"Henry Greymight!"

Henry was called by name, and by their prompting, he stood up. The priests had gestured for him to come close, and he complied. They led him up the steps up the platform, standing upon the rough powder of the platform. They were warm. Although his feet were covered with his shoes, he still felt as though the grains of the powder were cutting into his feet. He turned his eyes to the gods on the podium. Their eyes twinkled with great expectations.

The ritual would soon commence. The priests were now circling the platform. Their voices filled the temple with divine chanting. The powder that now lay upon his feet had now began glowing orange in the magic. They glowed like embers, yet Henry couldn't feel any heat emanating from the grains. Even after the powder had burst into flames, he was yet to feel any burning from the powder liberally thrown upon the platform.

The fires were now beginning. He was going to become a new man, a new heroic man. The warmth the blaze exudes was bringing back memories that would soon be lost. He closed his eyes and cherished these memories for the last time.

~^*^=8=^*^~

Henry violently opened his eyes. He was laying prone on the dirt, looking up to the sky. It was a beautiful sky of the most beautiful turquoise. Even in the brightness of the illusory sun, he could see the glittering specks of the constellations fill the tapestry of the heavens. It was the familiar night sky that he could see decorated above his head every night. He could point up into the nightly map and name the constellations therein. They twinkled whenever he got their names right.

"Caw!"

He was taken out of his stargazing by the call of a familiar crow. He looked to the sides and saw that he was surrounded by a field of corn. Their stalks stood tall around him, standing taller than himself. These green stalks stood around him like a proud wall of tourmaline. Growing upon their sides were the yet unripe cobs of corn. He could recognize this place. This was in the middle of his father's field.

"Caw!"

The bird called again, and his eyes turned to a scarecrow he hadn't realized was standing near. It was a straw dummy tied to a wooden pole, employed to watch the fields eternal. A flannel shirt covered its body, and attached to its shoulders was a head sewn to be like a bear's. This was Good Sir Bear, the ever-watcher of the fields. Its black button eyes were filled with glee to see him again.

Perched upon its shoulders was the friendly crow. It trained its glowing green eyes upon the boy. It looked at him expectantly, and he returned a smile at it.

The bird took off from its perch and began flying into the distance. Henry ran towards it, racing it to the destination. The cornstalks that lined their path blurred as they ran swiftly through the fields. The air was cool and welcoming as they passed through. As they went, their destination appeared above the stalks, at least its roof did. It was a two-storey quaint home. Built out of wooden boards and logs, and smoke was filtering out through its brick hearth and chimney.

This was his home. This was the house his father had built. This was where his mother and father had lived and wed, and the place where they bore their first child. This was an important memory to him that it lay in the middle of all his dreams, the foundations of his hopes and ambitions.

He turned to see all that was before entering the heart of his dreams. The corn fields of his father stretched across his vision. Yond the horizon of corn lay the village. Pillars of white smoke rose from their chimneys, indicating the life that dwelled in that place. Farther lay a forest of pines and firs where he once got himself lost in the night. That event had filled him with fright, but his father had come to find him. It was an experience that had marked itself deep into his soul.

He gently pushed the door open, and therein he saw his father sit upon their dinner table. The house was warm with the light of the fire. The warm golden firelight filled the room with pleasant heat. His father's tools of trade (a spade, hoe, and spear) were kept safe and clean in the tool rack. The cuckoo clock that hung upon the wall listlessly counted the passing seconds.

His father, Renard Greymight, sat upon his usual seat on one of the three chairs set with the dinner table. He was wearing his iconic wolf hat that grinned as he continued to read what was on his hand. His eyes were watery as he read the passages of his most recent letter. A puddle of tears had formed on the table. He cried every time he received a letter. He had missed his son dearly, not seeing him for over a year.

Renard turned his head to his son who stood under their doorframe. He dropped the letter in his hand and stood from his seat. He splayed his arms open to welcome his visiting son. He had missed him dearly, and so had his son. Henry ran to accept his father's invitation. His father closed his arms embraced his approaching child. He lifted him in the air and twirled him in his arms like a piece of earthenware.

"I missed you," Renard told his son.

"I missed you too," Henry replied in turn. "How are you?"

Renard laughed. "I'm completely fine, Henry. It should be me asking that to you."

"I'm fine dad. You got my early letter, right?"

"Yes, I did, but I only got it now. I'm yet to read it fully to the end." Renard set down his son on the floor. He wiped his child's clothes with a towel. He was quite happy to see his son in such a state. Although he was wearing chainmail in their house, it was quite a joy for his to see the smiling face of his son in the fox hat.

"Oh. Well, I sent it earlier so that I could send it before the rituals happened. I felt it was important for you to know about it," Henry answered.

"What kind of ritual?" Renard was a bit curious.

"They said that it would turn us into heroes."

"Aren't you a hero enough? Why would they need to conduct a ritual? You saved nine villages and three towns. That's more than what I've saved," Renard remarked. He flexed his biceps to demonstrate his relative might.

"Well, I think the ritual wasn't for saving villages or something. They said it was for burning away our mortal life and only leaving behind our heroic legend."

"What?" Something hard hit Renard as he heard those words. He had paled at those foreboding phrases. He paled so thoroughly that the hairs of his wolf hat greyed too.

"Yeah, I didn't understand it one bit," Henry remarked as though the things he spoke of matched his father's thoughts.

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Renard looked out the window and watched for anything that was amiss. There definitely was. The horizon was ablaze. Red and orange fire danced in the distance, approaching towards their central location like an advancing doomwall. The village, the forest, the fields: they smoked and they smoldered. Good Sir Bear stood at the edge of the fields, looking at their house with a frown stitched upon its cloth-sack head. Terror filled its button eyes.

He turned to Henry and saw that he too was smoking like all else that was in this dream. His armor glowed red with the heat, and the hairs of his fox head warped. He wanted to cry. This wretched ritual. What was it doing to his beloved son?

"My son, what are they doing to you?" He asked as he knelt to his burning son. He hugged him dearly. The metal on his skin burned him, but it was no reason for him to let his child go.

Henry looked into his hands and saw that it was burning. The world around them ignited. Fires consumed their surroundings. Their home was caught in a storm of flames. The curtains, the pillars, the chairs, their dear dining table was set ablaze. Tongues of flames tugged at his back, taking him away, scrubbing his whole inner world. He was being pulled into the wall of flames, away from the embrace of his father.

He looked into his father -- now obscured by a raging blaze. His eyes were teary as he saw the world as he knew it rendered to ash. "Dad, help me," his throat could barely whisper. He stretched out his arms to hold on to his father, but the flames had pulled him too far.

He felt a strong hand hold his hand. It pulled him hard from the flames. It was an unfamiliar man that wore a familiar face. It was a stout man in a thick dark parka. Slung upon his back was a golden barbed harpoon. Most striking was the wolf head that's set upon his shoulders. This unfamiliar person wore his father's face, and being close to this man put him at ease. He could feel exuding the same welcoming warmth and coolth as his father did.

"Stay with me, Henry," the man spoke. It was his father's voice. He had pulled his close and slung him carefully onto his back.

His father began running through the burning fields. He slashed any flames that dared come near his precious child. The air was fragrant from all the corn that's burning. It could even be smelt over all smoke that's filling his world.

Henry felt so weak and helpless. His father's presence gave him strength and courage, but this time, the power his father gave was not enough to stave off the burning weakness coursing through his spirit.

He looked onto his burning world. The doomwall of flame engulfed all he could see. It ate all that was his dream, leaving naught, not even ash. He could in their passing the burning stalks of his father's well-cared crops. He could see in their passing, the horrified face of the burning scarecrow. He felt like crying, but his tear ducts were dry of tears.

"Don't worry, Henry. I will save you," Renard assured his ailing son. He was just in as much pain as him. Many burns had etched themselves onto his form wherever the flames had touched him. His harpoon whistled in the speed of his strikes, splitting the flames around till they dissipate.

Henry was dropping in and out of consciousness. He could only witness a fraction of the mayhem his father was pulling him through. He found himself in a town, surrounded by bandits. Henry had a sword in his hand, but the bandits hadn't fallen by his hand. This wasn't how the real event had transpired. The memory was clear in his mind that the bandits that now lay dead upon the cobbles were killed by sword, not spear.

Fire was consuming his memories. It dared not to touch only the stars. Even when the world around him was unraveling at the seams, unraveled by fingers formed from flames, he could look into the skies above and be confident of the constellations stitched upon its celestial blues. The fingers reached for the stars above, but they couldn't stretch far enough to undo the stitches.

He eventually fell into unconsciousness before finding himself in another scene. These were familiar scenes, scenes that he had participated in, scenes where he would have died with the weakness that permeated his current form were it not for the appearance of his father. The scenes varied from those that occur in well-paved streets and in the temple's training grounds to those in bare dirt paths and forest clearings. One villain had almost gotten him were it not for his father's spear whirling to crush his skull.

"Stay with me, Henry," his father's voice had become faint. "Please, we're near. You're saved,"

Henry couldn't muster the strength to answer. He felt completely spent. His bones felt heavy, the fibers holding them together no longer enough to move them.

"Look, Uncle Larry and Papa Renard are right by you. We could save you."

He turned his head to his uncle and godfather, Larry of the Clock Tower. The cuckoo clock hung onto one of the burning trees. The varnished wood of the clock's casing resisted the burning of the forest around them. Its pendulum swung with regularity, prompting the second hand to move with each swing. The minute hand passed the twelfth mark, and a chime welcomed the new hour. The door to the clock's chalet opened, letting whatever creature that resided within to exit. A mechanical bird with a dragon's head emerged from the clock. It had eyes of tourmaline that looked at Henry's pitiful state.

"Save him, Larry," Renard begged. "He's dying."

Larry examined Henry's body closely. It devised a plan. It conjured two spools of glowing ribbons. They were transparent with numbers stitched into them. It tied the ailing body of the child, securing it safely.

It gave one of the spools to Renard. It held the other. It opened its wings wide, ready to fly.

"Pull, Renard," Larry told.

~^*^=8=^*^~

"Ahhhhhh!"

Screams reverberated in the temple walls. The priests were attempting to salvage the situation but the flames didn't obey their commands. The body of the boy engulfed in flame writhed behind the veil of fire. Others wanted to jump into the fire to save their dear friend, but the guards stopped them.

Hiernos was scanning his tomes for anything that could be used in the emergency at hand, but he couldn't find anything of use. Eorphin threw ropes of light to pull out the child, but the flames had held him tightly. Henry Greymight couldn't be pulled from the cleansing fire. There was nothing Nimessa could do to keep Henry from burning any further.

The flames were consuming more than his mortal legend. The flames were burning away his formal definition. His flesh sloughed from his bones, dripping unto the platform like raw ground meat, and even that was being burned by the very flames. This wasn't supposed to happen. This was wrong.

The screams were being silenced by the roar of flames. After all had been eaten, the flames had quickly died. Whereupon a child, a heroic individual had once stood, only a pile of ash had been left behind. The newly baptised heroes of the temple put their hands over their hearts as they mourned the loss of one of them, someone who had been close to many of them.

~^*^=8=^*^~

Angar Broodlor carried the remains of their friend Henry. It was a very sad day. The rituals had to be stopped for three days to make sure whatever happened to him doesn't happen again. Nobody was quite sure what happened, not even Hiernos, a literal god of knowledge could figure it out. The feast afterwards was quite mournful with the loss. Angar made sure to drink more than a bottle for their friend's sake.

Now they were out here, in the middle of the night, carrying the urn which contained the ashes of their friend. His name, Henry Greymight, was etched upon the ceramic. He was not alone in the delivery. Their friends, Jeema Graves, Aspen Evrin, and Gory Jupp, had been assigned to bring the bad news to his progenitor, Renard Greymight.

Renard Greymight was a simple farmer. He grew corn in the outskirts of Feldbach. He had lived in his lonesome in the past year or two after their son had been chosen by the temple to become a hero. He was rather supportive, but he was forbidden from visiting his son on the temple.

There, they stood upon the doorsteps of the old home of their friend. It was a quaint little home, made of wooden boards and logs, and stood a modest two storeys. They knocked upon the door of the house, and almost immediately, their call had been answered. The door had opened swiftly, revealing the man who lived in this house. He was a lithe man with a bushy beard, wearing a flannel shirt.

"Good evening, Mr. Greymight," Jeema prompted. She bowed with her address.

"Ah, good evening. What brings you today on my doorsteps?" Renard replied politely. He didn't bow.

"We come tonight as harbingers of unfortunate news," Aspen spoke. She then gestures to the item in Angar's arms. "Your son, Henry, has died."

Renard's eyes widened at those words. He stiffened, his heart skipped a beat, as his entire world had cracked. He looked upon the urn in Angar's hand with hesitation, within which the remains of his only son was stored.

He beheld the urn. "How... how did this happen?" Renard could barely ask.

They didn't know how to explain what happened to him. "There was an accident. There was a fire and he fell into it," Aspen explained. She thought that those words would sting the least.

"Thank you," Renard said quietly. "Thank you for bringing my son to me."