It was easy to say time flowed like the harsh rivers of the North; but for Aetherion, time did not flow. It dripped. Every second was a torture testing his patience.
It was a few days after birth. Aetherion was in his mother's arms; Elara held him tight against her chest. At the door stood that massive man, his father. Opposite him were that old midwife and two servants. The baby's ears couldn't distinguish the words yet, but he recognized the vibration in the tones. The women were pleading. His father's voice was low but absolute; just like the final, dull sound a sword makes when entering its sheath. His father handed them a pouch and pointed to the door. The women left weeping. Aetherion felt his mother's heartbeat quicken. The old soul within him grasped the situation in that instant.
They are gone, he thought with deep sorrow. Because of me. That man sent them into the dark so our secret wouldn't be heard. This life has begun to change the fates of others before I've even left my cradle.
He never saw them again.
The first months were more humiliating than the gravest wound on the battlefield.
Aetherion was a stranger to his own body. His mind gave the command "Stand and walk," but his legs merely kicked the air meaninglessly. Hands that could wield a sword as lightly as a butterfly could now not even grasp the wooden spoon his mother offered. This disconnect between his muscle memory and his new body was driving him to the brink of madness.
This is an indignity, he thought, staring at the ceiling while his mother changed his diaper. I was a commander. I commanded thousands of soldiers. Now I cannot even command my own bowels.
Shame burned in his stomach, but there was nothing he could do. Only wait. And observe.
But waiting didn't just mean patience; it meant suffering.
At the start of every new month, that terrible ritual was repeated.
His mother, Elara, would lean over his cradle with a small, blue glass vial in her hand. At that moment, her porcelain-white skin would pale further, and her ice-blue eyes would fill with guilt.
"It will only hurt a little, my little flame," she would say with a trembling voice. "Your father's order... To protect you."
Elara, with shaking hands, dropped the liquid into her son's eyes. The moment that acidic fluid touched his pupils, Aetherion felt as if red-hot needles were being driven into his eyes. His infant body spasmed in pain, pressing his toothless gums together to bury his scream. When the pain subsided, his mother held a small, silver-framed hand mirror towards him.
"Look," she whispered, her voice broken. "You are still beautiful."
Aetherion looked into the mirror. That vibrant, magma-red glow was extinguished. What remained was a blurry ash-grey, looking as if the soul had been drained from it. The warrior inside him looked at his reflection and sighed.
This torture reminds me every month of who I am: I am a prisoner. A prisoner of both this body and this color.
A samurai, when unable to use his sword, would use his sharpest weapon: His mind.
He began to watch the world through the bars of his cradle. This new world was foreign not only physically but linguistically. When his mother Elara made sounds like "Goo goo gaga" and smiled, Aetherion didn't look at her with blank eyes. He read her lips. He analyzed her tones.
This woman... Elara. Her voice is like a soft lullaby, in defiance of the blizzard outside. But the language she speaks... that is different. The words come from the throat, hard and raspy; as if the people of these lands hardened even their words to protect themselves from the cold.
And that giant man... 'Zero'. His father. The air grew heavy when he entered the room. He didn't speak in long sentences. His voice came deep like thunder, and those around him, even his mother, would unconsciously straighten up. He is a leader, Aetherion sensed. His words do not request; they command.
At night, when everyone slept, Aetherion stayed awake. He tried to mimic the sounds with his small mouth, forcing his tongue and palate into the shape of these new words. These weren't baby cries; they were syllable drills.
He decoded not just the language, but the hierarchy too.
This castle was run with military order. The colors on the servants' clothes indicated their rank. He could feel the shift in the atmosphere when his father entered. This was less a home, more a barracks. And he was the smallest, most defenseless soldier in these barracks. Moreover, that vibrant orange hair on his head set him apart from all the other pale-skinned, blond children in the castle. He shone like a signal flare.
Meal times were a separate war.
For a man who once led armies to now be dependent on being fed in his mother's lap... This hurt his pride, but there was no choice. He was angry at the weakness of his body. When his mother stuffed that tasteless, mushy porridge into his mouth, Aetherion wanted to turn his head and push the plate away. His soul, not his stomach, was hungry. His muscles needed to strengthen, his bones needed to harden. This porridge won't sate me, he screamed internally, looking desperately at the spoon. Give me what the soldiers eat. Give me meat, give me strength. I need to turn these puny arms into steel that can hold a sword. I cannot bear staying this defenseless.
The hardest part was that feeling of "helplessness."
One day, a large fly landed on the edge of his cradle and walked on his face. In his old life, he would have noticed that fly by the sound of its wings and sliced it in two without blinking. But now? The fly wandered on the tip of his nose, and he could only shake his head left and right, flailing his arms randomly. When the fly flew away, Aetherion cried out of sheer frustration. These were real, silent tears. The deep feeling of inadequacy at not being able to shoo away even a fly.
But he didn't give up.
In the sixth month, he managed to hold his spine upright. This was his first victory.
In the ninth month, he gripped the bars and pulled himself up. His legs trembled, his bones ached, but he didn't let go.
Hold, said the voice in his mind. Legs that do not kneel before the enemy will not succumb to the stubborn pull of the earth either.
Rise, he commanded himself. The earth cannot take me prisoner. I am not the slave of this soil, but its master.
And when he turned one...
He had begun to look not just like he was preparing to walk, but like a strategist preparing to conquer the world. Even when crawling, he didn't go randomly; he had a target. He was memorizing the acoustics of the room, the slope of the floor, the blind spots where shadows fell.
He still couldn't say the words fully, but he now understood what they were saying. He still couldn't hold a sword, but he was calculating how to stab with a spoon.
The heavy, dragon-carved oak chair standing in the dim corner of the room was no longer just furniture; it was an enemy fortress built on steep cliffs that had to be conquered. Aetherion sent that ancient command from his soul to his trembling legs. When his small, uncalloused fingers gripped the polished wood, his knuckles turned white. Rise, whispered the will inside him, with a voice compassionate yet stern. This puny flesh is just a scabbard. You must keep that scabbard upright against the jealous obstinacy of the earth that pulls you down. You are not the slave of the ground, but the master walking upon it.
He pulled himself up. His balance was on a delicate thread. He stood upright for a moment, tasted victory. However, those damned, undeveloped motor skills betrayed him again. His right foot slipped.
The world suddenly went off its axis.
His reflexes screamed "Guard!" but his arms weren't fast enough. Gravity pulled him down ruthlessly.
He slammed his head against the hard stone floor.
THUD!
The sound echoed in the room, dull and terrifying; that nauseating sound resembling the cracking of a watermelon...
The impact split his vision like white lightning. His brain shook inside his skull. His lungs filled with air by reflex, spasming to let out that shrill scream. But the seasoned will inside Aetherion was faster than the pain.
Stop, said his inner voice. Silence is your shield.
He held his breath. He choked the scream in his throat. The room was buried in a deafening silence.
His mind went dark for a moment, then lit up again. It hurt, yes. Drums were beating inside his head, but this was a familiar pain; the taste of war.
A warm liquid trickled down from above his eyebrow toward his eye. He brought his small hand to his forehead, felt the wetness, and looked.
Red.
That ancient friend he hadn't seen or smelled for a year... Blood.
The door burst open. When his mother Elara rushed in, her blood ran cold at the sight. Her baby sitting on the floor, half his face covered in blood streaming through his flame-orange hair. His pale, porcelain skin formed a horrific contrast with the crimson of the blood.
But there was no sound. No crying. Just that frightening, dead silence.
Elara fell to her knees, her hands trembling as she reached for her son. Her ice-blue eyes were wide with terror.
"Aether..." Her voice was muffled, as if she were breathless. "Are you hurt? Why aren't you crying, my baby? Make a sound... I beg you, make a sound!"
Aetherion lowered his bloody hand and fixed his eyes—blurry and faded grey due to the potion dropped that morning—on his mother.
When he saw Elara's trembling hands and the bottomless fear in her eyes, Aetherion realized the "Commander" inside him was wrong. This woman wasn't weak. This woman was drowning in the silence of her child.
The old soul within shook with shame.
My silence... he thought, his heart aching. It's not the blood that scares her. What's killing her is my lack of voice. To a mother, a baby who doesn't cry despite being in pain means he is dead.
I must calm her, he told himself. Here, I must use not the coldness of swords, but the warmth of the heart.
Aetherion pushed aside the pain of his throbbing head. He forcibly broke that stone-like, expressionless mask on his face. He curled the corners of his lips upward; maybe a bit crooked, maybe a bit forced, but it was a genuine smile.
Then, forcing his lungs, he let out a sound from his throat. Not a word, just the sound of life.
"Aaa-goo..."
He raised his bloody, tiny arms into the air and reached toward his mother, as if asking to be held. I am here, mother, his body said. Do not fear, I am still here.
This simple sound and that small movement flowed into Elara's frozen heart like water of life.