“There is no fucking way this is what it looks like,” were the baby’s thoughts as he read a text message overlaid in his vision, like a virtual pager in his head.

The message read;

 Hi, I’m you and I’ve arranged for you to keep your memories. Don’t get caught by gods or man, or we might spend a thousand years suffering.

 Do not lie. Do not commit sin. DO NOT DIE.

Having just come out, the baby was being held by, what he thought at first was, a humongous old man. This huge person had a big nose, wide at the base with a high bridge, and a peppery white stubble beard beard. His breath smelled strongly of peppermint.

Looking around, a few things stood out. In the absence of electric lighting, a clay fireplace illuminated the untreated wooden  room. A sword and damaged shield hung on one side of the fireplace, a bow and quiver on the other. Next to respected armaments, cloaks and armor hung from two special purpose racks. Dents, scratches, and stitches made obvious this equipment was well worn. The sword and shield probably belonged to his father. He had the build for it. The leathers next to the bow had ample room in the chest for it to be worn by a woman. It was likely his mother’s.

If it was just that he had reincarnated into the medieval era, it might have been believable, but when the old man poked him with a metal chopstick, it sent a weird feeling coursing through his body. “Magic’s not real,” he thought. It had to be some sort of delusion, but it couldn’t be. This place, his body, these people, it was all to real to be a dream.

“Nope, not what it looks like,” he thought, noticing his tiny body drenched in red.

While he pondered on his unusual circumstances, Dillon, as if coming to some kind of realization, placed his large calloused palm on his newborn son’s tiny forehead and said, “Welcome home Damian.”

One thing was painfully obvious, these strange people, his new family, dearly loved their new child. This was so painfully obvious that despite the ominous message, little Damian was still so choked up about it, he might have cried had it not been for the old man promptly plunging him into a bucket of warm water.

By the time he was washed, Rose had finished sobbing, and while she held her baby for the first time, crying erupted from next door. For a split second little Damian thought it was coming from him. The surprise he quickly hid was not noticed by the other three. They were busy exchanging tender, profound glances.

“There might be another baby being born on this same night right next door,” he thought. While that was comforting, more than anything it further fueled his curiosity. “If this is happening to me, maybe it’s also happening to whoever’s crying over there. Could that person knows what is going on?” he wondered.

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Unlike the Dagger’s who were pleased when they heard the neighbor’s baby crying, Mrs Gretta’s thin lips pursed into a scowl. Tens of thousands of hours over several decades went into forming the deep canons folded into her paper like dermis.

It’s not as though she wanted something bad to happen necessarily. She was displeased that there was no bad news. Her favorite hobby was talking about other people, especially other people’s misfortunes. Of course she would be oh, so very heartbroken if something bad really did happen, and she’d tell anyone who’d listen all about it. Starting with her reliable son.

“The Black Paw kid sounds fine.”

“That’s good. Right momma?”

“Yes, it’s fine,” she snapped.

“Has the Dagger’s baby made any noise yet?” Greg asked out of concern. He didn’t care about the baby, but his mother’s snappy tone was scary and, thanks to years of conditioning, his thick brain understood that asking about other people’s problems would change her mood. His mother was less scary when she was talking about other people. If he was lucky, she’d turn into a sweet, caring lady who wasn’t scary at all.

It worked like a charm, his mother dawned her most compassionate demeanor and said, “No, bless his heart. He still hasn’t made a single peep.”

“But old Dean said he was fine though, right?”

“Shh, they’re talking about him.”

What she was listening in on was old Dean, having finished cleaning up the mess, talking to Dillon, who had just put Rose and little Damian to bed.

“This occasion calls for a toast,” old Dean declared, pouring two pints of ale.

Dillon received his wooden mug with an absent minded “Thanks dad,” and instead of drinking, stared into his frothy brew with complicated thoughts.

“Congratulations son. You’re a father now,” old Dean said, raising his mug.

“Yeah,” Dillon replied, letting out a heavy sigh before meeting the toast.

“What’s the matter? Rose just gave birth to a healthy baby boy. This should be one of the proudest days of your life. It certainly is one of the proudest days of mine.”

“I am proud,” Dillon replied to his cup, “but I’m worried about little Damian.”

“It is normal for babies to cry during birth, but little Damian’s breath is strong and his blood flow is completely normal. I can’t find anything wrong with the boy. He seems perfectly healthy.”

“What if it’s something we can’t tell? You know, like something wrong with his brain?” Dillon asked under his breath, conscientious of his wife in the other room.

“If there is something wrong with his brain, then that’s what the god’s will. It’s out of our hands.”

Dillon let his father’s words sink in and sorted his thoughts. A few moments later, with a confident nod he said, “You’re right dad. Whether his brain is fine or not, I’m still his father and I’m still going to love him and raise him the best I can. No matter what.”

Old Dean gave an understanding nod, and said, “You know, there was a time when I didn’t think this day would ever arrive.”

“Well, I’m still alive. That’s mostly thanks to you dad.”

“This old man just does a bit of mixing.”

Dillon wasn’t buying it. “You do a lot more than just a bit of mixing.”

“It’s true. You’re alive because you’re a great adventurer.”

“I’m alive because of your guidance and the Rascals always save me when I’m in a pinch.”

“If you listened to all of guidance, you wouldn’t have been an adventurer in the first place, and the Rascals save you because they’re strong. That’s largely thanks to your strong leadership.”

Knowing full well he couldn’t win an argument against old Dean, Dillon simply shrugged it off, and with a raised mug and a grin said, “Congratulations dad. You’re a grandfather now.”