From the time he was born, everyone told him he was beautiful.
His mother, cuddling him before putting him to bed at night, would murmur into his golden curls, "Ah, my sweet boy, you are my sun and moon and stars - but they fade in beauty compared to you."
His father would ruffle his curls in passing and say he was more beautiful than any of the other children in the village.
The boys and girls of the village, as he grew, would follow him with starstruck eyes, sighing. When they commented on how lovely his curls were, he would give them a blinding smile and say, simply, "I know." He grew used to the constant compliments, taking them as his due. The sun rose in the east, the sky was blue, his mother's lamb stew was the most delicious, he was gorgeous. Just another fact of life.
As he grew older and more discerning, he noted, much to his dismay, that none of the other villagers were really good-looking. Oh, his mother was pretty, he'd grant that. And his father was handsome, if you ignored the pockmarks from his childhood disease. But the blacksmith's skin was filled with grit and grime, worn in by years of smithery. The innkeeper had a twisted back. The innkeeper's wife had a big nose. Samira had acne. Josiah's face looked like a hatchet. Lucas's eyebrows were shaggy. Marla had short legs, Diana's were too long, Damaris limped. For a while, he gave them earnest advice on how to be less ugly, but it didn't seem to help.
Besides, people had stopped talking to him much. Everyday pleasantries, yes, but he was never part of the pairs and groups that laughed and joked with each other. He had no idea why. Maybe they were just stunned by his looks? Worried that he would look down on them because of their imperfections?
Obviously, he was going to have to look elsewhere for romance. He was too gorgeous for this hole in the road.
Early on the morning of his sixteenth birthday, he snuck out of the house and struck out through the woods for the next village over to the north. Surely he'd be able to find a beautiful young woman or youth there!
A day spent there dashed his hopes. Imperfection everywhere! Scars. Deformities. Pimples. Short arms, hunched backs, thick lips, frizzy hair, bad breath, ugliness everywhere.
On the way home, tired, thirsty, downhearted, he slumped beside a stream, cupping a handful of water to drink. But he paused with his hand halfway to his mouth, gaping at the handsome boy who floated in the water. Golden curls. Flawless skin. Big, blue eyes. Strong jaw. Nose just the right size. All the proportions correct, symmetry that made his heart sing.
Himself.
He dipped his hand in the water and watched the ripples flow across his reflection.
Do I really look like that?! No wonder everyone says I'm beautiful!
He headed home, thinking.
He tried the village to the east the next day, with the same result. A different stream reassured him of his beauty, and made him more mournful.
Why can't I find someone who looks as lovely as me?
He picked at his dinner that night. His parents eyed him, listened to his sighs, and exchanged worried looks. He fell into bed that night and wept into his pillow.
The village to the south was bigger, but, even so, no-one's beauty struck him. Oh, the people were nice enough! But he was on a quest, and niceness just wouldn't cut it. A small lake, where he stopped to rest, displayed his reflection even better - the stillness of the water was perfectly flat. He traced the outline of his face and upper body with a finger hovering just above the surface, so no ripples would mar it, and sighed.
Someone who looks as good as that. Why is it so difficult?
That night, he kept comparing his reflection to the people he had met. He didn't bother to eat the dinner his mother slipped in front of him, just pushed it away and sat sulking at the table. His bedroom, dark and cold, echoed with loneliness that night, and he couldn't stop thinking about the young man who appeared in the water.
He had to row a boat across a bigger lake to get to the western village. He stroked hard on the oars, determined that, even if he had failed in the past few villages, today would be the day.
When he rowed back late that afternoon, every stroke was a burden. There was nowhere left for him. He shipped the oars in the middle of the lake, leaned his head against the thwart, and cried. Hunger twisted his stomach. The empty lake emphasized his loneliness. All he had...he peered down at the water.
I'll never find someone as perfect as that.
He reached out to stroke the reflection. He leaned closer to make it larger, ignoring the way the boat tilted beneath him.
Just a kiss...
His lips brushed the water. The boat tilted further. He didn't mind, didn't worry about mundane things such as being unable to swim, as he slid into the water, joining his reflection.
Perfect...