Reluctant Hero
What you see in the mirror is only your truth. Theirs is the truth that endures.
Written for Promtpt #8 of the One Month, Many Lives challenge. For more information on the One Month, Many Lives challenge, visit Ever Expanding Narratives.
The shears lay on the washstand beside the razor and the tin of scalp polish, arranged in their usual order. Long fingers rested lightly on their handle. Dellan studied himself in the mirror—hair well past his shoulders, thick waves, honey-dark, still lustrous despite the years. The hair had always been at the center of his vanity—then, now, always.
There was no joy in his eyes as he lifted the scissors.
The first lock slid away in a soft spiral, landing in the basin without a sound. The moment it left him, the memory returned—
The Chittering Host hit the Western Wall of Fillbridge without warning—boiling over the river ramparts in a living tide of chitin, teeth, and red eyes that burned like embers. To Dellan, his presence on that stage was mere misfortune—an unscripted entrance in the long, unremarkable play of his life, brought on by a trick of fate and poor timing. The meeting with his agent had soured in an instant, replaced by the sound of screams cutting through a black, shifting wall of smoke where men battled the horde and mothers clutched their children, fleeing toward the Eastern Gate.
His agent, a thin, mealy man of little physical stature, seized him by the sleeve. “We’ve got to get to the wall!”
“Why yes… of course. About the audition—”
The man cut him off. “We’ll worry about the audition if you’re not torn to shreds by a chittin!”
Dellan gulped. How far was it to the Eastern Gate?
When the man tossed him a spear, Dellan could only stare—unsure which end was meant for the enemy. But like any aspiring actor, he told himself it was only a prop, and he had been handed a part to play. Perhaps this was the role he’d been born for—though every fibre of him prayed it wasn’t.
He squared his shoulders—until a snickering chittin loomed before him, mandibles clicking in wicked amusement. The sound stripped the stage from under him, and he saw the truth as clearly as if the mirror had shown it: he should never have been cast as the hero, though the part would follow him for the rest of his life.
Snip. Another curl tumbled into the basin.
The shears clicked softly in the quiet room, their sound far gentler than the clatter of spear against cobblestone as he had backed away from the chittin. Its laughter—if the dry rattle of its mandibles could be called that—still haunted him through the haze of smoke.
To his left, a voice called out for the Reliquary of Saint Ovrun—a blessed glass phial holding the goddess’s light. They claimed its power could sweep the entire Host from the walls in one devastating wave.
“It’s stored at the Eastern Gate!” came the reply.
Oh, you fools. Why wouldn’t you store it at the Western Gate, where it would actually be useful?
Then another thought struck him. The Eastern Gate offered a straight road out of Fillbridge—he could escape, quickly and quietly.
He stepped forward before anyone else could volunteer, spear held casually like a walking stick. “I’ll fetch it.”
Snip. Another curl joined the growing pile in the basin, dark against the porcelain.
The road to the Eastern Gate stretched clear before him. A few stragglers hurried past in the opposite direction—faces pale, eyes fixed on the smoke boiling above the rooftops. Dellan kept his gaze straight ahead, tapping the butt of the spear against the cobblestones like a parade master keeping time.
The chapel crouched in the base of the gate, its windows clouded with age, its heavy door banded in iron and sealed tight as a tomb. He tried the handle—once, twice—then leaned in with his shoulder. Solid.
He stepped back, already rehearsing the shape of his apology, when bootsteps rang sharp on the stones behind him.
A man about his age rounded the corner—bare-headed, scalp freckled with blood and grime. In one hand, a bloody shortsword; in the other, the chapel key.
“You—help me!” the man barked, already closing the distance.
The lock turned with a grinding reluctance. The man shoved the door wide and strode inside without looking back.
Dellan followed, scanning for a shadow deep enough to vanish into. Instead, his gaze snagged on the stand in the chapel’s center.
The Reliquary of Saint Ovrun rested there—a delicate glass phial shaped like a tear, its liquid catching what little light seeped through the narrow windows, shifting through colors like a trapped dawn.
The man’s hands were steady despite the blood running down his wrist as he lifted it. “Come on!” he said, thrusting the reliquary toward Dellan.
Snip. Another lock fell into the basin.
It was heavier than it looked, warm against his palms. Dellan held it as one might cradle a newborn—awkward, uncertain, and painfully aware of how easily it could shatter.
The man led them through the streets, shortsword ready, weaving between shuttered shops and abandoned carts. Dellan trailed close, glancing over his shoulder every few steps as the Eastern Gate—and the sweet promise of safety—faded into the smoke.
“We’re almost there!” the man called.
“Why does he say that like it’s good news?” Dellan muttered, clutching the reliquary tighter.
Then the chittins struck—fast, skittering shapes spilling from a shadowed lane. The man met them head-on, his blade slicing through them with ruthless precision. One lunged low; he crushed it under his boot without breaking stride, swinging cleanly into the next.
From behind the safety of a half-splintered crate, Dellan peeked as the man battled. Perhaps they’d make it after all.
Then the street buckled under the weight of a chittin the size of a horse. It slammed into the man, knocking him flat. Mandibles split wide—one bite, and the man was in two pieces.
The creature’s gaze snapped toward him, eyes glinting.
The open road to the Eastern Gate was gone. He ran—not toward safety, but toward the only gap left: the Western Wall.
Snip. The last lock fell into the basin.
Dellan set the shears aside and picked up the razor. He turned it in his hand, feeling its weight, the straight narrow edge catching the morning light—a precise tool, made for clean cuts, not the hacking chaos of battle.
It reminded him of the man’s shortsword: quick, sharp, unhesitating. In the right hands, either could be decisive. In his own… well, the razor had never failed its purpose.
He touched the blade to his temple and drew it back in a smooth, deliberate line. The rasp of steel against skin echoed in the still room. Another stroke. The mirror revealed nothing but the bare scalp emerging, inch by inch.
The man’s face appeared in his mind again—set, focused, eyes fixed forward as if nothing existed but the next strike. The razor in his hand transformed into the weight of the reliquary, warm against his chest. The trickle of lather became the holy fire’s heat on his skin. Voices rose, calling champion.
He shaved the last line clean, rinsed the blade—
—and suddenly the shouts became real, pulling him into the crush at the barricade. Defenders strained against the gate, their faces streaked with soot and blood. Someone spotted the reliquary and yanked him forward, wrenching it from his grip.
“Saint Ovrun’s tear!” a voice cried, and bodies surged toward the threshold. The phial smashed, and light erupted—a wave of holy fire roaring down the street, sweeping the chittins into smoke and ash.
The heat seared his face. Then came silence—a silence so complete it rang in his ears.
He set the razor beside the shears, the basin now filled with dark coils. Only the tin of polish remained.
Dellan unscrewed the lid and, as always, inhaled the faint, clean scent. He scooped a small measure onto his fingertips, rubbed his palms together until the balm warmed, then smoothed it gently over the bare curve of his scalp.
The mirror reflected what it had for years: light glinting on his skin, the ceremonial robe folded neatly on the chair behind him. In an hour, the Founders’ Day procession would begin, and the herald would proclaim him Champion of Fillbridge. Then would come the handshakes, the toasts, the familiar weight of children hoisted to his shoulders for the crowd’s delight.
He would smile for them all. He always did.
But no one in the square would know about the man with the key, the shortsword, and the steady hands. No one would know how close Dellan had come to fleeing—or how the reliquary had reached the gate despite him.
He leaned toward the glass, and the reflection shifted. Judge Dellan vanished. In his place stood the soldier—smoke-streaked, jaw set, eyes like hammered iron.
“They cheer me,” Dellan murmured. “But today I am you. My name is carved in stone, and today, that is your name.”
The man’s voice came as if across a battlefield—calm, clipped, the way soldiers speak when there’s no time for poetry.
You still don’t get it, do you?
“Get what? That I only ever wanted to run?”
That you didn’t.
“I went to the Eastern Gate to escape, not to save anyone.”
And yet you carried the reliquary.
“Because you handed it to me.”
And you held it tight when the world fell apart. I’ve seen stronger men drop their weapons over a broken strap.
“Only to save myself.”
You put it into the right hands.
“Because I was terrified of dying.”
Terrified men make foolish choices. You didn’t. You saved lives.
“That doesn’t make me you.”
It makes you a hero in your own right—scared witless, sweating through your shirt, but still moving forward. Fear just means we have something worth losing.
“I was afraid every step.”
Every hero is. The only ones who aren’t are too stupid to know they’re already dead.
Dellan looked away, the words hitting home but refusing to settle. “Then why does it still feel like a lie?”
Because you keep picturing someone else—me. But they don’t. They see you. And they need you.
“They need you, not me.”
Then be me. Wear the robe. Stand where I would stand. Let them believe. But know this—you aren’t playing the role. You are the hero.
The soldier in the glass gave the barest nod, the kind that dismisses a subordinate, and stepped back into the silvered depths.
Only Judge Dellan remained, the quiet room closing around him like a shroud.
He reached for the robe, settled it over his shoulders, smoothed the sash with practiced hands. The doubt lingered where it always did—present, but never quite strong enough to stop him.
He squared his shoulders, drew a deep breath, and stepped into the light.
I enjoyed that. The shifting between past and present worked really well