Pignero
Prologue
He was not like other children, for he was very tall and strong; over his shoulder he carried a big sack, and in his hand an iron hammer. He could also speak like a grown man, but usually he was very silent.
—The Story of the Hero Makóma
Once upon a time—for that is how most stories are told—there lived a boy—a prince among his fellows—and a girl, one who was without peer. They were of keen wit and intelligence and they possessed kind hearts and spirits. They were adored by many, scorned by few and they loved each other very much.
Upon finishing their studies, the boy 'trothed himself to the girl, and with the blessings of their families and friends, they soon married.
Shortly thereafter, a baby boy was born to them, and from the moment he drew breath was loved and adored by all, but none so much as his parents.
He was his parents' golden child and they lavished him with love—for they had much to give. His many achievements—his first smile, his first tooth, his first utterance—were lauded and praised to the heavens. And the adoring parents gave thanks for him every day.
Unfortunately, a dark lord—the darkest in collective memory—reigned terror in the land. These dark times troubled the couple overmuch, and threatened to eclipse their happy life though they persevered.
But the times grew more troubled still and word soon came that the dark lord had set his sights on the couple's son. He planned to kill the child, for the boy's coming had been prophesied to end his dark reign.
The couple was hidden with their beloved son, by means of an ancient and binding spell. And, for a time, they were protected.
But they were betrayed by their most trusted friend—so the story goes—and on the night wherein the veil between the living and the unliving is thinnest, the dark lord, who's name means death, descended on their home and cut the couple down, even as they pleaded for their child's life.
Disregarding the baby's piteous cries, the dark lord endeavored to kill him by means of an evil spell, but the child was more extraordinary than anyone had realized, for the spell left the baby unharmed, leaving nary a scratch save for a cut on his head. Instead, the spell recoiled, killing the dark lord instantly, and the dark lord's vassals, horrified by their liege's precipitous end, ran, and terror reigned the land, no more.
The baby, found sitting in the ashes of his parent's once happy home, was hailed a savior, and his mother a martyr, for it was the gift of her love that had saved the child's life.
The child was given into the care of his mother's kin, who—as oft happens in tales of courage and woe—despised him beyond measure. And, as children do, the boy grew; neither knowing of his parents' great love for him nor of the events that had taken their life, for his relatives saw it fit not to tell him.
In this manner, he lived, until one day a curious, giant of a man came and rescued him from his abominable family. He was told the truth of his heritage and was schooled in the magickal arts, as his parents had been, and for a time, the boy was happy.
However, the dark lord's most loyal follower revived his thought-to-be dead sire, and brought him to life once more. There were many attempts on the boy's life before he was told about the prophecy and after many fateful encounters with the dark lord the boy vanquished him.
Ah—but my narrative does not end. I have told you this story, and I will tell another, anon, so that you might perceive its truths and its deceptions. For is that not what a story is—an account, a chronicle, a recitation of events that have happened, whether they be truth or fiction?
Forsooth, the erosion of time and the story's many tellings leave but a kernel of its veracity—its true happenings are stripped away, until it is naught but a pretty bedtime story that parents tell their children whilst tucking them away for the night—the heroics of the boy-who-lived and those who stood trusted by his stead.
Bah! You know not, I say, what true heroism is. Indeed, you know not what real bravery and courage entail. It is love—nay, you say—but I tell you, it is love. It is sweat and it is tears and sacrifice. Moreover, it is forgiveness and mercy and it is fear. Fear—yea, it is fear, not for one's self, but for the other.
Why, look you, at me, thusly? Think, you, it the ramblings of a mad woman? I will tell—yes!—I will tell the truth of the matter. I will tell the story as it really happened. Few know its details. Fewer, still, know its start—its genesis, its birth. Yes, gentlemen, few know the story as it really began. I will tell you, it.
This chapter, but not the story, is very, very loosely based on the opening and closing scenes of the movie, Ever After.
Pignero, in Latin, means pawn.
anon-in a short time
betrothed ('trothed)-engaged to be married
forsooth-indeed