The soft rays of dawn crept over the horizon, casting a pale, golden light through the trees surrounding their camp. The morning air held a crispness that made the world feel sharp, as if the cold was a blade cutting through the stillness. Theodas sat near the fire, which had burned down to a bed of embers, stretching his stiff muscles as the chill bit at his skin. His body protested, sore from sitting too long without movement, but he stayed where he was, watching the embers glow faintly against the creeping light.
Inside the tent, Ochrea stirred. Theodas didn’t need to turn to know she was awake. She had always been a light sleeper, her instincts keen even in moments of rest. He could hear the soft rustle of the furs as she moved, the slight crunch of frost-covered grass under her boots as she emerged from the tent, wrapped tightly in her cloak. Her sharp gaze moved from the dim embers to him, her brow lifting in quiet inquiry.
“Why didn’t you wake me to take watch?” she asked, her voice still heavy with sleep.
Theodas glanced up at her, a slow smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I got lost in my thoughts,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the fire. “Besides, your snoring scared off the wildlife better than the fire ever could.”
Ochrea’s eyes narrowed, but there was a flicker of amusement beneath her mock annoyance. “You’ll regret that,” she muttered, her tone dangerous but playful.
Theodas grinned, feeling the warmth of her banter, but quickly deflected the impending retaliation by shifting the topic. “How’s the baby?” he asked, his gaze drifting toward the tent, where their son still lay wrapped in furs.
Ochrea’s expression softened immediately, her amusement fading into something warmer. “Still sleeping soundly,” she replied, glancing back toward the tent. “Though he was fussy earlier when I tried to give him the Frost Troll milk.”
Theodas raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “And?”
Ochrea hesitated for a moment, the smallest hint of guilt crossing her face. “I couldn’t resist. I tried some myself to see what the issue was.”
Theodas blinked, his expression a mix of mild disgust and genuine intrigue. “And?”
“It’s thick,” Ochrea said, shrugging. “And it has a hint of mint. Not bad, really.”
Theodas stared at her for a long moment, imagining the minty taste of Frost Troll milk. It wasn’t something he could picture as pleasant. He shook his head, chuckling softly. “Well, considering we’re unlikely to find a wet nurse in the next few hamlets, I guess it’s good we’ve got plenty of it.”
Ochrea nodded, her gaze drifting back to the tent where their son lay. Her eyes softened, and Theodas caught the tender glint in her expression, the kind of emotion she usually kept carefully hidden. Silence settled between them, broken only by the soft crackle of the dying fire and the distant rustle of the trees, stirring in the morning breeze.
For a moment, Theodas let the quiet linger, his thoughts once again turning inward. The stillness of the morning felt fragile, like something that could be broken at any moment. He wasn’t sure how long this peace would last.
“I’ve been thinking... the boy needs a name,” he said softly, breaking the silence.
Ochrea’s eyes flickered toward him, her expression thoughtful. She didn’t answer immediately, and Theodas could see the weight of the suggestion in her gaze. When she finally spoke, her voice was steady. “Yes. I’ve been thinking the same.”
Theodas leaned back against the fallen log behind him, his mind circling around the name he had been considering for days. He let the word roll off his tongue, slowly, deliberately. “I was thinking... Dorianel,” he said. “In Elvish, ‘dor’ means ‘gift,’ and ‘aniel’ means ‘of the gods.’ He’s a gift from the gods.”
Ochrea’s lips curled into a small smile, though after a moment, she shook her head gently. “It’s beautiful, but... maybe a bit too Elvish.” She paused, then suggested, “What about we shorten it to Dorian?”
Theodas mulled it over, repeating the shorter name in his head. It was simpler, less tied to the Elvish lineage, but it still carried weight. After a moment, a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Dorian... it’s a fine name for a half-Elf.”
Ochrea’s smile grew a little broader, and she leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder as the first light of dawn broke through the trees. Together, they watched as the last of the fire’s embers glowed faintly, casting soft shadows that flickered in the cold morning light. Above them, the stars faded, swallowed by the coming day.
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Their son had a name now, a name that carried meaning, a name that would become something far greater than either of them could yet imagine.
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Ochrea’s Reflection
Ochrea’s eyes lingered on the tent where their son slept. Despite the banter with Theodas, her thoughts often wandered into deeper, quieter places—especially when it came to Dorian. Motherhood had softened her in ways she hadn’t expected, making her feel vulnerable in moments like these. It wasn’t just the ordinary concerns of parenthood that weighed on her mind. No, something else tugged at her thoughts.
There was something about Dorian that unsettled her. He had been different from the start, his milestones coming early, too early. He watched the world around him with eyes that seemed older than his years, absorbing everything in a way that felt almost... unnatural. There were moments—fleeting but unmistakable—when she would catch him staring at things no one else could see, his brow furrowed in concentration.
Ochrea glanced at Theodas, who was now tending to the fire. He was different too, more reflective since Dorian had come into their lives. The peaceful life they’d built here felt fragile, like it could be shattered at any moment. She knew the world wouldn’t leave them alone forever. And Dorian... He was bound to something greater, something they couldn’t yet understand.
She turned her gaze back to the tent, her heart tight with a protective fear she couldn’t fully name. Raising a child was supposed to be the hardest part, but Ochrea couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just the beginning.
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Two Years Later...
Time has a strange way of slipping by, unnoticed. I’ve heard my parents say that the early years of a child’s life are fleeting, gone before you even realize they’ve passed. Now, two years later, I find it difficult to recall much of those early days, but I know enough to piece together fragments—memories, faint and blurred, like echoes from another life.
They told me it took nearly two months to return to the Kingdom of Cladris. Most of that time was spent in caravans after they reached Snowridge Village, a small outpost two days’ ride south of Harthstone, where Aunt Ingrid lives. Of course, I remember none of it. How could I? I was too young, and the world was too big, too new.
My earliest memories didn’t start forming until I was around three or four months old, and even then, they were little more than flashes—vague images, shapes, sounds. I remember the sharp pain in my gums when my first tooth came in, and the startled yelp of my nursemaid when I bit her. I hadn’t meant to, of course. It just happened.
Everything back then felt... strange. Like I was moving through water, where everything was muffled, distant, and hard to understand. My eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the world, and everything was a blur of colors and shapes that didn’t quite make sense. The sounds, too, were fuzzy, like they were coming from behind a thick wall. And I was always tired, so tired, no matter how much I slept.
I wanted to communicate, to tell them what I was feeling, but all I could manage was babbling. Nonsense sounds that didn’t mean anything, no matter how hard I tried. It was frustrating, but more than that, it was... lonely.
So I stopped trying to speak and focused on something else—my body. I spent hours just flexing my fingers, my toes, one at a time, over and over again, trying to get them to do what I wanted. It was slow, but eventually, I started to gain control. The next challenge was flipping over, from my back to my belly. I don’t know why, but that seemed to amuse the adults around me to no end. They would watch me struggle and laugh, as though my efforts were some kind of entertainment.
Time passed in a blur of trial and error, days blending into one another. But somewhere in the midst of it all, something shifted. I was trying to stand one day, wobbling on unsteady legs, when I realized something important: my head was too big. Or rather, it was throwing off my balance. It shifted my center of gravity too far forward, making it nearly impossible to stay upright. Once I understood that, things began to fall into place.
I took my first steps when I was six months old. The gasps and wide eyes of the adults around me were almost more satisfying than the walking itself. Apparently, walking that early wasn’t common. But I didn’t know that at the time. I just knew that I had done something they hadn’t expected.
After that, I turned my attention back to speaking. It was harder than walking, strangely enough. But little by little, I started to mimic the sounds I heard around me, mimicking faces and tones until I could form my first word.
Of course, it wasn’t ‘mama’ or ‘papa.’ No, my first word was ‘Shit.’ They said it often enough when they had to change me, so I figured it was the word they wanted me to say. The look on their faces when I said it was priceless. My message, however, didn’t quite land. I was left sitting there, my literal translation sagging behind me while they tried not to laugh.
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Theodas’s Reflection
Theodas watched his son closely as the boy grew, silently marveling at how quickly he had developed. Dorian’s first steps and early speech had been celebrated with awe, but for Theodas, there was an undercurrent of unease. Dorian was different. He knew it, even if he didn’t want to admit it.
The boy was attuned to things in a way that felt... unnatural. Sometimes, Theodas would catch him staring at something only he could see, his eyes wide with the kind of curiosity that belonged to someone much older. It was as if the world was revealing itself to Dorian in ways beyond their understanding.
Theodas often found himself thinking about the future—about what lay ahead for their son. There was a part of him, a quiet voice at the back of his mind, that whispered of something greater. Something beyond the quiet life they had built here. Dorian was destined for more. Theodas could feel it, deep in his bones, but that knowledge carried with it a quiet fear. How long could they protect him from what was coming?