Outro music to our heroes story

He rises up, out of the impossible, when all hope is gone, and often there is dialogue, but some times, there is no speech at all. Some times there is just a gaze, or a crash, or a call from a loved one. Some times there is only silence.

He should not be here. “I’m only a boy!” he once cried out, and he was right. But he was also so much more, to us, and to our cause. He was hope. He was possibility. He was our Hero.

And so he rose up, against the odds, against all odds, to overcome where all before him had stumbled and fallen. And then he pressed on further still, through pains unknown and trials unbearable, of loves gained and lost, friendships won and friends who would fall behind, or worse. We would pray for him. He would carry us, his cross, his sword, his heart. He was all of us, and yet, ultimately, he was alone in the fight.

The crow calls. The dawn breaks. The bells sound. He is in a wasteland. He is atop a hill. He stands at the highest level of the tower, or in the deepest level of the dungeon. His eyes are blue, or green, or brown, or golden, and they are filled with righteousness, and he cannot fail. Or can he?

So many before him have fallen, and even now, with victory so near, everything is balanced on the smallest of pinheads. There is doubt. There is always the doubt. What if?

What if?

And we hold our breath and we pray, because he is us, or we are him. With heroes it can be hard to tell.

So then they battle, as they must, and we are silent. And maybe they are too. But maybe they are not. Maybe everything is coming out now. He is his father. She has betrayed him when they were born. They were envious. Jealous. Reckless. Evil. Good. Misguided. Vengeful. So sad. So alone. So lost. So right. How could he not be right? How could she not have known? How could we not have seen it? How could it come to this? The lights dim. We feel out hearts, somewhere, not just inside us, somewhere else, somewhere, waiting to see what will happen next. The music swells.

And so he rose up, against the odds, against all odds, to overcome where all before him had stumbled and fallen.

And perhaps, he too, though victorious, also falls. Or perhaps he finds peace. Or love. Or sadness. Immortality, or death, or sometimes even both. In the end, though, the Hero will triumph. And we will all know that there is, and always has been, and surely always will be, hope.

There are many ways to define a hero. Some will tell you that it’s in his strength, or his will, or his cunning. Some will say his style, his panache, his wit and his love. Some will tell you that it’s those he chooses as friends, or even those he chooses as foes. Or even his clothing, his artifacts, his smile.

Some will say it is not a choice. Some will say its fate. Some will argue stronger that it is destiny. And maybe more will even ascribe it to sheer dumb luck.

All of the above are true, but what truly, truly makes a Hero, is that, if given a choice, a Hero will choose not to have to be a Hero at all. And if he has no choice, he will never, ever give up.

And then the credits will roll, and we will smile, and we will stand, together, and know that in this world there is, and always has been, and surely always will be, hope.