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~The Village Hero~ The epitaph I'd hoped for and the epitaph I got were vastly different. I guess life--or death?--can be funny like that. I'd wanted my tombstone--a modest slab, for I was no aristocrat--to have my last words carved in delicately, and then worn down professionally. The illusion would be created--and, someday, made a reality--that my words, my message, had withstood the very test of time. That my message had inspired countless generations of mankind with its heroic, life-affirming phrases. This, of course, did not come to pass. It's been years now but I can replay that day at my own ghostly leisure. I remember waking up and feeling no different from how I'd felt the morning before: a feeling of certainty that *this* would be the greatest day I'd yet lived through. Springing up from my hard mat on the floor, I stretched and immediately set out for the village training grounds. "Is today the day of your great deed? Set to be the village hero?" teased the blacksmith as I jogged past him. What could I say? I had ambitions. I daydreamed of it often, of my rise to prominence. I trained daily for hours to prepare myself for the exact moment that would define and then solidify my greatness. Perhaps a terrible beast would have arrived to destroy us. Perhaps our neighbours to the north would have invaded, with an intent to sack and to conquer. Either way, I would've been there to singlehandedly squash the threat. The villagers would've swarmed me, the elders would've picked me up, placed me on their shoulders, and carried me to the public square. There I'd have been declared Head Elder and, in appreciation, I would've delivered a meticulously crafted speech spoken under the pretence of spontaneity. Phrases such as "Seize your future" and "Vigilance and humility are the greatest virtues" would've gripped the youth by their hearts and shaken them to their own impressionable cores. My story would have become the stuff of legends, my gravestone a source of inspiration. But none of this happened. As I jogged past the blacksmith, he lost his grip. It was a dreadfully hot morning and I'm sure his palms were slick with sweat. Bringing the greathammer back to forge a magnificent blade, it flew from his grip and soared through the searing morning air. "Look out!" I heard him cry. "Beg your pardon?" was all I managed to get out before the greathammer crushed my skull. So that's what's on my tombstone; that's what my epitaph reads. Tell me, who on earth is ever going to be inspired by "Beg your pardon?"? //Ruarai\\ | |