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Roland winced as his wife’s hand grasped his in a vice grip, and he stared nervously at the midwife at the end of the bed. A baby’s cry joined his mother’s pained wail, and a nurse came over with a little bundle of joy in her arms.
“A boy,” Roland whispered, awed by the sight of his new son, and he struggled to hold his new child in his arms.
His wife, a brand new mother, giggled at his fumbling, before laying her eyes on her son. “Ahren,” she whispered softly, before she grit her teeth.
“Another one!” the midwife cried out, and, not long after, the loud cries of a newborn babe pierced the room. Roland once again struggled to hold him, and now to balance both boys in his arms.
“Alucard,” he breathed this time, and, looking at his wife, smiled when she approved of the name.
But while they were basking in the glow of new parents, a cold chill crawled up Roland’s back as he watched his new boys cuddle against their mother’s bosom. As an older soldier in the army, and with his wife adjusting to being a new mother, he didn’t know how they could bring up two sons at their age.
“Sir,” the midwife murmured, tapping him on the shoulder, “the firstborn….”
The cold chill spread to the rest of his body as he realized that Ahren wasn’t even breathing right. It was in short, sharp rasps, as if he were struggling. On top of that, his fingers were tinged blue, compared to Alucard’s warm pink fingers.
There was something wrong with Ahren.
“I’m not that concerned,” the nurse murmured, “but just in case….” She trailed off, and Roland only nodded. She didn’t need to say any more.
Days and weeks pass. While Alucard has been getting stronger by the day, crying for his milk and his mama, snatching toys, wriggling out of his father’s arms, Ahren has been sleeping constantly, whether it’s in his bed or in his mother’s arms. Ahren’s skin was colder than his brother’s, showing how he can’t retain any heat.
He needed to make a decision, no matter what, for the good of his family.
His wife wouldn’t agree, of course. But what can he do? What can they do?
He went to the Monastery of Light for help, but they didn’t exactly offer to accept the young child when he asked them. Although he was unwilling to give Ahren up to a random orphanage, it was better than dropping him off in a dark alley, waiting for rats and cats to devour him.
The mother hen that ran the local orphanage opened the door to a healthy yet mature blond man standing in the night rain with a bundle in his arms. She frowned, wondering why someone like him would bring her a child, but his blue eyes and pale face were as wet and streaming as the street outside as he begged her to take care of him.
“I’m so sorry. Father loves you so much, my dearest Ahren,” she heard him whisper to his son, and her heart broke as he kissed the boy on the forehead, before handing the bundle over to her.
“What’s his name?” a little girl cutely asked, her friends and adopted brothers and sisters peering over her arms and the blankets that swaddled the baby boy.
“Ahren,” the caretaker murmured as she warmed and dried the newcomer in her arms.
“Does he have a last name- ow!”
“Don’t ask that, dummy,” a little boy said, having bonked his adopted sister on the head. “Nobody comes in here with one.”
“That’s up to him,” the caretaker replied, and looked up at all of them, “like any of you. You can choose your last name when you grow up.”
“Woah…”
She grinned when all the kids lit up, and started thinking about what kind of last names they would have once they came of age, or what their last names might be as they are adopted. But she turned back to the bundle in her arms, rocking the chair back and forth gently, as the unlikely family of the orphanage gathered around the warmth of the fire.
At the age of 12, he decided to try for the Imperial Army, but he was too small and frail to start serving. Annoyed and frustrated, he ran off, escaping the orphanage and Mrs. Harrison, the small orphanage’s widowed adoptive mother, for the night.
Settling into one of the dark alleys of the city, he wondered why he had been given up in the first place. Did his parents hate him? Did he do something wrong? Wasn’t he a blessing like Mrs. Harrison told him he was? Wasn’t he smart enough, strong enough? Wasn’t he blond enough, like the girls down the street said he was? Weren’t his eyes blue enough?
Wasn’t he good enough?
There was a scream, and the windows around him lit to life. He ran, knowing that voice, past opening doors and curious cats.
It was Mrs. Harrison!
The building was on fire!
He yelled and screamed for help, but ended up collapsing on the street. Mrs. Harrison, while kind, did not have enough to feed the children, and few people were willing to donate to the children. It was always cold in the winter, and food was carefully portioned every morning, noon, and night; there were never any snacks.
Tonight, after two runs from and to the orphanage, young, thin Ahren was exhausted, and he collapsed among some of his adopted brothers and sisters, who fell prey to the heat and smoke.
The next morning, Ahren woke up on Mrs. Harrison’s lap. Her face was peaceful but tired and sooty, but her eyes were puffy and the front of her shirt damp. Glancing around, he found several small, thin bodies lined up on the street, covered in fabric, surrounded by men and women who were talking quietly.
All of his brothers and sisters had died in the fire.
Ahren couldn’t remember sobbing harder for the small family he had, for the only family he had known. He isolated himself, wishing he had died with them, too; the house was too quiet with just him and Mrs. Harrison.
“Ahren?” Mrs. Harrison asked, knocking softly on the door to his room. “Can you buy me some matches from Miss Payne?”
“Sure.” He wiped his tears, jumped off the bed, and took the bag of coins in her hand. He frowned; there were too many coins in this bag for a small box of matches….
“That’s all I have,” Mrs. Harrison told him shakily. “Take care of it, okay?”
He nodded earnestly, wanting to make her proud even though she was not his mother. “I will.”
“Good boy.” She kissed him on both cheeks, before kissing his forehead, and then hugged him tightly. “I love you, Ahren. Be a good boy, okay?”
“I will.” He sighed against his adoptive mother’s warm, comforting hold. “I love you too…Mama.”
Mrs. Harrison sobbed before she let him go.
But when he returned that evening, she was nowhere to be found. He looked everywhere for her, until someone found a familiar apron having floated down the river.
When Ahren returned from Mrs. Harrison’s funeral, he took stock of what remained of the house. He wished he could sell it, do something about it. But there was nothing but toys that he didn’t want to keep, memories he wanted to let go.
“Boy.”
A gruff voice sounded from the entrance to the home, and he found a man standing there. Ahren stood his ground; if this man wanted him dead, then so be it. He had nothing left to live for, anyway.
“I come in peace,” the man said, palms up in the air. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
“Then what are you here for?” Ahren growled.
“I come with a proposition, an offer.” Ahren frowned, cocking his head; the orphanage didn’t have enough books, so he didn’t understand what it meant. “I want to make you a deal.” Ahren was silent, and the man saw interest in the boy’s blue eyes. “I take you in, give you food and shelter, and you work with me.”
“What’s the point of working?”
“You lived your whole life in thie orphanage, boy?” Ahren nodded silently. “Ever want to know something out there? What the forest looks like?” Ahren didn’t budge. “Who your family is?”
Ahren’s lips moved, shocked that someone would know, and the man smiled.
“Come on. You have a lot to learn.”
Ahren looked back, wondering if he left anything. But his hand gripped the bag of coins Mrs. Harrison gave him, and he followed the stranger, abandoning the one place he did and didn’t belong.
Damon Richmond was not a commoner, or a simple merchant, or a humble baker. Damon was clearly someone more than that: he was a mercenary. He was an assassin-for-hire that did odd jobs in the Empire, and sometimes outside of it. A strong, independent fighter that could do things himself, and was happy with what he was doing. Ahren wanted that kind of strength, so that whoever depended on him would never have to want for more.
And so Ahren started his training. Although clearly, the strong-arming his way through things was not exacctly possible with his condition. Eager to learn quickly, he started learning and finding ways to use his currently slight build to his advantage while Damon had him gain more weight and muscle with food and exercise. Slowly but surely, Ahren was learning about the world through a hunter’s eyes: perceptive, knowledgeable, and deadly.
“...Hawksfort.”
That was the name he decided on: ‘hawk’, his favorite hunting bird, and ‘fort’, to remind him that he needed to find his home.
“What’s that for?” Damon asked as they sat around the fire one night.
“My last name.” Ahren turned the bag of gold in his hands, the fabric tattered by time, but its contents unchanged. “My…adoptive mother said I could choose it.”
Damon let out a quiet scoff that did not go unnoticed. Ahren ignored it; Damon’s face was not mocking, anyway. “I think I know a Hawksfort.” Ahren whipped his head up so fast, his vision blurred. Damon’s lip curled in a smile, amused. “They say he died a dishonorable death. Mutiny at its finest, I heard from the big names in the military.” He picked up his flask of rum, and threw his head back for a couple of swigs.
Ahren frowned. That couldn’t be his father…right?
Damon sighed, relishing the scent and sting of alcohol in his throat. “Roland, his name was. Roland Hawksfort.”
Ahren scoffed. “It can’t be coincidence.”
“Can’t be, no,” Damon replied, “if not for the crest he once held.” On the dirt with a stick, Damon drew a small, simple insignia, almost like a bird, with a gem. “His son now wears that on his chest, proudly like a flag. God knows what it really is, but I have no doubt that’s a damn bird.” Damon laughed once. “And he did hold down the fort, saving the whole Second Regiment.”
“You know the truth about his death?”
Damon’s eyes glinted mischievously. “Boy, there’s nothing more valuable in this world than knowledge.” He chucked a twig in Ahren’s direction, and he bowed his head just so the stick didn’t hit his eye. “Sometimes, you can trade your skills for things better than the job’s worth in gold.”
“And why are you telling me this?”
“I was never a mercenary in the beginning,” Damon said. “I used to be a demon hunter.” Damon explained that he got bored of demon hunting, and switched to something more exciting instead. “World ain’t gonna run out of demons soon,” he explained.
Ahren refocused on Roland Hawksfort and his mysterious son, eyes sharpening. Damon knew that look, and when Ahren opened his mouth, Damon threw his head back with a laugh.
“You ain’t getting any info from me, boy! Go look for it yourself!”
Ahren smirked, and they chucked rocks in each other’s direction.
The next day, Ahren had to bid Damon good-bye. The man was due for another mission in Los Pecados, something about a jewel job for Fred, and Ahren couldn’t wait to start his new adventure.
After thirteen long years, he was ready to come back home.
Mrs. Harrison, Katie, Simon, Faris, Addie, everyone…thank you. He let out the breath he was holding, and set his jaw, taking the first step back to Lumina City. Mother, Father…Brother, maybe even Sister…I will find you!