-Ch. 0-
"Can't this wait until the baby is a little older?"
"I'm sorry. Please understand, peace requires sacrifice. For you, and our child's sake. Don't worry, I'll be back soon."
These were the last words I remember hearing from my father, shortly before he departed from home. My father was the mighty hero, Ortega. He travelled the land on a crusade against the Archfiend. Then, one day, my mother and I were summoned to the castle. In contrast to the eternity that had seemingly passed since he had left home on his crusade, it took only a single, extremely sharp, and painful instant to realize he wouldn't be coming home. The King said that he had disappeared, and they couldn't find a trace of him. Grief stricken, my mother sobbed her acknowledgement of my mother's demise, but not before she turned to me and proclaimed through her tears,
"This child will carry on after Ortega!"
Those were the last words I remember hearing from my mother, shortly before my life departed from any semblance of the word, "normal".
My father was a mountain of a man, a veritable mass of muscle. But, as big as his biceps were, so was his heart. He was extremely loving, both towards us, his family, and everyone else in the kingdom. There were few who didn't know of the bravery, compassion, and might of the great Ortega, who also happened to be well-traveled, strong, and congenial. But above all else: Ortega was my father. It was extremely hard not to be proud of him. Yet, there were times I wanted nothing to do with him. I know it's a horrible, selfish feeling, and terribly rude to even think such things about the deceased, but when you're suddenly forced to become the savior of the world, everything changes. Even those you love and trust change.
After my father's death, something changed within my mother. She was still the same kind, compassionate saint of a lady that I'd known until that day, but there was something... that just felt off. For starters, I wasn't allowed to play outside as much. Even if I had to chores that required me to go outside, I wasn't outside for long. Eerily enough, my mother never got cross in the event I took longer to come home, either by happenstance or choice, but she would always express that I should greater prioritize my return home. The only thing that would ever faze her is if I'd actually come home with even the faintest scratch. Then she'd fret and fuss over me as if I were some kind of egg that almost dropped onto the floor, then was caught at the very last minute.
On the other hand, my grandfather became slightly more strict. I could remember a time when my grandfather was a sweet old man, always doting on his hero of a son, while regaling me with tales of my father's exploits, or other stories of intrigue about the world. Suddenly, story time began skew in favor of my father, and I began to hear less about the world. You could even say that my father became my world after while. If I ever requested a different story from my grandfather however, he'd quietly relent, an "Oh," would quietly escape his lips, and you could make out just the faintest glimmer of a tear forming in the corner of his eye. When I was young, I knew no better, but I caught on as the years went by.
My mother and grandfather would take turns my schooling, which included my grandfather setting time aside to educate me in swordplay. Granted, he was quite old, so he couldn't offer an able sparring partner, but I learned as much as I could from what he was willing and able to teach me. Most children coming of age would refine their skills against each other, but I wasn't given much of an opportunity.
When you're the child of a hero, people treat you differently. People seem to believe you can do anything; after all, it's in your blood. So why was it that after my father's death, everyone seemed to handle me... almost gingerly? In the times I decided to sneak out and play with other children my age, the atmosphere seemingly changed upon my arrival. Some kids were excited and eager to play or even playfully swashbuckle with the "child of Ortega". Some seemed intimidated by this, and felt almost apprehensive about approaching me. There were even others that outright avoided me. From what I could remember, this phenomenon began when my father died. It didn't stop at children either, it even reached the adults. While most were quick to greet me with the same kingdom-standard smile, I could feel the same bizarre atmosphere as when I was around the children of the kingdom. What was worse, is that adults were better articulating their thoughts.
"So young, what a fate..."
"Could it even be possible?"
"Poor child."
"Even the great Ortega couldn't do it, how could this child...?"
Perhaps they thought I was out of earshot? I didn't want to entertain the thought that they'd actually intended for me to hear their grievances.
This was my life after the death of my father, Ortega. Forgive me for thinking ill of the dead; I know the kingdom is terrified, and my mother and grandfather miss him terribly. But what if the others were right? What if I'm not enough? If someone as incredible as my father was couldn't slay the Archfiend, what hope did someone like I have?
On the final night of being 15 years of age, long after my grandfather retired to his bed and the moon rose through the sky, my mother crept into my room. Though she tried her best not to wake me, I couldn't help but notice an extra presence by my bedside. She sat down so gently and gradually, it was almost as if she was weightless. As it was dark, I could barely make out her features. The one thing I could, was the ever faintest shimmer on her face. Likewise, perhaps the darkness prevented her from making out my own features, and she proceeded to softly whisper, presumably to prevent me from stirring. I presumed as such because I didn't want to admit that my mother knew more than she let on; I didn't want to admit that my mother knew about all the times I'd snuck in extra outside time during my chores; I didn't want to admit that she knew all the things the kingdom had done and said to make me feel like an outcast; I didn't want to admit that she saw through how hard I'd been trying to meet the kingdom's, but most importantly her expectations. As the whispers faded into the air, and the air became still, I shifted in bed to face away from my mother. I didn't want her to think I'd been up past my bedtime. After all, I had an important day ahead of me.
But most importantly, I didn't want to admit that I had a similar glimmer forming on my face in the corner of my eye, and I certainly didn't want to admit I'd heard everything she'd said.
"Forgive me for wanting to keep you to myself. If I didn't know how to bid your father farewell, I certainly don't know how to do so for you. But I know you're going to do great things, so I must let you go. Just promise me you'll be safe..."
I ended the last night of my 15th year of age silently promising my mother that she wouldn't have to worry.
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