This story is part of TN2’s ongoing flash fiction series, which aims to give a platform to exciting new writers from Trinity. If you would like your fiction to be considered for publication, simply submit it to literature@tn2magazine.ie along with your name and a one-sentence bio.
It starts, as all epic journeys tend to start, with a child. The child’s name is unimportant for the most part. He could be any hero, from any time and any world. From Greece, from Earth, from a faraway planet, from the stars. The hero who fell. His name is important to his mother, who chose one with a long and bloody history. She knew that he would need a name to grow into if he was to face the big bad world. His life was foretold to her before he was even born. The prophecy said that he would shine so brightly. It didn’t say how long he would shine for.
The child and his mother lived in a small village at the bottom of a valley. It was the type of place where everyone knew everyone, where you couldn’t sneeze without someone hearing about it. In winter, the river would freeze over, creating a rink for families to skate on. The child’s neighbour set up a stall, waiting for people to stumble onto solid ground. Her hot chocolate was known if not quite throughout the land then certainly throughout the valley. By spring, the birds were singing and swooping overhead. Children would chase them, their laughter filling the air. Our child was never one of them. He prefered to hide behind his mother’s skirts, content to sit and listen to her talk. In summer, the valley blossomed, the smell of flowers and the sound of buzzing filling the air. The boy was deathly afraid of bees, no matter what his mother told him. He ran from them, shrieking at the top of his lungs, pumping his little legs as fast as they would go. He was brave at the end though, which is all that really matters.
Every couple of months a woman would come to visit the boy. Her dark hair fell to just above her shoulders, and when she tied it back to train him, it stuck out in spiky bunches. She was lean and tall, all angles and hard lines, the very opposite of soft. Unlike others before her, she was willing to work with the boy, not against him as she figured out what made him tick. Her favourite pastime was solving puzzles, and this child was her favourite puzzle of all. The pair spent hours down by the river working together. Sometimes they talked, their voices filling the air and scaring the fish away as they gradually grew more and more animated. Sometimes they sat in silence, scribbling away in notebooks or on scraps of paper, trying to find the right wording for their ideas. On those days, no one would disturb them, except for the odd bird. All the villagers skirted around them, having never felt quite comfortable around either of them. The woman was a stranger from a faraway land and there wasn’t a single person in the village who trusted her. As for the boy, he had outgrown their small village just by being born. No one knew for sure what his destiny was, but they all knew it wasn’t here. They smiled to the mother’s face, and chatted to her at the market, but when her back was turned the whispers flew around the valley, passing from neighbour to neighbour. His home may have been nestled in the fold of the hill, but it was certainly not where he belonged.
By the time the boy is fourteen, the village has changed. People speak in hushed voices and seem to know something the boy doesn’t. The children go on playing, oblivious and unafraid, as children tend to be. The boy can’t help but watch the adults, waiting for a word uttered too loudly, for a sentence spoken above a whisper. After all, if something is wrong, it’s his job to fix it. Not just his job, but his destiny. This is what he was born for. So the boy goes on watching, waiting for something to happen.
By the time the boy is fifteen, the village is dying. Neighbours hurry past one another, their faces drawn and tired, not bothering to say hello. His mother doesn’t spend so long at the market. In fact there’s hardly a market left at all. Half the stalls are gone, taken down in a hurry. Of those that remain, half again are empty, bare of any goods to sell. The stall owners look afraid whenever they see the boy. People can’t look him in the eye anymore. Their eyes skirt about him like opposing magnets. Rumours abound that there is a monster in the mountains, a monster that has been killing the crops and any child who wanders too far astray. The boy spends his days training. His mother watches on, frown lines etched clearly onto her tired face, but says nothing.
By the time the boy is sixteen, the whole land has been changed. The monster’s flame reaches down the rocky mountains, over the valley and across the grassy fields. Dozens have tried and failed to slay the beast, the king’s own son among them. By the time the boy is sixteen, no one thinks of him as a child. They see him as a hero, their saviour, something from a legend. When he looks in a mirror, he sees it too. He is ready. His mother still sees her shy little boy. Still, she does her duty as the mother of a great hero. She says nothing. Nothing, when he drops his too heavy shield on his toes. Nothing, when he cuts himself with his own blade. Nothing, when he receives the king’s blessing to go and fight the beast. He tells her he was born for this. She wonders if he’ll die for it too.
On the day the boy packs to go, the whole village gathers around to see him off. A few years ago, they couldn’t look at him directly. Now they can’t get enough of him. They reach out their hands like beggars to a god, trying to touch him, to bless him. The neighbours weep into their handkerchiefs and the children who never played with him kneel before him. They see a man, a strong and powerful man. They don’t see what’s to come.
For days the boy hikes through the mountains, hoping for an easy way to find the creature. Three times he follows the scent of smoke, only to find himself overlooking yet another burning village. He trudges on and on, into the heart of the mountain range until his provisions start to run out. He tries not to think about the fact that there is not enough to get him home. Finally, he finds it, a great big crack in the mountain, big enough and dark enough for a monster to hide in. He sets down his bag and disappears into the cave. There is an achingly long silence, and the beast roars. Back in the village, the boy’s neighbours wonder if thunder is approaching. His mother prays. The fight rages on for what seems like hours, man against beast, sword against flame. Finally, the monster falls silent. There is a dark sky afterward, and smoke. The boy does not emerge.
It starts with a child. It ends when he burns.
