Out of the blue, the hero refuses the call. To the dismay of everyone in the village, the hero — whose destiny was predetermined since birth, as foretold[a] by the village’s prophet — disobeys the call to adventure. Born as the only child of the respected village elder, the hero was supposed to embark on the grand journey where the dragon would be slain, the princess saved, and the elixir retrieved; deeds that would have brought untold prosperity to the village. Truly, the path had been laid bare. Had the hero only followed the paved road, surely they would have bloomed into legend whose shadow cast larger than life and twice as tall, with tales sung by bards throughout the kingdom.
Yet there the figure stands, in the middle of the town hall, surrounded by disappointed faces brooding with a certain gumption. The defiance that transpires leaves the crowd perplexed. The tradition has been repeated for millennia, with a thousand faces. Breaking the silence, a soul in the crowd dares to ask the hero for the reason.
“What is the point of living it again?” the hero answers back. “Every story repeats the same beats: dragon, princess, and elixir.”
Truly, the town does store many dragon skulls, some even serve as play structures in the children’s playground. The tiaras of countless princesses over the years have been stripped and melted down for fortune. The town’s economy runs on crude elixirs and refined elixirs in equal measure. For all the self-realization and grand feats, the heroes of time immemorial have always been expected to achieve and cycle through the same milestones without a stutter: a cog in the machina, without the deus ex.
The townsfolk, still bargaining, ask whether the hero knows that previous incarnations were usually swallowed by the dragons. The symbolic act of cuttii hi in ng open the beast’s belly and emerging victorious is the narrative equivalent of rebirth. As the first birth was not of one’s own volition, the self-delivery from the dragon’s belly marks the culmination of self-actualization where the hero truly comes into their own individuality and achievement.
Surely the comely hero would jump for joy at such an eventful fate. Forsaking such an opportunity is unfathomable, blasphemous even. A journey without a climax? Gobbledygook.
“I do acknowledge the importance of this fate. Even my refusal of the call may be perceived as the initiation onto the journey.”
“Still, I solemnly refuse the call.”
A coward — one of the folks screams. No logical explanation has been given by the hero, thus leading to the sudden accusation. The air gets heavier with dissatisfaction from the crowds. This cues the hero to finally leave the stage. The village no longer embraces its child.
Walking out of the village, the hero remembers the flashes of childhood memories. Never had they wandered out of the beaten path. Today is different, though, and the fate is now up to anybody’s guesses. Some bards followed — some out of duty, others out of curiosity, and one or two because they could not bear not to know how it all would end.
…
Many years passed before the village once again heard whispers of the tale’s defiant hero. The stories came from a bard who claimed to have followed the hero to the journey’s end. The town hall had since tripled in size to host the bard’s gathering, for the anticipation surrounding this tale was greater than for any of the garden-variety heroes who had come and gone through the years. Questions about the hero’s deeds were asked eagerly, even by the bitterest of the crowd.
“Eventually, the hero did undertake the journey after many years,” said the bard.
Before that long-delayed quest, the hero had wandered from town to town, learning the cultures and customs of different tribes, states, and metropolises, seeking any semblance of belonging instead of remaining a stray. Sometimes the stays were long, sometimes short, and sometimes the hero was even cast out. Still, from each place, fragments of its people: gestures, stories, and ways of being have been absorbed.
In time, the hero realized that the journey of a thousand faces, cliché though it sounded, drew its meaning not from prophecy but from the way it was lived. It was this epiphany that finally awakened the hero to try the destiny once foretold.
“When the journey was at last undertaken, it was too late. The dragon had already died of old age, the princess had rescued herself from boredom, and the elixir had dried up under the rising tropical wind.”
The bard paused, voice lowering.
The bard recalled how the hero had looked around and found only silence. The quest was gone, the purpose hollowed out by time. Yet as the hero listened to the wind, he began to recognize the faint traces it carried: a story told in a marketplace, a lullaby overheard in a foreign tongue, a name once whispered to him in kindness. They lingered within like verses half-remembered. The hero understood that these fragments are all the undertaken journeys. The feeling of sonder overwhelmed, then coalesced into a purpose.
The bard then smiled. A smile with the same cut that this village had been familiar with a long time ago.
“That was how I discovered my talent as a bard.”
เนื้อหา : Nye6657
พิสูจน์อักษร : พิมพ์
กราฟิก : ginger cat