He is thinking that he doesn’t want the sword, and that there must be a way to go on a quest without picking up a sword and hacking at things. He found it impossible to refrain from kicking the overly eager old bastard, who wouldn’t stop following him in the nuts, but he was trying to be less violent. Wasn’t that what you should aspire to?
The hill seemed unbearably steep, and he found himself wondering if all heroes experienced the kind of doubt that was plaguing him now. It wasn’t existential doubt, or anything – no, he was wondering whether he actually cared in the least about what lay at the end of this damned trudge. What would it do for you, if you just sat down and gave up? It wasn’t as if he had engaged with anyone that was still scuttling around. Part of the whole gig of being a hero was that you tended to part a few heads from a few necks, and leave a trail of destruction behind him.
He didn’t have a heroic name, and he wasn’t sure that he really had a fate. Maybe the person who he had met in that tavern, who had told him about this whole thing was just a con artist. What the hell did it matter?
He was a little bit bored, and a little bit scared, and to be honest, a little bit clueless about what the hell was expected of him. He had never expected that much of himself.
Who decided to put a bloody pub in the way? The Chapel Perilous he might have been able to deal with, but Guinness and a steak and kidney pie? Fuck it. And it was raining. Maybe the repurcussions would come crashing down around him, or maybe they wouldn’t. He was rowing, and he was moving, but he wasn’t hero-ing anymore.