Baladin dropped to his knees.

“No!” he screamed for very long. “Why!”

Having fully grieved, Baladin collected himself. He brushed the dirt from his knees, and noticed Gapp close by.

“What happened?” asked Gapp, horrified.

“Oh, I was just grieving. Sorry if I woke you.”

“No, your mother!”

Baladin studied the horrible wounds on his mother’s corpse.

“Well, I’m no forensic expert, but this looks like penetrating trauma to the periumbilical region by some large blade, perhaps a sword. Based on the temperature of the body, I would estimate the subject has been dead for at least three hours.”

“Should… Should I help you bury the body?” asked Gapp.

Baladin considered his mother’s corpse.

“Yes, let’s.”

They did.

“I want you to know that I’m here for you,” said Gapp.

“Thank you! Actually, I’ve had really bad back pain recently, so I’d love a massage. No, who am I kidding. It’s late. Go home, Gapp, you’ve deserved it!”

“You’re right, you probably need some time alone.”

Gapp returned to his own home.

Around six minutes later, a mysterious stranger entered the scene. Fortunately, thanks to the magic of literature, these six minutes pass as nothing, indeed, unnoticed by anyone but the most trained eye.

Clop-clop-clop. That’s the sounds of the mysterious stranger’s horse you’re reading. Sorry, hearing.

From the trees appeared the head of a black horse, then its neck soon followed by the rider – a mysterious stranger, body shrouded by a dark cloak, fifty or fifty-five, with long hair the colour of fire and bright green eyes.

“Hail!” said Baladin, just as icy precipitation tumbled down on the ground, hissing on the still-warm logs of the old farm. “Also, greetings! I am Baladin.”

“Hail!” said the mysterious stranger, irritated. “And greetings. I see you have grieved your dead mother.”

“Yes, it was faster than I had thuoght,” said Baladin, then furrowed his brows. “Wait. How did you know it was my mother?”

The mysterious stranger coughed. “No reason. In any case, I am called Moromir, son of Noromir, and I am, as I see in your eyes that you know, a mysterious stranger.”

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“Yes, I could tell by your cloak. Say, Normoir, that’s the name of my grandpa. On my father’s side, though I never knew him…”

Moromir laughed hurriedly. “A coincidence, as the gods will it! Many a child carries yonder name in my homeland.”

“What do I know? I’m just from a small farm on the outskirts of town in a normal village on the outskirts of the Empire. Well, I was.”

“This leads me nicely into my next point. Your humble farm was ravaged by,” Moromir seemed to reach for a word, “goblins. Tall, evil creatures in servitude of the dark lord.”

“The dark lord would never burn down my house! He is a kind soul who cares for children and animals!”

“Hah! Only according to the propaganda oral histories. No, the truth is far more sinister. But you are not ready to learn it yet.”

“So the stories about him saving puppies? They’re false?”

“Each as much as the former.”

“And curing a mute by scaring him so bad he started scream? That’s false too?”

“No, that one is true. But take heart in that he was thinking sinister thoughts both before and after the event.”

“Wow. He seems so warm and genuine in the annually transmitted new years oral histories. I would never have known.”

“The truth often hurts.”

“But why would he burn down my house?”

“And kill your mother,” added Moromir. “I suppose you have had your flowering day, so you should be ready to know this. It is due to an ancient prophecy.”

“Ah, I hate ancient prophecies. We always had to analyze them in Common class.”

“Well, now you can flex those muscles.”

Moromir cleared his throat.

“Seventh son of seventh son on

hallowed ground beneath him.

Wicked king he kills, and finds an

apple, puts his teeth in.”

At the last line, lightning flashed. Baladin counted 5 seconds before thunder came, and, by applying simple arithmetic, could easily calculate how far away the lightning was.

He didn’t.

“I see the prophecy has made quite the impact on you. I know it did on me when I first heard it. Sleep evaded me for hours.”

“When did you hear it?” asked Baladin.

“Why, just this morning.”

“Right. Nevermind. The prophecy talks about ‘the seventh son of the seventh son’, but I’m an only child.”

“That may be how you stayed hidden for so long. But before your parents met, your father, how do I say this? He... slept around. Tracking down all those women, it must have been a great labor indeed!”

“You knew my father?”

“Of course not. I’m just guessing. But would the dark lord have gone this far, had he not been sure of your identity?”

“So the dark lord thinks I’m going to kill him?”

“Yes. And after that, you will eat an apple.”

“I don’t think that’s important.”

“It is in the ancient prophecy. Of course it is important.”

“Well, it sounds to me like they just really needed to rhyme with ‘beneath him’.”

“They would never…”

“I guarantee you they would.”

By now, the hail had stopped, and it was growing darker.

“I have decided,” said Baladin. “I might not be the chose one, but it’s plain to see I’m in danger. Also, I'm growing bored. I’ll join you.”

"'Tis a joyeous day, indeed!” cried Moromir. “I shall compose a poem about this day, post-haste.”

“That really isn’t necessary.”

“Nonsense!”

Baladin had expected to ride with Moromir. Instead, the man simply turned his horse, and began riding away. Baladin offered a quick glance to the ruins of his old house, then jogged after.