{"sf1_id":136218,"sf2_id":"pnG4POw1","title":"Death of a Hero","author":"QimmiQ","words":1356,"posted_at":"2010-04-02T18:44:00.000Z","tags":["Death","Fox","Short Story"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/136218-death-of-a-hero","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/s/pnG4POw1","image_url":"https://cdn.sofurryfiles.com/submissions/thumbnails/b7/50/b750caf3-685b-4166-9a2a-9e4239ea39be","description":"","content":"My first story on here..\u0026nbsp;I hope you all like it;\u0026nbsp;feel free to\u0026nbsp;comment/ review it.\n\nThere might me grammatical errors; could you please tell me about it? I'll fix it as soon as I can.\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\nDeath of a Hero\n\nI know this is the end for me. Two arrows through my chest, and the  \nbubbling in my breath is the truth of that. I was ambushed along with  \nmy group. The ambushers were detained, after killing one of the patrol guards;  \nand leaving me fatally wounded. They have yet to find me.  \nMy friends and family will not have known I have died, until weeks  \nlater. They know my will. I written had it long ago, the day I signed  \nup to this job.  \nMy white fur is covered in blood. The sword next to me; but too far. My  \nbody in a crumpled position, facing the world. I am to die, at least  \nfacing the world.  \nThere are secrets that I have kept; stolen bread, missing keys. All  \nchildhood adventures, each unfounded for. Nothing out of the ordinary.  \nI want to tell each and every one of them. Useless information,  \npersonal information; what's the difference? I am going to die; at  \nleast I'll be more than just a gravestone to someone. Sometimes I  \nthink the useless facts are more important than personal stories. The  \nweather has so much more then, what you did as a child. The weather  \nchanges crops; grows or destroys. Childhood memories are things people  \nsee with a golden glow, but gets forgotten in the end. Forgotten  \nversus the memorable.  \nI'm a member of a family of five; mother, father, kid brother, sister,  \nand myself. My parents just moved from another land; there was a war,  \nor something. I wasn't born then; just my  \nParents and my sister.  \nI was born after the Shadows fell from the heavens. I was born as a  \nfox and a man. I can stand on two legs just like any other man. My  \nbody is just like any normal person. But I have a fox's tail, ears,  \nmuzzle, and the senses and spirit of one as well.  \nMy sister was born before me, so she was not changed; she was five  \nyears old when it happened. My kid brother is five years old. He is  \nalways so curious about me. He loves trying to catch my tail when I  \nflick it around. My parents were reluctant when I was first born, said  \n\"it\" was different. Thankfully they still cared for me. My sister was  \nthe one to thank; she stood up for me. If she hadn't disagreed so  \npassionately, I would not be around. I was not even considered their  \nchild! As I grew up, I helped around. I had talents no one else in my  \nfamily had. I had sharper senses then they had, my hunting instincts  \nwere superb, and I was very agile.  \nChildhood was very busy. I had many chores; usually to help provide  \nfood. I had a few friends, a few were like me. Odd combinations of  \nanimals. I spent the free time I had either reading or exploring. I  \nwas one of the people who could read; and very quickly I might add.  \nI grew up out of childhood quite quickly for my age. I was taller than  \nordinary children for quite a bit. But I was shorter than most of the  \nother kids like me; the ones like animals however. I hung out with  \nlots of people; I wasn't disliked by anyone. Accepted and  \nacknowledged at least. I was polite, caring, understanding, and was  \nable to say the right things at the right time. Body language was  \nsomething I excelled at; maybe my keen senses were the cause.  \nAs I grew childhood lost its glow. The world seemed more serious. The  \ntown was steeped in prejudice, hate, and lies. I heard rumours,  \ngossip, and tales of people. Even if I didn't want it; my hearing was  \nsharp. A blessing and curse.  \nA few friends drifted away. Some had to move, others just sort of grew  \ndistant. I still had deep connections, just not as strong.  \nReading was the link to sanity for me. On the days where the weather  \nwas to bad to go outside, when there were no chores to do, or when no  \nfriends were around for some reason. Page after page was an escape  \nfrom my problems. The endings happening to soon for me; breaking my  \nheart. What about the problems that was sure to happen next? Slowly  \nbut surely I read through my shelf of books. I finally finished my  \nlast book on the shelf; it was about a journey throughout the world to  \nfind someone to save it.  \nBoredom filled me. Things didn't really change here; friends, family,  \ntown, or anything really. Then I found my output: writing. I wrote  \nstories, not very good or clear at first. Then it began to get better.  \nSoon I was writing all through my free time. My writing jagged, quick,  \nbut eligible enough. I finally written something decent, my friend  \nRose loved it. I gave it to her; she still has it in a shelf somewhere.  \nOh gods, Rose! I will never see her again! What about my family and  \nfriends? I'd have disappeared from them! What will they feel like when  \nthey know when I'm gone? I moved my battered and bruised hand to my  \nhip pouch to retrieve my only link from home; a dried rose. It is an  \nobvious reminder to my friend, Rose. Thankfully it didn't crumble, but  \nit is wearing down. Not surprising as my job is border patrol around  \nthe lake to my hometown.  \nTears welled up; I have to send them a sign. I had enough strength for  \na few more precious minutes. I laid the rose besides me; on top of my  \nsword. I struggled to pull out a sheaf of paper. My pen was in my  \nbreast pocket. I had no ink, no problem considering how much blood  \ncovered me. I am left handed, I grew up doing that. I was forced to  \nwrite with my right hand, but I never learned. Plus I was too stubborn  \nto do so.  \nI removed both arrows with a grunt of pain. Blood trickling out in the  \nwounds. My hand trembling as I dipped in a wound; searing pain through  \nmy body. The pen absorbing the blood, now I could write. The sheaf of  \npaper blew away in a sudden breeze. Growling over the loss of my  \nonly piece of paper left.  \nWhat caused the breeze? It was a windless night, not even a breeze.  \nUntil now there was nothing. Was the weather finally changing? I heard  \nfootsteps; I turned my head to the sound, people? It turned out to be  \nthe patrol leader, Tom. \"Oh. There you are-\" he was about to finish, I  \ncut him off. \"Please help me. I'm dying look.\" I rasped, pointing at  \nthe arrows. \"Damn! Poisoned arrows are the worst.\" he exclaimed,  \nswearing afterwards. \"There isn't much time!\" I was about to say, then  \na hacking cough tore through my throat. Blood came out. \"Please tell  \nmy family the news, my friends as well. Tell them I died here.  \nPlease. That's all I want.\" I implored; my dark brown eyes wide  \nand expectant. \"Yes I'll tell them that.\" he said, he regained his  \ncomposure. We are drilled, tested, and taught never to let emotions  \ntake over you. \"Thank you.\" I said a slight grin on my muzzle. \"You  \ndid well. Without you all we'd had been ambushed and assassinated. The  \nmedal of bravery shall be laid on your grave stone.\" he said. \"Thank  \nyou. Tell them I love them, and thank them for being...\" I trailed  \noff, weariness taking hold of me. \"I'll stay for the last moments.\" he  \nsaid, as he lifted my head to his crouching form.  \nWe stayed silent. My body heavy and broken. I felt myself slowing  \ndown. My time is near; finally rest for me. Eyelids heavy, they  \nclosed. I heard the wind.  \nI fell asleep, listening to the breeze.\n\n  \n  \n\n"}