To Morgan, it was normal to not have a father.
He had no recollection of the man whose exalted blood flowed through his veins, whose mark he bore on his skin. The man who existed only in Morgan's elder sister and an old painted portrait.
Sometimes Morgan would stare at the portrait for hours on end, trying to imagine the man's firmly set mouth turned up in a smile; an affectionate, friendly, fatherly smile, the kind one would see just before getting swept up in a warm hug.
Sometimes Morgan would stare into the mirror and wonder if he looked at all like the man in the painting. He would sweep his blue hair to the side the way his did, try to imitate his expression, but it wasn't enough. Morgan had his mother's brown eyes and rounded face, her short, slender build and small hands.
For Morgan, the only way he'd ever gotten to know his father was through bedtime tales filled to overflowing with valor and heroism. The stories of slaying monstrous foes with a legendary sword, spun by candlelight in the dark midnight.
Sometimes Morgan would watch his sister, watch her training and planning. She was tall and strong, regal and skilled with the sword; an almost exact match to their father. And her eyes, the ones always filled with determination and courage, were blue, like his, instead of brown.
Sometimes Morgan found himself resenting that man, the man who had left them all with but an old sword and a world of troubles to remember him by. He would catch himself quickly and admonish his selfish behavior as he begged forgiveness of his parents' ghosts.
Sometimes Morgan would try to envision what it would be like if they were still alive. He would grin, picturing himself and mother reading books together all day; his father taking him out to help perfect his swordplay; walking in the gardens, all four of them, as happy as anyone ever was. He would try to imagine about them what he dis not know, and kept safe in his heart what he did. He would close his eyes with bliss as he pictured them together; everyone had smiles on their faces, and the embraces were warm and loving.
But the images would fade and Morgan bliss would turn to tears as he was brought back to the harsh reality. And so he would weep, wondering how he could barely remember someone and yet miss them so badly, how he could feel so keenly the loss of something never there.
Sometimes Morgan missed his mother and father so much he thought he might break. He thought he'd succumb to the darkness and end up like one of those horrid beasts that roamed the shadowed land. But someone, be it his sister or aunt or just a servant or soldier, would always come along and find him. They'd dry his tears and hold him close, whispering words of comfort and light. He'd take a deep breath and stand up, on his own two feet, and press onward once again.
Sometimes Morgan could feel their spirits close, guiding his sword in the thick of battle, quickening and sharpening his movements until one could swear the boy was the Hero-King reincarnate. He could feel his father's resolve and courage, his mother's grace and wisdom.
But most of all he felt their love. Their love for their people, their comrades, the halidom; and most importantly, their love for him.
Sometimes Morgan was striding forward proudly.
Sometimes Morgan would stumble and fall.
But he always knew he would get back up again, with a little help from his family, from his parents. Even when memories failed him, even when the wings of despair spread across the sky and blotted out the sun.
~Le finish
