The child was born, awakened at last. He did not cry, for his soul felt old, mature, but moments after he felt youthful, and began wailing as a newborn should. Yet a shadow of that maturity, that old soul, remained
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The boy's first years were uneventful, peaceful. As he grew, so did the number of mishaps surrounding him. Small things mostly, a broken plate here, a spilled water bucket there. But it was the nature of these accidents that bothered his parents. They happened when he was far away, usually when he was outside, spitting wood or running off to the village. His parents know that they didn't cause them, nor did the wind or various other tools of nature. They began to worry, as parents often do.

Around the time boy turned sixteen, however, the accidents disappeared. The boy found himself, his true identity. He learned control.
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The night air was fresh when the boy returned home late from weapons practice with a local warrior. He barely needed it anymore; he wielded many weapons with ease. It was uncanny.

He went the long way through the forest. Night was his favorite time of day. He loved the smell of the evergreens and cedar, the feeling of brisk night air upon his face and running through his black hair. He shrugged his shoulders, sighing with satisfaction.

When he approached at the house, he felt, knew, that something was wrong. the only noises he could hear were of nature; of her night melodies. There was light coming from the windows, but it was wrong somehow, dim.

"What in the hell is going on," asked the boy to nothing in particular.

He walked closer, past the woodpile, the gravel making sounds beneath his boots. When he opened the door, his parents were sitting down, his mother drinking tea.

"Mother-" the boy began, but he was interrupted by his father.

"Son, you can no longer come here. We've prepared you some things for traveling. They are in your room."

It was a command, and the boy knew it. He did as he obeyed, gathering the supplies at the foot of his bed; travel food, money, clothes, a canteen already filled.

When he looked up and laid his eyes upon what was on his bed he was astonished. There lay two of the most beautiful weapons he had laid eyes upon. A grey sword with a silver hilt and a staff of black wood, designs burned along its whole lentgh. They looked untested, but feeling them he knew they had been battle-proven. He attached the scabbard to his belt and slid in the sword. There was a shoulder strap for the staff; he put that on as well.

"Where did you get these?", the boy asked his parents as he was walking out of the room.

His mother answerd. "They're ours, Feirlen. Now go. Your life as a warrior awaits you. Bring our name new honor."

Wordlessly, Feirlen left.
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In the morning, when Feirlen woke up, he felt liberated, free. There was nothing weighing down on him. He felt warm inside, he knew it was his powers running through his veins. It was odd, thought the boy, bo he was a man now, to feel like this, but that was how it was. He could feel no other way.