The Brave

Derrin watched the world burn. Flames consumed houses, bodies clogged the streets, and orphans cried for their mothers. He rested in the mud, covered in soot. He coughed ash to clear his windpipe, waving it away.

Derrin was a coward.

The first time the monsters attacked, he hid in a cupboard. The goblins hunted in packs. He heard the clash of swords as they fought. His companions found him shivering alone after the fight.

The second time he fainted in shock. The Draugrs hunted alone. Seeing protruding bones and smelling rotting flesh was too much for him to handle. His companions found him unconscious among the dead.

The third time he let a friend die. The wraiths did not need to hunt. He could run, but his friend could not as his leg was broken. His companions found him weeping - hugging a corpse.

The dragon approached him. Larger than a farmhouse. Dark scales frayed by battle. Fiery breath that boiled the air. He could not breathe as it crawled towards him, and the ground rumbled.

He felt afraid - as always. He wanted to cry.

Derrin climbed to his feet, one foot at a time. He gripped his sword sheathed in the dirt and pushed himself up. He strode forward, sword in hand. The dragon reared its head - at the ready. He sped up. The dragon roared, certain that he would cower. Derrin lunged inside its mouth and stabbed.

Derrin's sword pierced the dragon's brain, and it bellowed fire. Derrin held tight as the dragon thrashed. Its teeth bit into his flesh and its fire burnt his bones. He cried as he held on. Finally, the dragon stopped moving - and he let go burnt, tattered, bleeding. And so he died, self-loathing leaving him with his lifeblood.

On his gravestone, they inscribed: "Derrin the Brave"