There are four crowns here. Gold and gem gives glory. Silver gives power and wealth. Red wrapped with gems, gold, and silver gives fame and influence. The little wooden crown, plain and unadorned, gives the power of kindness and the ability to heal, though you may never know fame or wealth. Be warned, three are paths to sorrow, one is a path to peace, choose wisely. -- Anon Guest
Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, the hero had fought their way to the final chamber in the Labyrinth of Four Crowns.
Those who sought it out in the first place did so with a great need for one of the four crowns. Some had a desperate need for fame, some glory, some needed wealth. None had sought the fourth crown.
Why would they? It's small, plain, and carved out of wood. It's not gold, nor covered in gems, nor the lustrous red of the crown for public allure. It's barely even polished. Yet it sits on a marble plinth beside the other three, with the Guardian watching over them and warning the heroes that wish to claim one.
"Choose wisely, hero," warned the Guardian. "Three of these crowns lead to misery. Only one can lead to a fulfilling fate. You may only have one choice, now that you have bested the trials. If you return to change your crown, you will surely die. Use the crown you choose for the rest of your life, but it shall return to this place when you end." The Guardian stepped aside from the plinths.
Gold gleamed with polished gemstones. Silver shone with untapped power. Red promised allure and notice. Wear me, they each seemed to say. I can give you everything every mortal desires... Only one waited, silent and patient, for the one who was worthy.
Centuries had passed. Heroes had come and gone. The glory-seekers, the wealth-greedy, those wanting political influence and power. Each had chosen their crown. Each got what they thought they wanted.
Much to their regret.
This hero considered each crown with a frown on her face. Those who had come before had immediately reached for the one with the most appeal. Thoughtlessly donning whatever they took and damn the consequences.
"My name," said the Hellkin who had come for a crown, "Is Compassion." She picked up the plain wooden one. Carefully. Reverentially. Respectfully. Compassion gently stroked it. "Let me be worthy of your power."
Crowns should not fit Hellkin, what with the horns, but these crowns were beyond special. They made themselves fit. In this case, the wooden crown nestled on Compassion's head between her horns. Not needing to remain fixed.
"You have chosen well," said the Guardian. "May you be the first of many to do so."
Compassion knew the cost. She'd never be famous. She'd never have songs sung about her nor enter the story books. People would not know her on sight, nor know to call for her aid.
Yet, she could help all those who needed it. For the rest of her life.
That was enough.
[Photo by Hirzul Maulana on Unsplash]
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