Nations of Rothel:

Exia: The nation of Loki, Savior of Mischief. His Mark grants the ability to siphon small amounts of luck from others, though there are clear limits. All potential additional conduits are related to this ability in some manner. Exians are disliked by many due to their oftentimes troublesome nature.

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He was younger than I had imagined.

I’ll admit, I half expected some sort of mustache-twirling villain. Someone who fit the mold of a criminal, someone who would rightly fall under the hammer of righteous justice. Someone who could prove my determination to be different, this time - to be a hero.

This was not that. Far from it, in fact.

I should have known, really. When has life ever been that simple?

The chase itself had been exhilarating in its own way, though not how I had imagined my first outing, growing up. I had dreamed of flying through the skies, as I think most would; I had dreamed of hunting after dastardly robbers - money bags with dollar signs printed on them and all. I had certainly not dreamed that the money bag would be a pouch smaller than my fist, nor that the criminal would be an oversized flying rodent; though, to be fair, that seemed to be the sort of imagery that would be likely to spawn in the world of dreams.

Still, I could adapt.

I could still imagine the villain pulling the strings off in the distance, sending out countless minions to do his dirty work. That had only been reinforced when my crow-self had been led into a trap, however improvised it may have been. Even worse was the sudden, stabbing pain of teeth as they gnawed on the flesh of my wing, all while I helplessly thrashed within the cloying confines of clothes and linens. An unassuming obstacle, to be sure, but it was surprisingly effective against my rather small frame.

Despite the unfortunate savaging of my wing, I had managed to bide the necessary time and stay in the fight long enough to arrive at the scene for a second time - now in my far more dangerous, human, form. At the same time, the close contact of the fight had let me spread a few of the Risen ticks that clung to my crow form. They had originally been intended to allow me to [Swap] and teleport across distances more easily. Fortunately, that same strategy also applied to a certain oblivious thief.

After that, it was a simple matter of allowing the Risen to escape while I took my time to return the stolen coins to their rightful owner. He was profusely thankful, though I may have been even happier than him about the situation. It felt good to do good.

Finally, I had felt a miniscule rush of life as one of my Risen ticks breathed their last. Metaphorically speaking anyway; they certainly had no real need to breathe, just as all but one of my now-many bodies and minions didn’t. Regardless, I knew that it was time to make my move.

I had pulled, activating my Mark’s [Swap] conduit in the direction of one of the waiting Risen. A quarter of the conduit’s associated pool of energy spilled away as I shifted positions.

The world changed.

Bones had cracked under my heavy boots, the success of the transposition making me grin. And, as all nascent heroes were wont to do, I couldn’t resist leading with a quip.

“Sorry I’m late! Had some money to return - you would not believe the things people just leave laying on the street.”

I had looked down, searching for the villain to my hero.

I was disappointed. Like I said, I had expectations to meet.

The youth before me did not fit them.

There was no mustache to be twirled. No monocle to be found. There weren’t even any goons. Was he even a villain?

As if in answer to my sudden inner turmoil, he immediately laid my questions to rest.

“You got the pouch. What do you want? You here to fight me?” The thief was tense, akin to a coiled spring. A hand rested at his side, palming the handle of a dagger strapped to his belt.

I stared into the young thief’s eyes for what felt like an eternity; the world fell away until little was left. Just me, him, a likely sharp piece of metal, and my quickly-dwindling excitement at the scenario. I could see the fear in his eyes, hidden behind the bluster of his words and the threat of his dagger. I could see the absolute unease, his muscles trembling as his system responded to the uncomfortable situation. I could see the - I realized I should probably blink, wiping away the glassy fog that had replaced my vision for a rather embarrassingly long time.

I kept messing that up.

More importantly, I realized something else, staring into those unsettled eyes. The lack of mustache-twirling aside, this was still a chance for heroism - potentially in a far more significant manner than taking down some sort of archetypal criminal.

In my eagerness, I had forgotten.

Sometimes there’s far more to being a hero than fighting a villain. Sometimes it takes a little more work, a little more effort. A little more compassion.

Eternity ended.

I drew in a breath to speak.

“You,” I intoned with a serious expression. That was answered by an even more unnerved look, which I was surprised was even possible, followed by slowly backing away.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

I laughed, stepping in closer and throwing an arm over his shoulder. “Oh, relax. Just want a word with you.”

He did not relax.

“I’m not exactly in an answering mood,” he replied. “Back off, man.”

I felt the cold press of metal against my side. It only took a single disappointed moment to glimpse the dagger now held there. My insides roiled at the sight, a less than negligible part of myself feeling quite discontented. I looked up again. I was unhappy with his decision, but I still decided to warn him.

“Don’t go putting holes in people. You might be upset about what comes out.”

I couldn’t say what exactly convinced him. It might have been my timely warning. It might have been the look in my eyes. It might have been his own morality. It might have been any number of things. Regardless, I saw a spike of hesitation before he placed the blade back in its sheath.

I gave him a beaming smile, radiating approval. He flinched. It might not have come out quite right. I’d have to work on that. That reminded me: I made sure to blink again.

I started to resume speaking, but I had forgotten to breathe first and the words refused to come out. A brief inflation of the lungs later, and we were back in action.

“Great! So, tell me: did you always want to be a thief?” It was a bit of an odd question, I guess, but an important one. I was willing to bet that the answer was no, but it was best to be sure.

My socialization as of late may have been lacking, but the way that he shied and squirmed underneath my arm was beginning to give me the impression that he was feeling uncomfortable. Still, the hard questions in life were always a bit uncomfortable. Letting him run away from them would be doing him a disservice. Finally, he deflated and provided an answer.

“No. Always wanted to be a Savior, I guess. Same as every kid. A few hundred years too late for that one,” he said with an oddly embarrassed look.

I nodded, bobbing my head up and down and up and down in my excitement, turning my vision into a seesaw of glassy fog as it shifted back and forth. I tried for another approving smile. I think I got closer to the mark, that time. He flinched a little less, anyway.

I wasn’t sure why it would ever be too late to be a hero; even more, I didn’t understand why it would be hundreds of years too late. If my situation was any indication, it was never too late. Even I was a hero now, after all. I let out a happy chuckle at the thought.

I made sure to let him know. “Me too, kid, me too. But you know what?” my voice dropped into a confiding tone. “It’s never too late to change. Not in my books.” Sure, he was a thief and had only just a moment ago threatened me with a knife, but I had accidentally murdered hundreds of thousands.

Screams and cries and wonderful, disgusting life - a nervous sob slipped from my many throats.

I recovered - as best as I ever could, at least. What was I going on about?

Oh, right. Sticks and stones and glass houses; something like that, anyway.

My captive audience was less excited about this revelation than I had hoped. “Where are you going with this?” he hesitantly demanded, face far more pale than the situation seemed to warrant. Maybe he was anemic?

I decided to try a different tack.

“Say, what do you think it means to be a hero?”

He didn’t reply this time, but that was okay. I had spent a lot of time over the years thinking about those very words. I had enough to say on the topic for the both of us. The words spilled out in a torrent - hopefully coming out more impassioned than they did manic. I had my doubts.

“You see, when I was younger, I used to imagine it was all about fighting - against criminals, monsters, evil. I wasn’t wrong. In a way, it is all of that. But more importantly, I’ve come to understand there is something more to fight - despair itself. Despair that convinces us that others’ suffering is worth little in the face of our own. Despair that leads people to allow evil to happen, that leads people to give up hope. Despair that tells us there is no way out of the darkness. That we’ve passed the point of no return.”

I had felt that same despair when I was lost in the throes of Mel’s death. I had felt that same hopelessness in the years that followed, as the lights of Ancelas turned to darkness in my wake; as I walked further into villainy than possibly anyone else, intentionally or not.

“In my experience, people rarely become villains all at once. For most, it’s a gradual ordeal. They make a small choice; it doesn’t seem so bad. They make another; it wasn’t much worse. So they make one more, and then another. Until, one day, they find themselves doing something terrible - and why not? It was only a little worse than what they had done before. Yet, even so, they can't see the way back.”

For most, but not me. I fell right into the deep end of it. Still, the words needed to be said.

“I think the opposite holds true as well. We rarely become heroes by dint of a single moment. Stories might tell of a young boy who ran into a fire to save his siblings, but they forget the moments that shaped that decision; They forget the moments when he helped them when they fell. They forget the moments when he gave of himself in oh-so-many little choices. They forget the moments that paved the way - until he finally did something only a little braver, a little more heroic, than what he might have done before.”

I felt strange, speaking those words. It might have been the surreality of it all; of me, the hated Reaper, finally able to convey the ideas that I had clung desperately to for so long - of the path that I had hoped would one day open for me. It may have just been the act of speaking so much in general that was strange, though.

“In the end, being a hero means being an example. It means showing the world that despair speaks in falsehoods. That there is always a way out, a road back. Maybe not all of us are entirely redeemable. Regardless, they show us that we can all do better, day by day - until, one day, we find ourselves making a choice a little better than we might have made yesterday.”

I spoke to myself just as much as I did my audience, realizing only now that I had still been hesitant to believe that I really could find the road back. Maybe I couldn’t. I could still do better. I could still try. I would try.

“I know you will,” a familiar voice assured me.

I smiled at that, clearing the white fog that had replaced the world with a few careful blinks.

I looked at the young thief, his expression caught in the awkward ground somewhere between extreme unease and tentative hope.

Breaking the silence, I continued gently. “I guess what I'm trying to say is: I’d like to give you that chance.”

The youth nearly slumped in relaxation at those words, all but radiating confused relief.

My smile faded. “Or...I can turn you in. Your choice, of course.”