedom to save the ones she loved, spending the rest of her days confined in the darkest dungeon cell. Whoever crafted her left little to the imagination, sculpting her sacrifice as vividly as possible.

Lastly, Ilsevan stood, the newest addition to the pantheon of heroes. For years, Issorah watched her father answer Rhoghari’s call. His cunning in warcraft and strategy had no rival, his talents on the battlefield legendary, but no more so than his devotion to serve. Never questioning, never hesitating, Ilsevan never refused Fate’s call, no matter the circumstances that brought the need for his gift. The Servant Hero, they dubbed him, in recognition of his infallible loyalty to his people, his ruler, and his empire.

Issorah cast her critical glance across them all: mercy, exile, death, imprisonment, and servitude. The judgment of heroes, their wrath or favor invoked by fickle Fate’s desire. Which would it choose for her?

***

Fate took its sweet time making a decision. Issorah’s body cramped, begging for the relief of movement. Her knees screamed and her back throbbed from kneeling at her father’s feet for so long. Issorah cast a sideways glare toward her jailer. She couldn’t move more than that, knowing his opinion on letting her shift to a more comfortable position. The back of her skull still throbbed from where he’d whacked her the last time. Never in her life did she think she could hate someone she barely knew as much as she despised the nameless goon.

Two hours past midnight, Fate made its first choice, snuffing out Eidorah’s candle. Issorah sighed. Typical. They’d have never accepted that decision anyways.

Ganam followed soon after, his candle guttering out an hour after the first. Juddorah’s extinguished next with a wisping trail of smoke, leaving her life firmly in the hands of death or servitude.

Issorah clasped her hands together in her lap, her skin rubbed raw beneath the silver. Weariness threatened to suck her under, burying her beneath the weight of heavy sands, ever-increasing as time ticked on. Pins and needles tingled from her legs up to her buttocks, numbing the ache in her stiff muscles only faintly. She blinked against the exhaustion that tried to claw her eyelids shut and shifted her focus from one candle to the other. Ilsevan’s flame seemed smaller than Khovasht’s. It flickered weakly, trapped inside a cavern of wax that threatened to collapse on the fragile wick at any moment, sealing her fate for good.

Time lazed on, melting away the wax that would soon decide her fate. Death or servitude. She told herself she preferred death, no doubt better than a life of slavery. At least I’d get to see you again, she thought soberly, meeting her father’s stony eyes. The real you.

But despite the promise of reunion, Issorah couldn’t calm the storm building within her. She willed herself to remain strong, not to give these barbarians the satisfaction of her tears, but her body could only take so much. A thousand spiders crawled across her flesh, tickling and prickling relentlessly. The yawning pit in her gut threatened to consume what little resolve she had left after hours of kneeling. Her heart drummed wildly in her chest until it hurt, her breast cramped with dreadful anticipation. Sweat beaded on her forehead, her palms, and she felt a shiver building at the base of her spine despite the balmy summer night. Again, she failed to calm the trembling in her hands and tightened her grip.

Back and forth, her gaze flicked from one flame to the next. It had to end soon. She could feel the crowd’s anticipation, their own need for an answer. Whispers hissed through the reverent silence, guessing, willing Fate to finally decide. But when has Fate ever followed the whims of men? It cared little for the greatest of them, certainly not those encased in stone towering before her, heedless of the wrath of heroes when they shook their mighty fists to the sky.

It certainly didn’t care about her father, stealing him away time after time until it finally claimed him for its own. She never forgave the Rhoghari for demanding his service, never forgave him for answering their call. But then again, he had little choice in the matter. Her father always told her that Fate seldom chooses what we believe is best, but what is best for us. Awaiting its choice for her own life, Issorah couldn’t see how either death or servitude was best for her.

Her heart sank as she watched Ilsevan’s candle begin to hiss and sputter, the wax walls dripping down upon the flame as the heat bent them down like withered beasts. The crowd behind her stirred, seeing what could only be the inevitable end of Fate’s ruling.

Death.

The word swirled on the gathered tongues, each one laced with excitement, even glee. No better way to start the Rhoghari’s day than with a good old-fashioned execution. Issorah tried to embrace the idea and failed miserably. Bitter tears eked through eyes shut tight against the overflowing emotion, a crack in her carefully crafted mask. She wasn’t ready. Not when so much still depended on her. Who would care for Maeren? With Issorah gone, she’d be alone, abandoned to the whims of a cruel world and crueler Fate.

But Fate is fickle and does not bow to the will of anyone. Just as her father’s candle began to flutter, a gentle breeze blew through the auditorium. It brushed her cheek, cool against her tear-streaked skin, and snuffed out Khovasht’s candle like a lover’s gentle whisper.

Issorah stared at the weak flame of Ilsevan’s candle, shocked and breathless by Fate’s ruling.

“The heroes have decided!” the magistrate exclaimed, his voice hoarse from exhaustion, but the suddenness of his shout startled Issorah from her stupor. “Fate has declared Ilsevan’s candle be the last flame burning. Issorah ap Ilsevan, for your crimes you will be sentenced to a life of servitude to the empire. Jailer, escort the prisoner back to her cell until the details of her fate have been decided.”

The jailer grunted, then scooped his rough hands under her armpits and hoisted her to her feet. As he dragged her from the auditorium, Issorah cast one final gaze at her father’s stony face, wondering if death would have been a more merciful fate.

Fantasy
2

About the Creator

Kelly Robertson

Wrangler of chaos. Creator of more. Writing whatever my heart desires, from fantasy to poetry and more!

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Outstanding

Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!

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  1. Compelling and original writing

    Creative use of language & vocab

  2. Easy to read and follow

    Well-structured & engaging content

  3. Excellent storytelling

    Original narrative & well developed characters

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    The story invoked strong personal emotions

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Comments (2)

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  • Cathy holmesabout a year ago

    This is fabulous. Well done.

  • Veronica Coldironabout a year ago

    I am totally smitten by you world building talent and gift for imagery! GREAT piece of literature. If this ever does become a book, please let me know. I am totally buying a copy!

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