He’s a mystery to us.
He is neither myth nor legend. We do not know if he really existed, or if he was just a man conjured by creative minds as a symbol of hope. Some used to say, he shall return, that when we need him, he’ll appear once more. But the time of relics, magic and quests have aged; no longer do prophecies and mysterious truths matter. A lot of people know his tale, something told to generation after generation, retold in nonfiction novels and in fiction, in children’s stories, on film and the stage. He is a household name, someone known to all.
If he was real, his body was never found. And if he wasn’t real then he was just a story. Then again, we’re all stories in the end. At the end of all things, we are mere stories snitched into the fabric of time, a dying star amongst the darkness, once something real and pure, but faded with time. We’ll all become stories told to future generations, forgettable and special.
That’s what he is now. Something in history textbooks or folklore, a timeless tale that may never be recovered for its true beauty, lost in translation. His red cloak once billowed in the breeze and blue eyes charmed thousands, he was a good king, a man who valued family and friendship. A man who had faith in his fellow knights, a man who leaned on the support of others, just as they did him, he was a strange man, a good man, an honest one, a selfish one, a conflicted soul, but human regardless.
He died in the arms of his teacher and mentor. A fumbling old wizard, who held magic and wielded it skillfully, cursed to watch his best friend die, to live out his days waiting for his friend’s return. He still wanders the Earth, wondering if he shall ever hear that annoying chide again, or see that insufferable smirk. At the time it had drove him insane.
Now, he’d kill to have it back.