"I will let you in on a little secret."
"…Oh ?"
"Are you paying attention ?"
"Yes, Mother."
"If you take the door at the back of the kitchens on the ground floor, and go all the way down the hall and then take the exit on the left, there's a path that is framed by tall bushes. It leads you directly to the forest, and if you crouch a tad, no one in the courtyard will see you. But do not tell your father, understood ?"
"Mother…?"
"Life is a gigantic mess, Marth. I know your supervisors are all trying to get you to believe order is everything, but I also know you already suspect things are not so simple. So, here is my secret: when I am at war with myself, I take big, long walks in those woods. It does not fix anything, but it helps me think, and win those decisive battles in my head. You understand what I'm saying, yes ?"
Crisp leaves made his passage anything but inconspicuous, but he had yet to let that break his stride. For each square inch of perfectly polished marble his feet echoed against in the castle minutes ago, there was one perfectly untidy dirt-covered but bright-colored leaf littering the trail. Some birds were still chirping - the ones late with their emigration schedules -, some squirrels were still roaming, some bugs were still crawling. He wondered if these woods were really secluded to the point of having had no human visitors since his mother, or if those who did come here were all careful enough not to scare off wildlife. He had never seen a fox - a real fox - from this close. The animal didn't seem to feel threatened by his presence whatsoever. Maybe that's what convinced him to not push his luck and leave it be, despite the protests of his inner child-self from years ago.
Six years since his mother had told him about this place. Four years since she was killed. Seven months since he had reclaimed this land. Five months since his seventeenth birthday. The numbers listed themselves in his mind, and he tried to count them despite knowing them by heart. Anything to keep his thoughts off the fact that he'd never come here before now - despite walking the bush-path so often, he'd never stepped into the forest. The leaves kept crackling, and he kept the pace, one hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword and the other holding the urn.
And then nothing. Complete and utter silence, when he stopped in his tracks and held his breath. Wait, no - branches were still fending off the wind. Life does not stop for anyone. He looked around, briefly, pleased to see he couldn't make out the edge of the woods on any side. Hesitant hand left his blade to lift the lid off the vessel, and remained in midair for a moment. Finally, trembling fingers dug into ashes and came out, stretched out as far as he could so the wind could pick up the thin cinders and take them away and further in or out of the forest as it saw fit. "Happy birthday, Mother."
But sometimes, walking was not enough. Sometimes running was not enough, but there was little he could do that went beyond that. So he kept throwing one foot in front of the other. Each time faster, each time farther. Each time more crouched, each time less balanced. Each time more desperate.
Every intake of air scorched his insides with cold. His throat was so frozen he couldn't even feel the air getting in. His nose, his ears, his fingers were all numb, their stiffness spreading out to the rest of his limbs. Each breath he pushed out was a very discernible fog he kept racing through repeatedly. None of it was registering anymore. All of his brain's activity was centered on keep running. Even if he was already out of breath when he ran out of the forest so unceremoniously. Even when he started running up the steep hill and his entire body was screaming I can't !
He only crashed on top of it, stars dancing before his eyes and acute need to throw up kicking in as his whole system tried to catch up with the effort he'd just provided while being too cold to function properly. He wheezed, laying on his back and holding his chest as if expecting a heart attack that never came. What a relief that would have been.
The grass was covered in a thin layer of frost that melt underneath his weight - which was almost surprising, he thought cynically, given his probably dangerously low body-temperature - and everything seemed to indicate he would catch death out here unless he moved, assuming he hadn't already. But he stayed still, even when he'd caught his breath, even when his muscles had recovered. Something had caught his attention.
Lodestar.
He'd been given many nicknames for his deeds over the past… ten years, now. He had been thirteen. Ten years since his home had been taken and for some reason the rest of the world put its fate on his shoulders. The most common and popular was Hero-King, which he usually appreciated despite making a point to not acknowledge it. He did not feel like a hero, nor did feel up to being a king, but being associated with such a title was a compliment that never failed to boost his resolve and confidence.
Another name he had heard while spending time among people who had lived in different eras or universes was lodestar. A very odd word he hadn't recognized at first, and actually had to search through language books he hadn't touched in years to find its origin and meaning. A star that serves as a guide, one that can be seen from anywhere and that shines bright enough to be recognized among other stars.
He understood the implication, of course. Those people saw him as some sort of legend, someone they could turn to for guidance, someone who shone brighter than others from a moral standpoint, someone whose light would shine on endlessly even after death. Just like the one marking the sky, they thought their problems could be solved by merely having faith and looking up to him.
What a treacherous thing, he thought with sorrow, low temperature decidedly pushing him out of consciousness. To think a person is more than a person.
He could do no miracles, he could grant no wishes. He was not a star. He was not a legend. He was not a guide, or a hero, or a king.
He was a boy.