#it's a bit speckled with headcanons so i might shove it under that tag too i dont really know if it's like... ic or what

[fellegend]

His feet are endlessly pacing, his heels worn thin, he can feel the rocks that climb into his flesh with every step he takes. The bag he wears upon his back carries  not his belongings, but the very weight that presses against his shoulders, his aching back, the very fear that he will NEVER find them, that he will never find HER, mom, he yearns for you. With every stop, he acts a facade of some SAVIOR some identity that is not himself, for every moment in which he was himself, he was torn and broken, beaten to his bone of stripped of everything he has had. His identity is hollow, so he treads the waters of some facade of a man whom he will never be. 

His fingers are rough, they a numb with callouses for they bear the blade that places itself so righteously within his hand, and some part of him hates it. Some part of him aches to be a man who knows not the way of the sword, but the way of the word. An average fellow who knows no violence, who throws his battles with a certain ease of understanding, and who walks without worry, freed from the troubles which cripple him, lacing themselves about mind’s every corridor, poisoning the youth which he never got to spend and so he ACTS. 

They call him a child, a man so immature, who knows not the ways of appropriate behavior, but he cannot help but to sink into a reality where none of this matters. A reality in which he finds an escape route, an exit sign that flashes with FIRE atop torches that scorch his old home, that burn his city to ashes and sweep the land of its crown. The very fire that breathes from dragon’s tongue, and he cannot help but COWER in fear, for what is he but a dastard in flight of a world he could not conquer, a land he could not save?

Legends are remembered, they tell stories of heroes of lands and word, and this, he strives to be. He could not save them, he could not SAVE THEM, and so he would give his life to offer a moment’s more breath for those however more deserving. This guilt is his alone, unspoken and hidden, just as his heart in fear that he is inadequate, that others deserve a heart which bears much more value than his own, and this is why he is lonely despite the radiance of familiarity that lights his face with a smile, despite those who surround him with their own hardships and mechanisms of unique ways to cope. He would DROWN himself to keep others afloat, and this, here, is why he finds himself wrapped against the flimsiest of blankets, grass blades felt through the shield of the tent, every one crushed beneath him and prodding to penetrate the barrier that divides them-- this is why he cries when all he hears is the low murmur of chirping insects and ribbetting hoppers when they find themselves near still water. This is why the moisture begs for exposure from the emerald in his eyes, taunting him each night, for they know that when the moon comes out, it is their time to ‘SHINE.’

He’s wandered so long, so long, teaching villages the way of his heroics in a manner to perhaps, just maybe, feel the gratification that comes with the PRAISE he never receives, because no one takes him seriously. Truly, truly, he reminds himself, in every event of his comrades’ passings, he tells himself that it is his fault, that perhaps if he were to OPEN UP they may let him in, and yet he cannot. The doors are locked from the outside, and he stands within them, between them, fingers torn and stained with dried, cracked crimson, because he cannot help but tear at them, in hopes that one day, one moment, someone would release him.