His newfound daughter never replied to any of his letters. Not when he sent them by the dozens. Not when he misused his still unstripped station to find where exactly they should be sent. Not when he asked others to inquire on his behalf. For months he tried, desperately. Over and over and over without so much as an acknowledgment of his efforts.

When Cirila finally gave him a response of sorts six months after their encounter, she did so in much the same way her mother had. Even the casket was also closed, as was often the case with victims to the War.

The funeral had been the last day Ciril could remember walking on his own two feet. Afterwards, he lied down and his body refused to stand again. The nurse would come to check on him more and more often as his health worsened, until eventually she stayed at the church all day long, becoming one of the last people he talked to. The younger priests, for all Ciril had helped raise most of them, scarcely visited their dying bishop anymore.

She often asked him about his past. About stories of the past. Ciril was as old as the girl’s late parents and they formed a connection of sorts. Desperate for company, he never refuted her curiosity.

One day a topic came to the ring, framed and pinned to the wall just so that Ciril could look at it with a slight tilt of his head.

“I had asked for it to be brought here from the funeral house uphill,” Ciril explained. “It is important to me.”

“Why is that?”

“It is a genuine relic,” Ciril smiled fondly, glancing at the ring. “It had once belonged to Bartholomew the Radiant! Sounds familiar?”

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Cannot say I have heard of them,” his nurse shook her head.

“He was the Hero of the 12th wall,” Ciril explained. “Buried here when I was just a young acolyte. Seeing that ceremony had changed the course of my life.”

“A hero, huh,” she raised her eyebrow doubtfully.

“There was a time when any soldier knew that name,” Ciril rolled his eyes. “So, what Heroes do the young keep to nowadays? I cannot say I have kept up.”

“What a silly question,” she chuckled.

“What could possibly be silly about it?” Ciril was confused.

“I don’t think we can really afford fairy tales in this day and age, is all,” she shrugged. “I haven’t heard anyone speaking of ‘heroes’ since I was a child.”

“That cannot be right,” Ciril paused. It couldn’t be. “Heroes are important. It is them who have held up the walls as long as they had stood.”

“I suppose,” she said, slowly. Disagreeing but unwilling to argue. Thinking the whole line of conversation was silly.

Ciril was quiet after that, thinking. For all he had grown old and pained, he had always been inclined for deeper thoughts. He had just forgotten it when drowning. That day he remembered and realized what he had missed.

How could the young not believe in Heroes? The great men and women who held the War’s front, tooth and nail. Who carried the very weight of the walls on their back. No, it could not be. Ciril refused to accept it. Not just because of one account. It couldn’t be. And se he snapped.

He dragged his battered body downstairs despite every protest and ache. There he grabbed every young enough person he could see and demanded an answer to a question. Soldiers, acolytes, merchants, laborers. Whoever he could find at the church. First he spoke hopefully, certain his conclusion had to have been wrong. Then with desperation, praying to the Three that this was some terrible coincidence.

By the time his body collapsed from the strain - beyond the ability of willpower to overcome - the conclusion was beyond denial. Not a single one believed anymore.

And without hope, what did they have left?