:// my bones are shifting in my skin

You remember the story, don't you, of the girl - a woman grown, but storytellers always prefer to use the word girl, even if the one in question is nearing fifty - who went to slay a monster and became one herself? Of course not, why would you, it is just a silly tale and we all know that silly tales never have any proof or wisdom or guidance. Entertainment value only applies if you care, and no one really cared about the girl then, and no one should care about her now.

The girl in this story - Edison, though she'd refuse to acknowledge her name without the titles she'd put her life into earning - was nearing an age where things would either change, or they would better. She was in the Order, a middling ranking apparent-nonmage who dreamed of fame and glory. Mage protectors were new, shiny, exciting, the life of a monster hunter promising everything that she desired. And, oh, did she desire. She had not become known, she was not spoken of the whole realm over. What did they have that she did not? Magic? Irrelevant - many of them were young, upstarts who had minimal training and relied too much on their flash, spark, bang. Anyone could do it, she reasoned, but children who want the prestige are easier to sacrifice than soldiers who only desire what is best for their country. However, she amended, allowing them to take all glory and credit would give them entirely too much power, even if many of them died. It was only right that she - a nonmage, a someone who is not quite anyone (yet), a servant to the crown - should go and find and fight.

As happens in stories but not in true life, and likely did not happen here, almost no time passed before she heard tell of a monster north of Faline. In true life, it would have been months, possibly years, of greasing the right palms, obsessing, many failed attempts, but that's not what happened for this is, of course, a story. In this story, she ran straight there, as though lifted upon the winds of night. All the way from Namarast to Faline, though in true life she had already been wandering that northern town, having been "retired" because she seemed to be losing her very mind. In this story, she was neither late, nor early. There were no mages who found the beast, fought it valiantly, and perished before they could complete their task and claim their glory. In this story, she found the monster, and she slew it, and no help was desired or given - easy, for she was well trained and should have been promoted long ago. She destroyed the beast, and felt something quicken within her, an impossibility that she had never wanted except to more easily find glory. And she did not know what it did, as she could not feel it.

Her magecraft quickened within the young girl, only forty seven years of age, and she was changed. Feathers (really, small wings) sprouted from behind her ears. They could do nothing, small as they were, but they could protect her eyes from the dust that suddenly kicked up. Horns grew from her skull, sharp and gold around her head. She would have cursed, briefly, if this were not a story, but it was and her desires to make a stand as a nonmage and show the world that they were worthwhile really don't matter at all.

Stories cannot simply lie, however - if they miss information, miss truth, miss what really happened, they have to have a lesson, and they are not allowed to always be happy. What growth could we apply to our own lives if the hero was, simply, always heroic?

After slaying the beast, the monster, the once-man, a doe walked towards her. If this were a story she'd be old, gnarled, obviously wicked as old people who talk to strangers must all secretly be, but in true life she was likely young, and crying, and carrying a knife. She said the monster was her husband - a witches familiar, if the stories are true - and they had come here to make sure he would hurt no one unless they tried to hurt him first. And now, now she had nothing, and no one could know that the beast had once loved. She took her knife - or perhaps a poisoned apple - and drove it towards the girl.

She should have died. She nearly did, bleeding and stumbling, running away though a hero never flees. They run towards, charge onward, hope brilliantly, and their feet have purpose. The only purpose behind her shuffle was to get away. The girl ran and stumbled and crawled, until she could see Fortune's Shrine, and then she died.

But that would not be a good story's end! This is not a tragedy, but a silly little story, and silly little stories do not end without something happening that makes them forgettable. The girl was forgettable, but the story, perhaps less so. She has yet to learn her Valuable Lesson, and so she cannot be dead.

They say that a smiling face appeared to her as she dreamed, near enough to death that the vultures came to taste her body. The smiling face looked, twisting and twirling, impossible to follow. "Well, you are very much alone," it noted, glee lacing through its words. "Alone and forgotten, no one will ever even know who you are, who you were. What do you want?"

She panted, even in the dream, heart fast as she raced towards her end. "I want to be remembered," she choked out.

"Tsk. You have done nothing worth being remembered for, nothing that anyone has seen. You have not lived enough to be something special. I can work miracles - I cannot work impossibilities." It gave no visual indication, as the face twisted with abandon, but she felt as though it shrugged. "Ask again, child, something that is within the realm of probability."

Her mouth - mental, of course, as all of this was happening within a dream - opened before she could think through what she was saying. "I want to live," and her mind went dark.

"Granted," the voice replied, wisting away until she was left with nothing but a heavy heart. A golden crown of light and eyes circled her head, dripping gold down her face, temporarily blinding her. The eyes opened, closed, and opened again, and her wings moved against her own volition.

A silly little story, one easily forgotten. The moral, of course, being that one should never trust wishes granted when you're dying, especially wishes granted by someone smiling.