The Heartlands were louder than they had ever been. The cheers, the flowers, the happy tears. Everyone, young and old, went out to the streets to greet the Hero upon his triumphant return.
Arlen Solmere, the Lightbearer. Gifted from birth with exceptional talent in both magic and swordsmanship. His sister used to tell stories that no one believed. Like the time he burned down their house with a fire spell, or hunted a wyvern with a kitchen knife.
The Hero stood tall on the golden carriage, his face covered by his shining helmet, looking to the sky as if searching for something. His once pristine armor looked tattered, burned, and cracked in different places, but still radiant nonetheless.
The journey from the capital's entrance to the square was not a long one, but the carriage took its time so every one of the people crowding the streets could catch a glimpse of their savior. The roads were full of rose petals, and the silver horses were full of all the apples they were offered.
However, the Hero was unmoving, his shadow growing under his feet. Unlike his usual cheerful self, he looked sorrowful, even if his face was covered and head held high.
And the reason was obvious to all: there was no one at his side.
Cael Denvyr, the Hero's companion and closest friend—the one always by his side—was nowhere to be seen.
That was not always the case. They used to always butt heads as children and young adults. Arlen was the best at all he did, which did not sit well with Cael and sparked a bitter rivalry between the two.
Yet the more they fought, the closer they became. Even when they claimed to hate each other, up to the day they disembarked on the journey to fight the Worldwound, the Hero mourns his rival's death, even after saving the world.
The carriage reached the city square, and the brilliant knight jumped to the podium in a fascinating display of dexterity and finally lowered his head to look upon the people.
Silence fell over the crowd, their breath taken by the Hero's presence.
'I'm sorry. It had to be like this.'
"With the heroic sacrifice of my dearest friend…"
His deep, hoarse voice reverberated across the entire capital, amplified by the magic crystal floating in front of him.
He unsheathed his legendary blade from its pristine scabbard—with some struggle that only those with keen eyes might notice.
"The Worldwound is no more."
The silent crowd exploded in cheers, finally hearing the news from the most trusted person in Valis Thorne.
"Hmm… I guess he's tired. He did just get back, but the jump…"
An older man in knight armor standing in front of the crowd mumbled to himself as if noticing something wrong.
After basking in the love of the people for a moment, Arlen took a step back, letting King Kaveth take the stand.
"As you heard from our Hero, the world is saved. Yes, the Ashborn still roam our lands, but with the Worldwound gone, their days are numbered. And we will make sure that every one of their kind meets the same end with our knights and the help of the Lightbearer."
The old but sturdy man stroked his beard while moving his gaze across the plaza, looking at his people, then moved it towards the tall man standing next to him.
"None of this would be possible without our Hero and his companion. Even if he did not live to see the world he helped make, I will make sure it will not disappoint him. To honor this achievement, we are making a statue of the Hero right here in the middle of the city."
A long moment later, the red cover was pulled off of the massive rectangular marble, and the artists readied their tools, waiting for their model to reveal his face.
For the first time since he entered the city, the Hero removed his helmet for the people to see—but they were not ready for that sight.
Arlen's hair, as yellow as the Sun, burned at the edges and swayed with the wind even after losing its original length. His face wasn't a Hero's—his flesh was dark as burned oak, twisted beyond recognition, eyes red as rubies.
A silence sharper than swords spread across the square.
The Worldwound took his friend and his face.
"I do not wish to scare the children. Sculpt me in my helmet," the tragic Hero assessed.
Ready to follow his words, they nodded, and Arlen put his helmet back on.
Using earth magic, it didn't take the artisans that long to finish their art piece—although one of the artisans had some trouble with his casting. The statue was the spitting image of the Hero. Under it was carved: "Arlen Solmere, The Lightbearer."
"Would you want us to add your companion's name, sir Hero?" one of the sculptors asked.
"No. I doubt he would've wanted his name tagged at the end under mine."
The Hero said while staring deeply at his name.
'I'm sorry, It was not you.'
***
Time moved forward, and evening came. The amount of parties that were held across the city was tiring. Having to go to each one of them, holding a speech, accepting everyone's congratulations, took a visible toll on Arlen, he looked more exhausted than when he returned from the fight with the Worldwound.
He retired to his abode close to the main cathedral, and on his way there he stumbled across someone he didn't seem too pleased to meet.
"You've been acting quite strange the entire day, Arlen," said a woman wearing the nun uniform suspiciously. She leaned just beside the door to Arlen's room, as if waiting for his return.
"Hey, Sister Elyra… I don't think this is the right time for this. I'm tired."
Said Arlen, his face obstructed by his helmet—but his bad mood seeped through the cracks in his armor.
"Yeah, I can see that and that's exactly why I'm asking. You usually love spending time with the city folk."
She glared at him, her brow twitching as if she remembered something.
"Is it because of him? His death affected you this much? Weren't both of you always saying that you hated one another? 'Sky Denier'—his parents doomed him to a life of blasphemy…"
She shook her head in displeasure.
"For Sun's sake, he's a heretic. You can't be affected by someone as lowly as he."
Her tone was full of disgust.
"...I dare you to speak another word."
The air sat still as if sensing the change in intensity.
Elyra's eyes widened with shock, her mouth opened to voice a complaint, but her brain knew better than to go against the strongest person alive. So not a sound escaped her throat, and the only thing she could muster was raising her hands in defeat.
Ignoring her, Arlen opened his door and went inside, slamming it after him.
"Sheesh… he really is acting strange…"
Sighing with relief, the sister went back to her cathedral.
***
The heavy sword made a loud sound when its belt loosened. The helmet and armor followed suit, and had all their pride trampled on by being thrown to the ground without care.
The person responsible for their disrespect jumped on the lowly bed stationed at the center of the room. It was hard as rock, to his abject horror.
"You used to live like this…?"
He whispered, as if speaking to a distant friend.
Sitting upright, he looked over his body—bruised, bloody, and tattered, with burn scars going throughout his entire body from head to toe.
"I can't keep this up longer."
He turned his crimson eyes toward the door to make sure it was closed and sighed.
His hands trembled as the last of the glamor faded. There was no magic left to hold him together. His hair lost its brilliant yellow color and turned as black as soot.
"I'm sorry, Arlen… I can't do it."