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The title of ‘ Warrior of Light ’ did not suit him.

A boy playing dress-up, wearing clothes too large for his small frame, armour slipping to fall in a clutter of metal and resounding disappointment. A warrior he was not, built for no other purpose but to lose himself in inked pages, parchment and dust-consumed maps of ancient days long since passed claiming his heart beyond that of sword and shield. A scholar… yes, that was what he was. But what use was a scholar in times such as these? Darkness, creeping into every safe haven, every place that still shed light on shadows and evil creatures that were best kept within stories before bedtime; the world was on the brink of destruction and ruin, and by decree of prophecy he was to be one of the fated warriors to return light to a world that would soon be devoid of any such thing.

Arc, quiet timid Arc who hid behind heavy tomes, who stood and said nothing as children used words as weapons against him; a pitiful coward, a burden. He, of all people, was to be a Warrior of Light, a saviour, a hero? He would have laughed if not for the sheer terror he felt at being given such a responsibility. It was a title of golden glory and legend, of royal banners and songs praising bravery and courage, of heroes vanquishing what crept in shadowed corners and standing amid destruction without fear; a warrior he was not, a warrior of light he was even less. And yet that title befell him, sat astride his name and everything that constituted ‘ who he was ’, a heavy crown too large and too noble for the quiet boy from a village no-one had even heard of. If he alone had born that title, had borne the mantle of past glory everlasting, it would have been unbearable. Eyes, hundreds of eyes all focused on him - no, not him, simply that which had come before; a remnant of an age long since crumbled into dust, a shadow of the person he should have been - unable to hide or pretend, silent and trembling when within him he endlessly cried don’t look at me don’t look at me don’t look -

But he was spared this fate, the mirror by which all his worst fears were reflected back at him tenfold, a hundredfold, an endless spiral of self-doubt and cowardice. There were others, stood by his side as the world turned to them and watched, saying without words you must save us or the world shall fall. Four children - for they were little more than that, even if they had to act as adults, even if the world demanded more of them than they could give - destined to return light to darkened shores, and he was one of them. When he stood before the Wind Crystal, body still trembling from battle - from the knowledge that this would be the start of many - he looked upon his companions and, despite feeling the same blessed light upon him, despite feeling the exact same power given to him, felt leagues apart from all of them. They deserved their titles, befitted the role given to them, bore sword and shield and armour and matched the shadow of the past - but they were still children, still young and inexperienced and forced into war and bloodshed, they were still children - and Arc could do little else but hide in their shadows, hoping that he would go unnoticed and he hated it.

It was something he should have become accustomed to by now. He had been hiding in Luneth’s shadow since the day he could walk, clinging to shirt sleeves and tucking himself away, out of sight and out of mind, protected by the bright defiance of a boy who knew forest and mountain and river as well as he knew himself. Luneth was shaped by flowing water and sharp rocky edges and endless cerulean skies, the calm northern winds that tasted of fresh snow and treasures long since forgotten, fading from living memory until he found it. Faraway lands bid him to walk far from home and belong to nothing else but himself and the eternal winds of the world that called to him; that was ‘ who he was ’, a free-spirit, an embodiment of courage. It was not the bravery of heroes, standing before the very personification of fear and remembering that your sword had tasted more bitter blood than this, that your shield had protected you from more terrible creatures, that your armour had emblazoned the glory of your forefathers upon you; no, it was not that kind of bravery. It was the courage of what was steadfast, the courage of earth and stone and water to withstand the endless stretch of time and state I shall not bend my will to you. A stubborn tenacity to remain unchanged in the face of what could irrevocably break you; that was the bravery Luneth carried with him.

And so, even if the kid from a village no-one had ever heard of - who had spent every waking moment bickering with goblins over ancient worthless treasure and getting himself stuck in trees and nearly breaking his neck too many times for Arc’s liking - stood before the court of kings and stated he would save this world with all the tactless brashness that his friends had come to love and hate in equal measure, it would fit perfectly. And despite all his jealousy and self-doubt he could not remember feeling more proud of his childhood friend than watching Luneth walk in the shadow of past glory and face it with all the bravery and courage Arc admired him for.

Walking in Luneth’s shadow had always been hard, even if it was a shadow scarcely there, too much a part of the wider world to remain in his company - though he had always been there when it counted, always; interlaced fingers and quiet resounding promises that lit up the darkness, his guiding light - but walking in the shadow of the other two children sharing the same burdensome fate as his own was far far harder, or so he had come to expect.

They had been but strangers to him, despite having been aboard the same ship that had bestowed this destiny upon all of them, unbeknownst to them all. Refia had arrived first, all sharp edges and sharper eyes, hardened by molten steel and flickering embers, calloused fingers that knew fire and metal better than another’s hand. She was stubborn in a way that Luneth was not; whereas Luneth faced whatever stood in his way, steadfast and absolutely determined to remain as he was, refusing to budge but a single inch, Refia ran. She saw future toil and pain and indecision and ran, stubborn in the belief that none of this would work. She had been the first person to make Arc realise that there were parts of him in others, quiet reflections of his own doubt; it was trembling by firesides, grasping at shaking limbs when she thought no-one could see, wondering if running away would solve anything, gripped by indecision and fear that no pride from the person who mattered most to her would be found in the craft she so desperately believed she could not do, could not love. It was her ability to retain a gentle heart, to show soft affection despite all her hardened edges and proving to herself that the path laid out untrodden before her was something she would have to walk, no matter how hard it became to do so, that made Arc admire her so. And the further they travelled the more he saw old glory and legend flickering in Refia’s eyes, hair alight with fire under the golden light of the sun like the hearths of home, the flames that had given her strength and taught her that you did not have to be unyielding to be strong; there was much strength to be had in adapting, being ever changing depending on what was needed.

And then there was Ingus. If any of them befitted the title of ‘ warrior ’ it was him, and Arc couldn’t bring himself to disagree when it was stated that his sword was worth far more than that of himself and his childhood friend combined. Luneth, of course, was immediately at odds with the reserved perceptive boy that had become their new companion. They bickered and argued and threatened to split limb-from-limb more times than Arc could count - and he had tried, rather admirably, before Refia told him that it was pointless to do so - and it was with curious thought that he watched all of this - with a touch of fear because Luneth no, Viking axes should not be used on friends - wondering exactly why the two of them were so at odds with each other. And he realised, rather quickly, that it had very little to do with background and status, and far more to do with their natures, who they were as people.

Luneth was steadfast stubbornness, weathered by time and rain but still there, still him, refusing to change at the bidding of another. Ingus was steadfast too, in his own way; he was a source of seemingly never-ending determination, he grounded them when things fell apart, when battle and war became too much for three young and inexperienced children, forced to become so much more than they were, so much more than they should have ever been forced to be. Luneth was the guiding light of the moon, ever-present but differing in when he could be relied on, though when it was needed he became so bright he was dazzling, the very embodiment of courage when it had been all but lost to the rest of them. But Ingus was the burning light of the sun, a constant in a world that was ever-turning, dimming in intensity when it was needed but fighting with all the strength and fire that he was capable of when faced with those that would wish him and others harm. He was the true meaning of a knight, emblazoned with the glory of ancient kings and the shadowed corners of castle walls, befitting of crown and sceptre, worthy of the hand of the lady he had promised himself to in silent wistful longing. Watching Ingus fight had been breath-taking, a graceful balance between brute strength and tactical thought that left Arc far too amazed to even feel envious. Ingus held himself with that same grace, that same balance between forceful disposition and watchful understanding, and never once had the young knight made him feel any less for his doubt, for his fears and insecurities and everything he thought he lacked in himself. He made quiet suggestions, leaving books open on pages about battle stances and how to wield both sword and staff - and magic was everything Arc had ever longed for, a perfect duality of protection and destruction, no longer hidden in shadow, no longer a burden, but also not stood before twisted creatures with fear of death all-consuming - offering silent companionship when the path they had all been destined to take became too much for him.

And, as the days that marked their travels only grew in number, Arc realised that what had initially felt ill-fitting was starting to settle itself upon his shoulders, becoming more comfortable and accustomed to the person that he was. Before reaching the civil war-struck walls of Saronia he realised that he had started walking down the path of a Warrior of Light, even if he had made slower progress than his companions. They had shown him the way, both knowing and unknowing of the guidance they had given him. Luneth had set the foundations, showing him all that could be found if he took but a step forward, just one, to see the world with his own eyes; a guiding light, calling him from home to follow in his footsteps, not to walk in his shadow but to walk by his side. Refia had built the framework, an empty house but a house nonetheless; a work of progress that would not continue if he ran away from it, something he could take pride in even if he gave up and re-continued his efforts to keep at it, to keep building something of himself. Ingus had added walls and roof from stone and timber; a constant in a world that shifted and turned so quickly Arc felt lost to it, left behind when all about him seemed to keep pushing forwards, showing him patience and understanding and most importantly the potential within himself, the ability to see that where there had once been nothing there was now something, something worth being proud of.

And, as Saronia was added to the map of places they had saved from darkness, a young boy king taught him to fill the house he had built - the person he had become, the person he had always been just several steps behind, awaiting the day to finally start on this road of self-discovery - with everything he cherished; books, old ancient maps, soft comfortable chairs and windows that overlooked forest and smelt of earth when it rained. Arc had thought Ingus was kingly, the golden light of the sun bestowing his hair with a hallowed crown greater than that of any living king, but Alus was more so, in a way so very different from his fellow Warrior of Light. Alus was soft golden light at dawn, timid only in the way that he was not yet all that he could be, a weak winter sun awaiting the strength of summer, a heart so full of kindness and strength and doubt and indecision and everything Arc had ever feared in himself and turning it into something that caught the light of the sun in a way that was absolutely breath-taking. It was like looking in a mirror and seeing yourself reflected back at you as well as that of someone else - a soul of gold emblazoned by his own glory, not that of his father, never wearing the heavy crown that death had given him, the heavy burden that had befallen him - and the conversations they had had, known only to candle light and flickering shadow, had given Arc so much, and it was painful because if only he had known him when he was younger, back when darkness had taken hold of him so strongly that he lost all semblance of who he was.

As they left Saronia he started to see himself, clear and full of clarity in his own reflection, for the first time. And even if the people he had met - the girl who had punched a wall so hard she had broken her knuckles, who had cried so painfully that she could hardly speak for days after, all for a man who had chosen death so soon after remembering the life forgotten memory had ridden him of - the people he had fought beside and cried with, the people he had grown to call family who he had held close among bedsheets on airships that creaked in the nightly wind - the boy who had dragged their bodies nearly claimed by death to wellsprings, the boy who sat and trembled so violently he could not breathe, knowing he had to remain their leader, remain strong but how could he when so nearly faced with the death of those that had become so very dear to him - the people he had given gentle kisses to cheeks and foreheads to reassure them that they would be okay, that they would make it through all of this - the boy who trembled and wept for the lives they had taken to ensure their progress, burdened with guilt because all his steadfast courage had never been for this purpose, to slay those who were friend not enemy - even if the people he cherished had taught him so much about himself, they had all simply guided him along a path he had already been walking, a future he had already started to build.

They had walked beside him, shadows outstretched not before him but behind all of them as they held out their hands and said without words that they had known all this time, that they had been stood waiting for him, waiting for the day that he realised he had nothing to prove, not to them or himself. He was the quiet boy from a village no-one had even heard of, shy quiet Arc who longed for inked pages and ancient days that had crumbled into dust and legend, a boy wearing mage’s garb and wielding staff and spell against any who faced him with a bravery none of his other friends held; a bravery that came from facing your fears, being strong enough to pick yourself back up time-and-time again from agonising self-doubt, making the decision to continue again tomorrow even if burdened with the same failures as before, all to someday reach that longed-for contentment, that realisation that everything you were was everything you wanted to be. He did not need past glory, a shadow to walk within, other people’s boots to fill. He would face the end as himself, and it would be enough.

The title of ‘ Warrior of Light ’ did suit him, but he did not need it to; he’d never needed it to.