Sword of Famine

Oliver Cross is not the Hero.

He is many things to many different people; to adventurers, he’s the owner of the last supplies shop before they enter the wasteland. To the town’s elders, he’s a helpful young man who looks too much like his father.

To his younger sister, Marianna, Oliver is the only family she has left.

He’s not anything special, really. If Oliver had to sum up his own life in three words or less, the first he would use was ‘uneventful’, followed shortly by ‘exhausting’.

Of course, an uneventful life does not mean a life without it’s trials.

One such trial chooses to make itself known by the ring of his shop’s front bell, the old door’s hinges squeaking ‘ominously’ according to the newbie adventurers that visit from time to time, letting in a gust of cool air and the quiet rumbles of an upcoming storm, signaling to Oliver that his chances of getting any business for the rest of the day are slim to none.

Not that he expected customers today, anyway. He rarely gets business most days. Only the occasional adventurer stumbling in, looking for supplies before marching straight to their dooms. Or, if they’re lucky, into extreme danger that they barely escape, with some lost treasure slung over their shoulders, it’s weight heavy with false promises of a better life.

He’s seen the song and dance a thousand times, and he’ll see it a thousand times more before this broken world finally kills him.

Oliver turns the page of his newest book, not bothering to look up at the door. Familiar footsteps squeak on the old wooden floorboards.

There are very few people stupid enough to begin an expedition in the rain.

Thankfully, the person in front of him is not, in fact, one of those very stupid few, though he may act like it sometimes.

“I swear- I only just got here, and yet you’re already saying mean things about me in your head. Do you not care about me as your future brother in law at all?”

“At least you know, Jean.”

“That’s the part you’re supposed to deny,” Jean grouches, a good-natured smile crossing his face.

“And who are you to teach me how to have a conversation?” Oliver jokes, dryly, “Remind me, which one of us is the older one again?”

“Three months! It’s literally a three month difference! Don’t act like some wizened old man.”

“One of these days you’ll wake up and realize- I’m the normal one, and you’re the immature one.”

“Sure I am,” Jean acknowledges without fighting at all. “But, I’m also not the one reading-“

Jean crowds closer to the shop’s counter, poking the book in Oliver’s hands, he looks at the title and whistles lowly, “-a treatise on weapon maintenance and repairs. What, are you thinking about dipping into blacksmithing too?”

Oliver swats an absent hand at him. Finally looking up from the pages to give Jean a baleful glare. “I have to read the books before I can sell them. It would be irresponsible, otherwise.”

“Suit yourself. I’m sure it has absolutely nothing to do with Old Man Steiber’s complaints about how much harder things have gotten at the forge since his hands started to stiffen up.”

“If that’s what you think, why aren’t you over there offering him help rather than bothering me?”

“Aw, come on, you know you love me Oli.” he whines “What would you do without my daily visits?”

“I thought I told you to stop calling me that.”

“You did, but you were drunk off your ass, and you also threatened to throw me into the creak if I tried to marry your sister.” Jean grins, “I decided to ignore that, seeing as you weren’t in your right mind.”

“I stand by my words. She’s too good for you”

“You’d say that about anyone! The damned Hero himself could waltz into your store with a nation’s worth of wedding gifts, and you’d still turn him down.”

“And I’d be right.” Oliver huffs “She’s too good for this world. And a nation’s worth? There’s no way someone could get that kind of money and still be a good person.”

“Whatever you say, old man.”

“Shut it, you brat.”

Jean chuckles like he heard a good joke, then his face sobers up and he takes a steadying breath. He hesitates. “-Apparently they’re recruiting people in the capital.”

Oliver stares, his gaze a few degrees colder than before, prompting Jean to continue.

“They’re running tests to see if an artificial hero could be made, instead of waiting for the real one to awaken.” Jean’s face is scrunched, like they’re confused, or maybe just tired of it all. “The reward for even just signing up is pretty damn high. I can’t imagine what they’re gonna pay if it works.”

If it works. That’s always the sticking point. It’s not the first time this ‘news’ has reached Oliver. He runs the only general store in town, adventurers are a loud bunch.

“Jean” His voice is sharper than the knife he keeps under the counter, “Why did you come here, just to tell me this?”

Jean looks uncomfortable under the weight of Oliver’s glare. but they continue nonetheless, “I just thought, you know, maybe you’d want to go, too.”

“You’re wasting your time. I have no desire to go and be prodded at, just to be sent home,” Oliver sighs, falling back into his chair “After all, I’m too old to awaken, much less become a hero.”

Without his consent, his voice cracks on the world ‘hero’ and it reveals more than he’d ever say.

“But- being the hero was your biggest dream. when we were younger nobody could stop you from…” his companion stops, maybe from the look on Oliver’s face, maybe because of his own thoughts. Either way Oliver won’t let him continue.

“From what? Nearly killing myself every day, chasing after powers I’d never obtain?”

He looks hurt, Oliver almost regrets saying being so blunt, almost.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” They turn away from him now, a hollow ring taking over their voice. “Nothing stopped you from chasing that dream. You were so focused on making it a reality, it made you happy.”

Jean looks at the door. It’s worn down, dusty. Oliver’s been meaning to oil the hinges for months, but it keeps slipping his mind.

“After Alex-”, Jean chokes, “After the accident, you changed.”

“I woke up.” Oliver turns to look at his shop. The walls covered in shelves he’s too sentimental to change. Various trinkets and supplies adorning them- some collected, some crafted, others purchased from the occasional traveling merchants that visit their little doomed town on the border of the ever-expanding wastelands. “I found a better goal. I’m happier now.”

It almost doesn’t sound like a lie.