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The first thing I remember wasn't anything colorful or warm...it was actually dark and cold.
Not the physical cold of being thrust from warmth into the world, but the cold realization that I am... aware. Unnaturally, impossibly aware....at least that's what I felt....
I should be crying. Every instinct in this tiny, fragile body screams for tears but there was non but the shock of air filling lungs that have never known breath, the overwhelming assault of light and sound and sensation.....
But instead, I find myself thinking with a clarity that has no business existing in a newborn's mind.
What is this?
I could form thoughts with perfect coherence.
Around me, voices blur together in celebration and relief.
I catch fragments— "it's healthy," "beautiful," "perfect"—but the words feel distant, muffled by the strange disconnect to my infant body like am hearing the words from another room.
"He's so quiet," comes a woman's voice, exhausted but filled with wonder. An ethereal beauty came into my view with auburn hair flowing down her shoulders like a brownish honey. With a healthy pale skin that goes with her light green eyes....all in all...she's a beauty...
"Maybe he's just taking it all in." This voice is deeper, rougher, tinged with barely controlled emotion. This time it was a man... A towering mountain of a man with broad shoulders and powerful muscles earned through years of battle. Also came into my view after I was carried from the woman's embrace.
He has strong hands I thought to myself.....I can feel the calluses even through his gentleness...lift me from where I've been placed. "Look at those eyes, Beatrice. It's like he's really seeing us." And looked into my eyes....now I can see how he looks like.
He has a short dark hair is streaked with premature silver or gray, and kind brown eyes crinkle that at the corners when he smiles....which he was, grinning.
And he also have Battle scars mark his weathered face, but his gentle nature shines through
If only you knew...I thought to myself again while maintaining eye contact.
I want to speak, to tell I can move on my own.... But my vocal cords produce only the soft, meaningless sounds expected of a newborn....well at least I aint crying.
The frustration is overwhelming. Here I am, capable of complex thought, trapped in a body that can barely coordinate its own breathing.
"Jake, he's not crying at all," my mother.....or so I thought Beatrice—says, and I can hear the slight worry in her voice.
"Is that... bad?" My father's voice tightens with concern....well yeah seems I got a muscle head as a dad guys.
A midwife was also there by the door, an older woman whose hands must have delivered countless babies....right?, chuckles softly. "Some babies are just naturally calm. He seems perfectly healthy....also in good color, strong heartbeat. Sometimes the quiet ones are just observers."
Observer. If she only knew how right she is.
Days blur into weeks, and weeks into months. I learn to navigate the strange prison of infancy while my mind races with thoughts that have no outlet. I watch my parents with an attention that goes far beyond what any baby should possess, memorizing every detail of their faces, their voices, their habits.
My papa....Jake, is a mountain of a man with kind eyes and I study the scars that web across his forearms when he changes my clothes, the way he unconsciously checks the windows when he thinks no one is looking, the practiced way he moves through our home. He's a hunter....a warrior class.
An A-rank, I realize, as I begin to understand the conversations he has with Mama about missions and guilds and the politics of their profession.
My Mama's name is Beatrice she's magic personified.
I see it in the way plants seem to perk up when she tends our small garden, in the gentle glow that sometimes surrounds her hands when she thinks no one is watching, in the way my cuts and scrapes heal faster when she kisses them better.
They both love me.
This much is clear in every touch, every smile, every soft word whispered over my crib. They speak of their hopes for me, of the hunter they believe I'll become, of the pride they already feel just watching me grow.
Their love is a warmth that surrounds me constantly, and it terrifies me more than my strange consciousness ever could.
Because somehow, deep in the part of my mind that shouldn't exist, I know it won't last.
The months pass, and I learn to play the part of a normal baby. I cry when I'm supposed to cry, sleep when I'm expected to sleep, and slowly, carefully, begin to reach the milestones that will let me interact with the world in small ways.
My first smile...genuine, because how could it not be when Papa makes silly faces at me? My first laugh...was also cause of Papa's terrible attempt at singing a lullaby is actually hilarious.
My first attempts at solid food....though I'm fascinated by the complexity of flavors my infant palate wasn't prepared for.
Each moment feels precious and fragile, like holding sunlight in cupped hands.
"He's so advanced," Mama tells Papa one evening as she rocks me to sleep. I'm nearly ten months old now, and they think I can't understand their conversations. "Look how he watches us when we talk about work. It's like he's actually listening."
"Smart boy," Papa says with pride, his large hand gentle on my head. "He'll make a fine hunter someday. Better than his old man, I bet."
"Jake," Mama's voice carries gentle reproach. "You're one of the finest A-rank hunters in the kingdom. Don't sell yourself short."
A-rank. I file away this confirmation of what I'd suspected. They're impressive, my parents. They're Respected. Powerful. They've built a good life for us, comfortable and safe.
Too safe, perhaps.
The thought comes from nowhere, and I push it away. But it lingers, like a shadow at the edge of my vision.
More months pass. I take my first steps at nearly eleven months, stumbling between Papa's outstretched arms and Mama's encouraging calls. The moment my foot touches the ground independently, their joy explodes around me like sunlight.
"Beatrice, look! He's walking!" Papa's voice cracks with emotion as I toddle the few feet between them.
Mama claps her hands, and tiny sparkles of light dance from her fingers....a small display of magic that makes me laugh with genuine delight. "Our brilliant boy!"
I feel their happiness like it was a physical thing, warming me from the inside out. Papa sweeps me up, spinning me around as I giggle, and Mama joins us, her arms encircling both of us. For a moment, we're a perfect circle of love and joy.
"Mama," I say clearly, the word feeling strange but right on my tongue. "Papa."
Silence follows....
"Ohhhhhhhh" Then Papa lets out a whoop of joy that probably wakes the neighbors.
"His first words!" Mama's eyes shine with tears. "Oh, Kyle, sweet boy, say it again!"
"Mama. Papa." The words come easier now, and with them, a flood of others I've been holding back. "Love. Love Mama. Love Papa."
They both go very still.
These aren't quite the simple first words they were expecting. But instead of concern, I see wonder in their faces.
"He's exceptional," Mama whispers, and there's something almost reverent in her tone. "Jake, what if he's destined for something great?"
Destined.
The word hits me like a physical blow. Destiny. Fate....
Papa kisses the top of my head, his voice thick with emotion. "Then we'll make sure he's ready for whatever comes."
That night, as I lie between them in their bed...a rare treat for my first-word celebration.... i listen to their quiet conversation about their hopes for my future.
They speak of training me when I'm older, of watching me grow strong and find my own path in the world. They talk about the kind of man they hope I'll become, the legacy they want to leave me.
If only they knew that fate has already chosen a different path for me.
As I drift toward sleep, surrounded by their warmth and love, I felt content I never imagined possible.
But underneath it, like a current of ice-cold water beneath a sun-warmed surface, runs the certainty that this happiness is borrowed time.
One day—sooner than any of us can imagine....I'll lose them both.
The thought should terrify me. Instead, it settles into my bones with the weight of absolute truth.
I don't know how I know, but I do. This perfect life, this beautiful family, this love that surrounds me like armor against the world—it's all temporary.
I'm going to watch everyone I love die.
And somehow, inexplicably, it will be my fault.
The realization doesn't bring tears or panic. Instead, it brings a cold, adult understanding that makes me hold my parents a little tighter as they sleep. If this happiness is doomed, then I'll treasure every moment of it I can.
Even if it destroys me in the end.
If I had known then that fate had already chosen a different path for me—one paved with the loss of everyone I would ever love—perhaps I would have tried to memorize that moment of perfect happiness forever.
But some truths are too heavy for even an adult mind to bear.
And I was still just a child, after all.....