I knew that if I did it, I would die. I knew that if I didn't, she would. I knew what would happen. And I chose to ignore it.
I'm not a hero. I'm only a man, a weak one. I am so easily lost in a sea of confusion, my resolve washed away by the tempest.
Her life was worth my own. Her life was worth more than my own. Her life was worth everything else I ever thought I had. I had a chance to save it, just one desperate chance. Now the chips are down, and all I have left is the memory of how we came to this place.
When she was born, I was already a young man, just emerged from the flames of war. Our battles were lost, our nation subjugated, our hopes dashed. I returned to my home a prisoner, released to work the fields for our conquering enemy's tables. I thought myself a survivor, but it meant nothing more than a coward. While my brothers in arms fought to the death, I surrendered in hopes of saving my meaningless life. I was not like the other men, the brave now fallen soldiers. I was not given the body of a hero, the strength to conquer or the resolve to overcome. Yet somehow, I survived, whilst they perished. It is amazing how the most pointless lives preserve themselves through cowardice, while the souls worthwhile willingly give themselves up for a cause. In this way, heroism is a rare trait, for those who possess it die out, while the cowards live on.
Yet somehow, in that miserable place, in that battered, scorched, and war-weary land, a little piece of hope was born. Our conquerors' ways soon sent her aging father and mother six feet under, and I was left with her in my care. Her name was Mirielle, my sister, my inheritance, my world. Through that winsome baby girl, my despondent universe was given an undeserved sparkle of pure, beautiful light.
For years I worked under the yolk of our enemies. For those sixteen years I accepted my lot in life for only the chance to see her grow. And grow she did, more and more beautiful with each passing day, and always the sweetest creature that ever Providence saw fit to create. I loved her like she was my own; she loved everyone like there was no evil in the world. Her smiles fell freely like the rain, sweet as that refreshing gift after long years of drought. And I felt like I would do anything to see it, again and again.
But I'm not a hero. I'm only a man, a sinful one. I am so easily drawn into petty jealousy, my better judgment overridden by selfish pride.
I loved Mirielle like my own daughter, but another man loved her as well. I could not bring myself to give her up, not to anyone, much less this boy. She was mine, my ray of sunshine, my sparkle of light, my one flicker of hope. I could not give her up.
The boy was barely older than she, a tall, thin lad, who hardly knew how to care for himself, let alone her. He called himself an artist--a romantic idealist destined to die a tragic death by his own inability to work or fight. Something in me knew what hypocrisy it was for me to condemn him for such. Perhaps I was envious not just for her, but of him; though he was so weak, his ideals were strong, drawing--he could have changed the world if he had only the strength to try. Mirielle stole his heart as she had so innocently stolen many--with a glance; but unlike the many, he won hers as well. My heart was left to mourn whenever I would see either of them, for I was no longer her world, though she was still mine.
I suppose now that it was simply her growing up. But I didn't want her to. I didn't want her to love anyone else, I didn't want her to leave me for some boy. For sixteen years I was all she needed, and suddenly she wanted more? I should have just let her go, but I couldn't. I was too selfish. If I'd let her leave with that love-struck whelp, at least her life--however short under his protection--would have ended in the happiness of being with the one she--loathe as I am to admit it--loved, most of all.
But I'm not a hero. I'm only a man, a pitiful one. I am so easily frightened by what might come to pass, to the point that I ignore what I know with certainty.
One was the number of sacrifice; one was the hour of doom.
Our captors' pagan gods demanded a burnt offering, and this year, Mirielle was the chosen sacrifice. When the guards came to take her away in the hour after midnight, I woke to her scream. I rushed to the door just in time to see the soldiers dragging her away. I ran after them with all my might, falling on my knees and imploring them to release her. But, they said, the will of the gods was absolute.
There was only one way to save her. I must destroy the altar, and distract the pagan priests. I must purchase with my life the time for my darling little girl to escape.
But under another man's arm.
If not for my petty jealousy, I would not have hesitated. But this pathetic part of myself whispered in my ear that if she died here, it was the only way she would forever remain mine.
Her woebegone lover came to me pleading for help rescuing her. I told him there was nothing to be done.
Oh, I am not a hero. From the days of peace, to war, to captivity, to the greatest trial of all, throughout my life I've been naught but a coward. I couldn't sacrifice myself for another no matter how I might wish. I preserve my pointless life through that cowardice, while the beautiful souls like Mirielle's are condemned for want of anyone willing to take the risk of saving them.
What a world we would live in if the cowards' lives were traded for the heroes', instead of the other way around.
I could not watch the sacrifice, but I could no more stay away. I stood in the shadow of the archway, aside from the altar itself the only relief from the pouring rain. Spectators in the hundreds stood holding their breath for Mirielle's final moments, and a dozen guards stood by to make sure that we cowards would not try to change her fate.
I told myself there was nothing I could do.
I didn't hear a word of the priest's sacrificial prayer. His voice droned on while the crowd held its breath in horrified anticipation.
Then I heard a shout, followed by the clash of steel and scrambling of feet. I turned instinctively and saw the boy, Mirielle's weakling lover, fighting the guards in a desperate attempt to reach her. At that moment, something in me snapped.
He was weak, so weak, weaker than I had been since childhood. He was thin and emaciated, unskilled and untrained. He was foolhardy and rash, desperate and failing. He knew it as well as I did. He knew he couldn't win. But he was fighting anyway.
That skinny boy I so scorned loved my little girl like I never had and never would.
He even less than I had been born with the gifts of the hero. He had not the strength or the stamina or the smarts. He had even more excuse to be a coward than I ever had. All he had was that idealistic heart.
And here I stood realizing that he was the hero, while remained I still but a coward.
He didn't stand a chance. At any moment, one of the guards' spears would go through his heart, and he would die there in the same glorious idealism that my fallen comrades of war had.
I heard Mirielle shout his name, in a tone strengthened by desperation, love, and hope. At the sound of her voice, my body moved by itself. I threw myself toward the foolish boy to fight alongside him, and shoved him toward Mirielle. I told him to cut her free and flee.
I was never the strongest or the most skilled, and I knew it. But desperation gives old ones new strength, and a sense of purpose enables men to move mountains.
I had felled nearly half the guards, and was keeping the rest preoccupied as best I could. I saw the boy cut my little girl free and disappear into the panicking mob.
The moment I lost sight of them, I felt a sense of relief, followed by a sharp pain in my stomach. I looked down and saw a spear sticking out my front. In that moment, I knew I was about to die.
In that moment, I remembered all my running, my servitude, my cowardly life. I remembered how many times I was offered the chance of doing something great, but took the easy route and convinced myself little by little that I was not and could never be a hero.
In that moment, as the world swirled around me, I asked myself: is a man a coward for all the times he makes mistakes, or is he a hero for that one time he sacrifices himself to overcome them?
