I grew up hearing tales of heroes.

I would listen in our living room, my mother quietly knitting in her rocking chair, my father relaxing on his recliner, either having a smoke or petting our sheepdog. While I sat on the hardwood floor, my father would spin me tales of wonder.

"...Sir Dolgrin faced the mighty beast, it's red eyes staring down from on high, roaring to shake the stones themselves, the only light illuminating its' face the flame on the beasts' breath..."

:...Arrayed before the demons' army were a mighty alliance, headed by grim Groffgar Steel-whisker, graceful Imladrian Tree-talker, and the noble Griefild Plain-walker. Facing them on the side of darkness, was the second Dark Lord..."

"...With her final breath, Serimaria, lady of light, blesser of the cursed, healer of the sick, and banisher of evil, raised her hands and uttered one, final spell of ancient power, and though the spell itself has been lost to time, the crater she made has yet to be buried..."

Each day it seemed, a new story would be spun before me. After thirty-two, however, I began to have questions.

"Pa, if the heroes always win in the end, then why do more demons come?"

At this, he would always pat my head and say, "Because, my boy, the world must always be in balance, the dark with the light."

Years passed, and on the day of my coming of age-

-I had a wonderful party. My father got drunk, and mother tut-tutted the whole way home. As we reached the door, my father lost his stomach, and most of the drink. Mother hurried inside to find something to clean it up with, and while she found something I supported my father. While holding him, he turned to me and spoke clearly, even through the drunken haze.

"Son, I have told you of all the greatest men and women to ever walk this realm, but I somehow forgot to mention the greatest son."

I looked down, embarrassed. "Father...you're drunk..."

He threw his head back and laughed, "Hah! I may be a bit tipsy, but drunk is-" here he lost the rest of the drink, and most likely a bit of his insides as well. After wiping his mouth, he continued unperturbed. "Son, I'm not a good father. I have never taught you the things I should've, nor been the role model you would want to strive for. I have been merely human, but you, my son...you make me proud to call myself a father, even if it is an empty title that I have done nothing to earn."

I mumbled a bit, and shuffled my feet. I wasn't used to my father being so forward, nor him being so sincere. "You're exaggerating..."

He staggered a bit, but placed his hand over my heart, and held my chin. "My boy, my pure, perfect son, my pride and joy, my greatest accomplishment, if you can call it mine.

Son, know that whatever you choose in the future, I will always be proud...to call myself your father."

I looked into his deep, murky green eyes, and nodded, shaking his hand firmly. The rest of the night I tended to him, and laughed at his headache in the morning.

But I never forgot his words.

Another year passed, and I grew into my own ambition. My body was strong, my heart soft, my soul pure. It was during winter that I went from my home and became a knightly acolyte. There, I received a shock to my naive young heart.

"Hahaha! Lick it clean, and make sure to say thank you!"

Another acolyte, larger and stronger than the rest of us used his strength and influence with the supervisor to extort and bully those younger and smaller than him. When I first came, he looked me over, and decided that I was too big. Not a threat, but not easily cowed either.

I could've just left him to his fun. Maybe I should've. But when I thought back to what my father said with tears running down his face, "I am proud to call myself your father."

The next time the bully attempted to throw his weight around, I confronted him. We fought, and he gave me a sound beating, but left to nurse his own ego. I helped up myself along with his victim, and felt lighter of heart.

The next time, it was me that they cornered. I was afraid, but when I remembered my fathers' words, I held my chin up and stood with my shoulders squared, and faced them with dignity.

They taunted me, goaded me, but no matter what they said or did, even when they disgraced my fathers name, I refused to let myself rise to their bait. They grew tired of my non-reaction, and gave me a sound beating. When they left, the former victims helped me up, and I felt that maybe it was over.

For six months, the bullies defeated me. Time and time again, we would stand eye-to-eye, and each time they would hurt me. Two months after the abuse started, the previous victims abandoned me. I could have hated them. Should have hated them. But after going through what they had, I would always grit my teeth and square my shoulders.

One day, when I lay bruised and battered after the latest round of senseless violence, the bullies brought in three of the other acolytes. They were of the newer, fresher ones. Their young, freightened faces brought undescribable emotions to my heart, and most of all was...

Relief. I though, "Now that they have someone else, I can be free!"

I almost choked on my own revulsion that the thought had come into my head. I slammed my head against the floor, and examined myself while the fresh acolytes cried out in freight.

Fear. Pain. Relief. Exhaustion. Hatred.

Hatred, not of the bullies, but of myself. I hated this frail, puny body that refused to rise, I abhored this unfaithful heart that gave in to temptation, but most of all, I hated this soul that cried out in cowardice.

With every fiber of my body, I hated myself, and I hated me back.

What was it he said? "My boy, my pure, perfect, son, my pride and joy, my greatest accomplishment." HAH!

I began to laugh at myself. Even in my own mind, the words sounded sarcastic.

This weak, frail, cowardly body, heart, and soul of mine...I would destroy myself, if I could.

But I cannot defile this vessel that my mother and father created and nurtured together.

If I do not stand for the right, who will?

If I don't fight the fight, who shall take my place?

If I let them, can I live and still look my parents in the eye?

I rose, my knees shaking and buckling underneath the weight of this tragic mortal vessel. I lifted my head, and felt something ignite within. All fell silent, and I felt the pressure of a half-dozen eyes on my struggling form. With all the breathe I could muster, I spoke.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

"Leave...them...alone. If you must...destroy something...destroy...me."

Blood trickled down my nose, and I shook even as I panted for air. The fresh acolytes looked toward me with hope in their eyes, a light shining forth from the windows of their souls.

My tormentor looked at me, then laughed. "That's funny! But, it's boring kicking a dead horse that barely fights back, I'm going to partake of some fresh meat!" Saying so, he turned toward the three acolytes and prepared to break them.

He raised his fist, the three helpless in the arms of his lackeys. "Beg for mercy, I might consider beating you within a foot of your life!" His arm began it's descent, then-

His arm stopped, and for a moment, he struggled to extend his arm. Then he felt the iron grip on his bicep, and turned to look into my face. I imagine I looked rather eerie, my face gaunt from months of abuse and dripping with blood.

"I hate myself more than I could ever hate anything else...and if I cannot destroy myself, then I will just have to be satisfied destroying you." I twisted his arm into a lock, then snapped it at the joint of the elbow, then wrenched it back into place, before breaking it again.

He screamed, but I didn't allow myself to feel sympathy. His three cronies had released the acolytes, and prepared to give me a sound beating. Or perhaps more than a beating. I'd never fought back with anything more than a half-hearted punch, after all.

The started gearing up, and as much as I didn't want to, I saw three young men being wasted. I closed my eyes, and strengthened my resolve.

I once beat them, to see what would happen. The next time, they just came back harder. In a fight like this, you either break...

...or spend eternity being broken.

This time, I'm saying no.

The three start to chuckle, assured of victory. They are all a year older than me, each of them being seventeen, and are noticeably larger. I listen to their laughter, and answer it with a snicker of my own.

Their eyes narrow, and I see them getting ready to attack. I give a laugh, and say, "Just because you spent the last half-year not learning, doesn't mean I followed your example."

They rushed forward, and like lightning I stepped toward the leftmost one, and caught his clumsy hook with ease. I then slammed his head upward with an elbow to the chin, holding tight to his arm so that he couldn't escape, the broke the arm I held, and raised it above his head. He screamed as his arms' bones scraped against each other, and his ribs stretched out. I then broke six of them with the same elbow.

I ducked under his arm, twisting it behind his back to elicit more screams, and kneed him in the groin before sending him to bowl over one of his comrades. As the two fall in a tangle of arms and legs, I strike out with a kick to the groin of the only lackey still standing, bending him almost double. I then take his head by the ears, and slam his face into my knee in order to rip off both ears.

Sure, holding the back of his head and kneeing him in the face would have been fatal, but I didn't want to kill them.

I just have to break them.

The third, and last, of the bullies trembled while trying to scamble away. My heart twisted with hate of myself, and pity for all of them, but I thought of the things this boy could do if left alone...

And suddenly, too much seemed like not enough.

I stepped on his stomach, snapping a rib and driving the breath from his lungs at the same time. I then step on his groin, and grab a leg before twisting it into a lock. Pressing his face against the floor, I snap his leg. Then I step on his neck.

This boy...if I stop now, who knows what he will do in the future? It is too much of a risk. As I started to increase the pressure, from behind an arm wraps around my neck. I choke while looking behind me to see my tormentor, recovered from having an arm broken. It now hangs limp by his side, but he continues to strangle me with his good one.

He squeezes my neck between his bicep and forearm, and I gasp. He smells of sweat and tears, while I smell the blood on myself. He's panting in my ear, gasping for air as he chokes the life out of me. In his eyes, I see the same fear, the same relief, and also the hatred. But the hatred is pointed at me.

My breath is rasping in my throat, and the world begins to speed away from me into a dark tunnel. At the end, I see the fresh acolytes standing before me, petrified with fear. I reach out to them, for help, for support, for anything.

Then I realize, their fear is toward me, just as my tormentors' hate is for me. They will not help me, they will just look on while I die.

I somehow manage to gurgle out a laugh, feeling like the situation is almost comedic. Here I am, fighting for a persons sake, and their fear of me outweighs that of the enemy I am battling for them. It's almost funny.

Almost.

My mind hazes, and my vision wavers before my eyes. I reach up to his arm, but he is much bigger. I cannot pull him away, he has too firm of a grip. However, I remember a technique.

With my right hand, I reach up toward the tormentors hand, then grab one of his fingers. Then I snap it. He howls and releases me, long enough to get a breath, before regaining his hold.

By then, it is too late.

I gather my weight below his, grab his elbow with my left and his hand with my right, then take a large step to my left, twisting his arm away from my neck and into yet another lock. He loses his balance, and starts to stumble. I use his own weight to break his other arm, then release him and fall to the ground, gasping for air.

To my right, the three acolytes stand petrified with fear of me. I feel the weight of the strain I'd put upon my body, and the saw the black edges of my vision, knowing that I wouldn't stay conscious long.

I take one last look at the three I'd saved, and smile.

"I think...my father...would be proud."

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LINK TO CHAPTER 2

So, yeah. I thought it was a little mean to post the chapters out of order, but that's the order I wrote them, adn I don't know how to move stuff around, so you can either:

1.Read all of LEL before moving on to the others.

2.Read the writings in chronological order of being written(I mean...if you want...)

3.Stop reading and do something productive instead of giving yourself cancer by reading this.

But, you know, whatever you wanna do. I'll just sit here quietly and judge you...