Hold still, my friend, this might sting. Well, definitely will. Anyway, rest a while, save your strength. You’ve had quite a fall there. Three miles if it was an inch, I reckon. You’re lucky to be alive, so hush, less weeping and cursing and struggling, more appreciation of the fact that I just saved your life.
The thorns might seem cruel to you—yes, yes, I am sorry about your eyes—but spare a thought for me, who took root and grew in a place where thorns are needed. Look around you—ah, sorry, that was insensitive.
Ahem.
Take this plain: Aleion, “The Wandering” they call it. Rain falls about as often as monster-killing heroes out here. I grow thorns not out of spite, but out of necessity, armoring myself against the trials of this world. There are half a hundred creatures that would love to crack me open and drink the moisture I hold inside. That may not seem like heroism to you, but it takes a different kind of courage to survive. Life is a resource, something to be harvested and expended when one is in need.
A hero eh, the son of a king, favored of Athena. My word, my wonder. The nettles sting all the same though, don’t they?
We are not so different now, you and I, O Mighty Hero. What use is it to fight, when one is sightless, senseless, rooted in place? Now there is only surrender to the inevitable. Your life until now has been about struggle, but now you must learn to accept. Endurance and patience, rather than power and anger. Welcome the cool night air—you might as well, it comes regardless.
Here’s a truth for you lad, a gritty, grainy truth from down here at the bottom of the world, coarse and rough like this plain, and that truth is your story was always going to end this way.
A hero might do so much, more than a thousand other men, yet still be but a pebble in the desert, a drop of rain on this arid plain, soon evaporated, leaving no mark behind. A king, a killer, a hero, a husband, it matters not. It never mattered how much you achieved, it would always be wiped away in a moment. Your flight from persecution, your rise to fame, your fall from grace, all orchestrated by powers barely aware of your existence, your life as dependent as the lowliest bush on the Olympian skies to bring you life-giving rains.
You haven’t lain here more than 10 minutes, but already your fame begins to fade. Bellerophon? Who is he? They might name a ship for you, a small one. A minor statue in a minor town.
There is no returning to kingship now, so put that from your mind. You’ve ridden your last winged steed ever, slain your last monster, said goodbye to your wife for the last time. I would say cherish the memories, but Chronos and the Fates are pitiless things, and will not leave you even that.
You will grow thorns, great hero, and become and prickly as I. The skin will harden over your heart and hurts, and the memories will fade as surely as the scars.
The thorns might seem cruel to you—yes, yes, I am sorry about your eyes—but spare a thought for me, who took root and grew in a place where thorns are needed. Look around you—ah, sorry, that was insensitive.
Ahem.
Take this plain: Aleion, “The Wandering” they call it. Rain falls about as often as monster-killing heroes out here. I grow thorns not out of spite, but out of necessity, armoring myself against the trials of this world. There are half a hundred creatures that would love to crack me open and drink the moisture I hold inside. That may not seem like heroism to you, but it takes a different kind of courage to survive. Life is a resource, something to be harvested and expended when one is in need.
A hero eh, the son of a king, favored of Athena. My word, my wonder. The nettles sting all the same though, don’t they?
We are not so different now, you and I, O Mighty Hero. What use is it to fight, when one is sightless, senseless, rooted in place? Now there is only surrender to the inevitable. Your life until now has been about struggle, but now you must learn to accept. Endurance and patience, rather than power and anger. Welcome the cool night air—you might as well, it comes regardless.
Here’s a truth for you lad, a gritty, grainy truth from down here at the bottom of the world, coarse and rough like this plain, and that truth is your story was always going to end this way.
A hero might do so much, more than a thousand other men, yet still be but a pebble in the desert, a drop of rain on this arid plain, soon evaporated, leaving no mark behind. A king, a killer, a hero, a husband, it matters not. It never mattered how much you achieved, it would always be wiped away in a moment. Your flight from persecution, your rise to fame, your fall from grace, all orchestrated by powers barely aware of your existence, your life as dependent as the lowliest bush on the Olympian skies to bring you life-giving rains.
You haven’t lain here more than 10 minutes, but already your fame begins to fade. Bellerophon? Who is he? They might name a ship for you, a small one. A minor statue in a minor town.
There is no returning to kingship now, so put that from your mind. You’ve ridden your last winged steed ever, slain your last monster, said goodbye to your wife for the last time. I would say cherish the memories, but Chronos and the Fates are pitiless things, and will not leave you even that.
You will grow thorns, great hero, and become and prickly as I. The skin will harden over your heart and hurts, and the memories will fade as surely as the scars.
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