(Well I quite like this idea...I think it goes a bit iffy in the middle, but I like it)
A True Hero By Plus-One
He’d sit there and watch them every afternoon, lying down, belly flat to the ground in the long grass on the other side of the river. His ears would prick up, and his muscles twitch every time they ran close to the body of water, inching closer still as they dangled their feet amongst the reeds by the bank.
He’d stay there for hours on end just watching until the light faded, and one by one the children submitted to their parents’ whims and returned to their warm homes for warm dinners and hot baths.
He always waited until the lights had snapped off in the houses across the valley before slinking back up to the lonely farmhouse that he called home.
The farmer never really cared when he got back, just as long as he was there each day to herd the sheep, and keep the cows in order. It wasn’t much of a life, but he was paid with food and shelter, which was all he needed to survive.
He’d watch the children with envy; they’d always be smiling from ear to ear, and they never got fed up with exploring the jungles, or being outlaws in the Wild West. The world was theirs and theirs alone.
It was the same today as always, the brave Knights of the Round Table fought valiantly against evil to save distressed damsels.
The battle was in full swing, the evil baron and his men were completely surrounded, and falling fast. The river one side, the knights the other, there was no option: fight to the death, or surrender; and the baron had never been one for surrendering.
He lifted his blade high and uttered one final battle cry as he surged towards the knights that had thwarted his plans, but he was no match for King Arthur and his mighty Excalibur.
The Baron tried to duck, but unfortunately, it was that which sealed his doom.
The stick connected solidly with the exposed side of his head, and he was sent toppling into the water, disappearing into the dirty blue depths.
There were shrieks from the damsels, gasps from the dead, and silent shock from the survivors; they huddled together by the bank staring intently at the water.
The dog needed no prompting, with one swift leap he threw himself into the murky water, paddling desperately with the current to find the figure.
He scoured the water desperately searching for a flailing arm, or leg.
He surfaced again for air, ignoring the cries and screams of the children as they realised the boy wasn’t coming up; he dove again.
A flicker in the corner of his eye alerted him, a single pink digit peeking out from the cloud of disturbed sediment. He lunged at the body and desperately tried to get a grip on the scruff of the boy’s neck, to no avail. He hit desperately at the boys clothing, trying to find something to pull him up, but each time, the fabric slipped beneath him.
The pain was building in his lungs, but he knew time was short, in one final attempt he sunk his fangs into the boys arm and swam up as hard as he could.
Blood clouded everywhere, obscuring the already poor vision. He reached the surface a few hundred feet down the river from the crowds of onlookers, but they saw. They began to sprint down the river waving hands out and sticks to grab hold of.
His muscles could barely take anymore, but still he fought the current, edging the boy ever closer to safety before it was too late.
A pair of hands closed around the boys limp arm, followed by another, and another. They pulled in unison, but couldn’t carry the weight.
The dog’s eyes grew faint, and with one final burst of energy, he shoved the boy onto the bank before disappearing once more beneath the water. But this time, he didn’t surface.
*
The doctor’s said the boy had had a narrow escape, a few seconds from death.
He’d fallen unconscious as soon as the stick hit him, but he’d heard the stories: the valiant farm dog who’d sacrificed its life to save him. He’d spent every moment on his recovery bed thinking about it, he’d asked everything he could think of about it, and even considered the scars on his arm as a prize, the mark of a true hero.
*
The children still play by the river and he still watches from the grass. Belly flat, muscles twitching, ears pricked up, eyes peeled, hidden from the eyes of the children.
He sits and waits, as they leave one by one…Until there is only one left, the same boy, everyday. He sits on the bank and stares at the fields on the other side, longing, praying for a glimpse of the dog.
But he remains hidden amongst the grass, watching and waiting; until a hero is called for again.
