It had been a long and bloody fight. Not really a battle, which required more than just a hero and villain and the most glorious vista the world could offer. A fight, albeit one between some ultra-highly trained death guards and a bunch of farmers. Put that way, it sounds like a massacre.
But that’s not the point. The point was that it had been long, and it had been bloody. They were losing (the heroes were always losing). And they were waiting, for the saviour they knew had to be coming. Why else would they be there?
So there they were, with their swords and their shields and their bows and their arrows. Fighting until each one’s last breath. That was written down somewhere. Everyone who was anyone knew they had to fight till their last breath. And their spears and their scythes and all their exotic weaponry would not be for nothing. No, they would fight, until their saviour arrived.
‘Give it up’, He said. (He being the Great Enemy, for whom victory would mean Power, over whatever he wanted power over. The world, perhaps. Or maybe some cheesecake).
‘Your commander is dead. You cannot win.’
‘What? Do you believe that he would not be here? He is the Chosen One! He will defeat you!’ said some voice in the crowd. ‘He knows these lands better than anyone. He lived here, but he will not die here.’
As always, this battlefield was the home of the hero. It always was. Either it was his, or it was the castle from which the Enemy reigned. It just came to pass that this time; the battlefields were the meadows and hills of the peasant-hero, who did nothing wrong until he found a golden sword somewhere. Or a shield. Or was it a magic cup, the one from which the God of the Earth had drunk some three millennia ago? It always became blurry after five days of fighting the Great Enemy, without anything except hope. Wait, maybe it was the ring that his betrothed-
No, it didn’t really matter. Some lucky (or depending on how you looked at it, unlucky) individual got stuck with carrying out the will of the Gods (or the mystical Earth-Spirit. Or the supernatural Love/Freedom/Forest ghost-being-thing), and only then would he find out that he was the long lost son of some mystical clan.
So as the Enemy’s forces prepared to rain down their last volley of flaming arrows, blessed by their dark ritual monster-daemon-things, finally, the Hero arrived.
On a white horse.
Wearing a clean shirt. Not to mention a pristine pair of trousers.
With the most immaculate haircut the world had ever seen.
No, he didn’t look like someone who had spent the last four days fighting for some ideal. He looked like he had spent the last four days in a hotel, organising some idiotic band to come and play for his grand finale, because there was no way the soundtrack coming from between the hills just happened to be there.
And as one individual (most surely one of the dumbest metaphors invented by authorkind; how in the world would lots and lots of tired people suddenly decide to coordinate their actions?), the forces of the Good (as opposed to those of the Bad, and most definitely the Ugly, because whoever heard of a beautiful ogre?) rose up, ripped the Hero to pieces, explained to the Villain exactly where He could shove his “Power”, and proceeded to weed every single golden sword, shield, bow, arrow, scimitar and wonky lopsided figurine out of the earth and dump them in the landfill on the other side of the hills and the meadows, and continued with their relatively normal lives.
And every time anyone got engaged, they would be read their statutory rights, and be ordered to spend a night in jail and three in a psychiatric institution, just so that they would understand that no one would tolerate any sort of silly promise making.
i don't really know where that came from, but i do have a vague memory of a dream where i was fighting some battle against some idiot, only for a hero to arrive and steal my thunder. this hero may or may not have looked like patrick dempsey.