There’re dozens of prophecies regarding a heroic future. Rumors that say it will bring peace to the world, rumors that say he would bring calamity. Ask anyone off the street and they will whisper another unique legend of epic proportions.

Of course, most of these are little more than fairy tales, or ideas of justice passed along through story from parent to child.

But what about all the ones that are seemingly lost in translation?
‘The hero’s shadow, ever present, slumbers, awaiting a senile king; while reaching all corners.’
‘Eared persuader, bringing gifts of impending futures.’
‘Dark imprint on wrist to differentiate, on display without shame.’
‘Cold flames, the demonic watchearth beats.’
What are those words supposed to teach us about morality?

Or is it just that? An ancient prophecy lost in translation after decades of travel. But then, if its meaning is lost why does it continue to spread so pervasively? Why would my mother be so insistent on teaching me something with no meaning?

I really don’t know, but I enjoy contemplating it. I always have.

My brother would use this downtime to think about strategy and militaristic discipline, but I would much rather spend a day imagining the view from a bird’s eye, or the desires of a plant.

My father would say I’m wasting my life, that my time could be better spent building my body or studying he and King Wolfbourne’s glory days. I can’t exactly argue that, but I can imagine nothing more boring than jogging through one of those puffed up recounts. I just don’t think it’s in my nature.

My body isn’t fit for combat, my father has probably come to terms with that. Likewise, my mind isn’t fit for strategy, a numerous amount of chess bouts with my brother has solidified that fact too. I consider it a win if I can lose in less than six turns.

But with that being the case, where is it exactly, that I belong?

The Hyde Family, my father Lloyd, brothers Skule and Grave, our late mother Yoni, and I, Aryn. We’ve lived on the border since I was a baby, a hairs distance from the battlefield the world relies on for protection. My lullaby as a child were the moans and horror of those not-so-distant blood-drenched grounds.

That is what my family does.

We live on the border and we fight the war. So, if I don’t fit into the war, then where do I fit into the world? If I can’t live like my father and Skule, controlling the battle through fist and flourish, then do I follow the path taken by Grave after mom’s death?

It feels like running away, but what is there that I can face by staying here? Time?

Then, if I know there is nothing to face, why do I fear leaving? A loss of comfort? Losing the warmth of a home?

As fragmented as it may be, my family does still eat dinner together, my mother’s adamant request from back then, still being honored to this day, so I can’t deny that there is still warmth.

But this silence is unbearable. You never realize a person was the perfect conversational adhesive until they aren’t there to lead the exchange. It’s no wonder my mind wanders in these massive lapses of time.

I can tell he has something to say.

We both can. Me and Skule don’t exactly get along on most aspects but we share the rare ability to see through my father’s ‘war-face’. It’s one of the few things we can ever agree on.

Prompting him directly will only put him on the defensive. I’d like to leave the strategy to Skule but he has about as much conversational talent as I with a dagger.

Our mother would have no trouble getting it out of him. Best I can do is attempt to mirror one of her old methods. I know that if I leave it to Skule he will probably come across the same tactic, but he will no doubt flub the delivery, so I’ll handle this one.

Purposefully clinking the plate with my knife to cut the tension I glance up from the shimmering layer of sauce covering the blackened cut of steak. “So anything interesting going on this week?”

The question was directed at the both of them, but Skule was wise enough to detect my intention and stays quiet while shooting a curious peek towards our father.

“Hm,” He murmurs thoughtlessly after glancing in our direction with an imperceptible break in his mask. I’m sure Skule noticed it too but we both quietly waited for him to continue. A long moment passes as he begins cutting the steak once again. “That’s right, I got a letter from one of Leo’s people this morning when the fourteenth fleet passed through. It shouldn’t come as too big a surprise though.”

Bingo.

Hook. Line. Sinker.

A silent nod between brothers as dad continues his explanation.

“Do you remember when that group of Royal Institute researchers came and conducted Mana audit’s on the rooks and townsfolk?”

It’s hard to forget. It’s one thing for a battalion of soldiers to march through town, that’s almost a weekly occurrence, but civilians from the capital coming all the way here? It’s basically as far from standard as possible.

Both Skule and I were audited. It was a painless test. Hold a small stone for half a minute then replace it onto a podium for someone to collect. With the sheer number of observers present I was sure it would be a much more intrusive process.

I don’t remember anything particularly interesting happening at the time, so why is dad bringing it up now?

Again, all eyes were on my father. In the old days, our mother would have said something to give him some time to prepare his follow up, but both Skule and I were too intrigued at this point to offer a hand.

“Simple follow-ups in the capital…” He mutters through a bite with a soft scowl. “I figured they’d wait a little while longer, but I guess the schedule is advancing.”

I almost don’t want to look at Skule.

I don’t want to see his smug, ‘I am better than you’ face.

It doesn’t really surprise me though, he excels at everything else so why wouldn’t he have a large mana pool? It only makes sense.

Did I win any spaces in genetics bingo?

My mother’s green eyes?

Meh.

Probably noticing my lapse in attention, father waves a thick hand in front of my face.

“I’m talking about you.”

Peering around the quiet table after his words, I realize the eyes are indeed directed towards me.

“A…? Oh… I think I get it.”

 

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So, this is how a black sheep is ejected from the herd. Through pretext.

My bag was packed by the time the first crow sang. Now I just await a shepherd to lead this korban to the knife.

Meaningless dark metaphor aside, breakfast was quiet. That alone was not exactly unusual, but both Skule and Dad taking off the morning shift was. I suppose they want to make sure I properly leave? Hate to have me idle too long; or come back because I forgot something. Not that I have much luggage to forget.

A few ‘loses’ worth of time later, the sound of an approaching carriage broke the monotony.

The arrival was an unexpected one, despite our patient waiting.

I should have wondered why I didn’t just hitch a ride with the morning shift peddlers.

“How was the trip Grave?” Skule quickly perks up, bouncing towards the opening door.  

 Am I the only one that was unaware he was coming? I suppose it makes sense seeing that he lives in the capital, but if the letter just arrived, then when did he leave from the capital? It’s at least a day’s ride in a carriage.

With the brothers quickly returning to chum mode, and the fool’s mate being cleared off the board, I once again question the sheer coincidence of it all.

I was chosen for additional magic testing by the court? Conveniently around spring when the youth training drills are supposed to take place? How can this be anything but an excuse to shoo me away from the border, to force me someplace where I will do less damage to the Hyde name. Honestly, I would do the same thing if I were my father, so how can I see it as anything less?

My mother used to tell me I was special. That I was meant for more. But, she was stroking my ego, that’s all. I’m not a chosen one. I’m not humanities hope. I’m a nobody, like everyone else.

‘But there’s nothing wrong with that. What’s better than an underdog story. I must work hard. What ever this ‘testing’ leads me to, I just have to be the best at that.’

That’s what my mom would have said.

And her ghost is right. But it still feels shitty to be pushed away so obviously.

Their game finished, and attention again began turning to me without my knowledge, it was finally time apparently.

It was a more depressing farewell than I expected out of those two. I don’t think I’ve ever seen tears in my fathers’ eyes before, and I was there when my mother’s death knell rang out. I can still feel that mana chilling my bones. Living beside a warzone is nothing compared to that. No child should feel the mana that sustained them, snuffed out like a candle.

Even Skule was surprising in his adieu, an embrace. Other than grappling, have I ever even hugged him before? Maybe as a child, but not in my adult life by any means.

It’s strange.

Quit it.

“Don’t let anyone give you crap.” Skule explains with a heavy sniffle. “You’re too accepting, don’t let anyone treat you like a door mat.”

“Right.” I nod with a grin. “That’d be your job.”

I couldn’t see his expression through the noogie, but I like to think he chuckled at least.

Before I realized it I was aboard the carriage with the blurry scenery of my long time home slowly passing into the distance.

I can’t recall an exact moment when the tears began to fall, nor do I remember when they stopped. But somewhere in between, I faintly remember hearing a song my mom used to hum while cooking.

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Becoming a hero was never a dream for me.

Maybe because I rarely listened to those types of stories during my childhood. Justice didn’t register in my mind back then because it presupposes evil, and I just couldn’t comprehend that.

So, if it wasn’t the justice, or protecting my home, then why do I fight? Why do I call myself a hero after all these years?

To be honest, the reason would probably be considered a bit childish.

 

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