It was a great irony, this life of Jefferson's.
He had been the only child born to his parents. Or at least that was what he was told since he was a child but he had no reason to disbelieve it. He was told by the head of the small orphanage that he'd been found on the side of the road next to the bodies of the parents. His father had his throat cut, most likely by the bandits that tended to stick around near the city roads but far enough from them to disappear from the knights that patrolled the area.
His mother had been found with a knife in her chest. They told him that she had lived long enough to birth him before she died.
The robbers had taken everything but the clothes on his parent's back; they'd even taken their travel papers so Jefferson was not given the privilege of knowing their names.
If it weren't for the farmer that had found him shortly after, he would've joined his parents in the afterlife. Which, compared to what he was facing, would've been a blessing.
Jefferson didn't have many memories of those first few years of his life. He remembered it was quite crowded in that orphanage, the master of the house said that it was far too many children for him to care for and the crops in the nearby farms were failing which meant that no one would want children that couldn't work the fields. He remembered screaming for hours until someone finally got to him to feed him or care for him. He remembered the girl that cared for him was a girl approximately eight years old called Lottie. He remembered that the only time her eyes lit up was when she held him because he only stopped crying when she was the one to pick him up. It made her feel important.
Lottie was the one that taught him how to talk. He didn't remember his first words though. He did remember that she taught him to walk. He remembered the cold cobblestones underneath his feet. He remembered her hugging him when he toddled those few steps and he remembered that she smelled like bread and spices. She worked in the kitchen when she wasn't attending him.
When he would grow older and talk about these memories, no one would believe him. They said that a child did not remember such things and perhaps he made it up to cope with the fact that his parents were brutally murdered and he grew up with no one to love him. He made it up because he was always hungry, his thirst was never quenched, his clothes never fit and he was loaned out to whoever would pay to orphanage to work as soon as he was old enough to understand orders and what they meant.
The memories weren't fake though. He saw them as if he were looking at reality.
The worst of remembering though…the perfect memory that he seemed to have was the bad things he experienced seemed worse because he could recall every memory in his head over and over again.
The first of these was probably the most telling and traumatizing. He was two and his cradle had been moved next to Lottie's bed. It was required of the young girls to care of the babies. The mistress of the house couldn't care for them all by herself and he and Lottie had bonded.
She had even given him his name. She'd named him after her father.
The winter of his second year, she'd gotten a cough that settled deeper and deeper in her lungs. The doctor only visited once. Jefferson watched from his cradle as the doctor whispered something to the mistress, handed her a vial and then left.
The vial ran out and Lottie still grew weaker.
That night, Jefferson escaped the crib. He'd figured it out easily; Lottie sometimes pulled him in the bed with her when it was cold. And he was cold now so he curled up next to her and went to sleep.
The master and the mistress both found them like that the next day. Lottie was unnaturally still and Jefferson lay next to her, sucking on his thumb. He waited for her to wake up. She would smile and tickle him and care for him.
But she didn't awaken.
They didn't bother with him as they put a blanket over Lottie's head and lifted her up. Jefferson didn't understand but he knew he didn't like it. He gave an angry screech at them for jostling him.
The flames in the fireplace at the far end of the room shot out of the fireplace and receded back almost as quickly. Everyone nearby screamed and scrambled away but other than scorched earth, no one was harmed.
Some of the others had run to attend the children at fireplace.
Everyone but the master of the house, who looked at him with a mixture of confusion and terror. He gathered Lottie in his arms and walked by his wife, "Keep the other children away from that boy, he has magic."
It wasn't until Jefferson was much MUCH older that he learned the magic he possessed was because he had been born out of true love.
So, he was a true love baby and there was no one alive who loved him.
It was a great irony, this life of Jefferson's.