Fiction Friday: The Hero

Harold rubbed his hands together in front of himself. The priest glared at him over his glasses from the rostrum. He quickly dropped his hands to his side. He shifted from one foot to the other. He had been standing there with the other candidates for a half hour already, and there was still another thirty minutes in the ceremony. It wasn't as though he hadn't been prepared for this. Everyone knew what the ceremony consisted of. But Harold hadn't counted on the robes making things worse. The rough fabric chafed his neck, and wrists. And he had developed an itch on his nose that had been pestering him for what felt like fifteen minutes, but was likely only thirty seconds.

Somehow, Harold managed to stay mostly motionless for the rest of the silent portion of the ceremony. All that was left was the administration of the advancing sting. The candidates formed a line leading to the altar. Each took a position marked by depressions worn in the stones of the temple over the hundreds of years boys had been presented here to become men. Harold watched as Amund stepped up to the altar, and stretched his arms forward, bowing his head. The priest's assistants each extended a wand and tapped Amund twice in a designated location. Amund snatched his right arm back to his body, followed quickly by his left as he fell forward on the altar, his face contorted in presumed agony. Two acolytes dragged Amund off the altar and out of the temple. Brome stepped forward and took his place at the altar.

It proceeded in like manner for the other three candidates ahead of Harold in line. Harold stepped hesitantly forward and reached forward with his hands. As he bowed his head, the priest tapped him on the chin with his scepter. Harold looked up at him.

“Open your mouth, candidate, and receive your advancement,” the priest said. The congregation gasped, and a hushed murmur rose above the crowd. Harold had never seen or heard of this happening before.

Harold swallowed, and opened his mouth. The assistant tapped his tongue, and his entire existence was a blaze of fiery pain. There was no consciousness, only the pain existed. Harold was no more. He was a mass of twinging nerves.

Harold opened his eyes. He raised a hand to his lips and was surprised not to touch his tongue. He rolled his legs off the cot he had been laid on and attempted to sit up. As a wave of dizziness swept his head, and his vision darkened he fell back to the cot. A moment later he was sitting upright. He swore his lips would look like a peach with its cleft laid horizontally. But the mirror showed no visible swelling.

“Welcome to manhood, Harold,” the priest said from behind him.

Harold slowly turned to face the aged man. His balance was still unsure.

“And to your calling.”

“Mmmth, hmmth, rarrgh,” Harold responded.

“Don't try to speak, Harold. It will pass in some days.” The priest held out a glass of water. Harold took it gladly, and raised it to his lips. Most of it dribbled out. “I suggest going slowly, Harold.”

He looked at the priest. He put the glass down on the small table.

“You are to be The Hero, Harold. Do you understand?”

Harold shook his head.

“You have heard the prophecies, correct?”

Harold gave a small nod.

“Well, now you will fulfill them.” The priest refilled the glass and sat down on the stool in the corner. “There is nothing about you that contradicts the prophecies, which is what we have been waiting for. And you've now taken the first step, by surviving the advancing sting to the tongue.”

Harold looked at the priest quizzically.

The priest sighed. “Harold, the prophecies are not true. At least not as you have believed them to be. There is no one person who is destined to come and save us. It could be almost anyone. Unfortunately, there are some specifics in the prophecies that limit the potential candidates to only a few people in a host of years. You are the first to come to us without a clearly disqualifying condition since we have understood the prophecies. So, it is you who will be the fulfillment.”

Harold expressed disbelief, then anger.

“Yes, I know. It is not fair. You experienced pain, more than any other boy presented for advancement, and it seems so capricious. And it is. But now you know, or will know when you have calmed down, that life is not fair. And what appears to be a punishment may be a blessing. Remember that the converse is also true, Harold. Or should I say, Our Lord Protector, the Hero of Salamasas?”