It was a quiet night in a quiet frontier town when something miraculous happened, the miracle of life. The Dagger's had just delivered their first and only child.
The mother, Rose Dagger, was wearing a loose fit robe, open in the back like a hospital gown, her brunette hair drenched in sweat. Though the coarse, raw hemp fibers chafed her sensitive areas, she had other concerns at the moment.
She had been born into a wealthy family but none of the treasures or tapestries that adorned her birthing chamber could be found in this simple fire lit seating area. That was fine. The crude bench made from splintering wood suited her better than the down filled silk birthing chair her mother had custom made for when she was born.
Rose was not on speaking terms with her family. She hadn't been for nearly ten years. It was not that they hated each other. They did strongly disliked one another though.
The Strolicks had always been particularly concerned with what the other aristocrats thought of them. When Rose Dagger was little Rose Strolick, she was particularly concerned with worms. When she was supposed to be studying embroidery, she could be found practicing archery. Instead of practicing etiquette she would slip away to engage in mock combat with a tree. When her parents told her that she would never become a nobleman's bride if she didn't learn proper manners, she would, to her parents dismay, dig up worms in the yard.
Little Rose Strolick may have been somewhat of a tomboy, but the real reason she was estranged from her biological relatives was the man standing next to her, her loyal and heroic husband.
Dillon Dagger was the son of a humble potion master, and had not been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Due to the tremendous cost his father paid to study potions, little Dillon's mouth was often filled with sewer rat stew on a cheap wooden spoon. A fact so upsetting to the Strolicks, that when asked about their daughter, they might reply, "She died a long time ago,” or “She was an orphaned peasant, not our real daughter at all.”
Though Dillon thought it a shame they were on bad terms with his wife's family, he was not ashamed of his humble origins nor the modest but functional home he and his father built in a part of town some called "the Pit.” In that home, Rose, Dillon, his father old Dean, and the newborn were occupying the mainroom, which was currently serving as a birthing chamber. There were three bedrooms, a kitchen used for cooking, and what was considered a frivolous luxury, a washroom. The entire house, from shingle to shit bucket, was made by hand so that on this night, when the Dagger house would grow from three to four Daggers, they would have a large, sturdy roof over their heads.
Four people were present, but all Mrs Gretta, the nosy neighbor, could hear was the soft crackle of the hearth.
Dillon was in shock, his mousy but handsome face twisted in fright. He was a man who kept his cool under pressure. He'd seen a lot of things, and he'd done a lot of things to get to where he was, but on this night, that he had every reason to believe would be an auspicious occasion, he faced true horror.
Rose, shortly after her delivery, was every bit as modified as her husband, not because of family squabbles. It was because her baby had not yet made a single noise.
Old Dean was the only adult there to maintain any semblance of composure. Unlike Rose and Dillon who had nothing to do but worry, old Dean was busy assessing the health of the newborn. Eyes shut in concentration, he held the baby in one hand and wielded a greenish rod with the other. Sometimes poking, sometimes meticulously swiping, he inspected the child with the rod.
Meanwhile, across the street, Mrs Gretta was sitting at her usual spot, a table directly under the front window of her small single room home. She was doing her usual activity, eavesdropping on her neighbors with what looked like a miniature trombone she held to her ear. After minutes of silence, she began to wonder if the Dagger's had up and left without her noticing. That didn't make sense though. Nonsense was best left to her son.
"What's happening momma?" Greg, who both physically and cognitively, could be described as "thick,” asked.
“Shush boy. I'm trying to listen," she said. The way she scrunched her nose to raise her taunt upper lip left behind characteristic lines, permanently writing disdain all over her wrinkly old face.
Greg replied by obediently shutting his mouth.
It was bad enough that she had to live in a single room with her idiot son, the fact that she couldn't even find out what's going on without being interrupted by a fat adult's adolescent questions was displeasing. At least she didn't have to look at him to listen to what her rough neck neighbors were up to.
Silence. Old Dean, for several long minutes now, was still concentrating on his task. Dillon and Rose were hardly breathing. This suffocating unease went on until old Dean finally opened his eyes and said, "I can't find anything wrong with the boy. He seems perfectly healthy.”
Dillon slowly released his held breath and allowed his contorted face to relax as the tension gripping the room evaporated. Rose's breath returned in sobs as the tears welling in her blue eyes turned into a flood. "Thank the gods,” she murmured.
"Thank the gods,” Dillon and old Dean softly echoed.
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When the color returned to his face, Dillon gave a reassuring squeeze to his sobbing wife's shoulder, and with two confident strides approached old Dean to get a good look at his son. Sizing up his afterbirth covered, silent, newborn baby boy, he had a funny thought. While the father was evaluating the son, it seemed as though the son was also evaluating the father.
No one present could have guessed what was really going on in that baby's head or why he was silent.
“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.
Unlike the Dagger’s who were pleased when they heard the neighbor’s baby crying, Mrs Gretta’s thin lips pursed into a scowl. Hundreds 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, but 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 much 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. She 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.”
“But 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.”