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He was a child.
He was a child when he lost them, a glossed over fact, a backstory not fully told—
We don’t get the backstory, he doesn’t want the backstory, give us a few chapters weak and small and make him a background character, a halfhearted thought, a bit of foreshadowing for later
But don’t, he begs you— orders you— erases other possibilities from you— don’t remember him small.
He was a child but he’d rather be a story
He was a child but he’d rather be a young adult
He was a child but he’d rather be useful, he’s so useful, isn’t he useful?
But he was useless once and wretched the way we all are, the way we all start, because humans weren’t meant to be alone, how long was he alone how long was he more curse than kid how long did he go with no one looking out for him?
He was a child, He was a child, He was a child.
He was small and too young to have thoughts like die die die die
He was young and too small to have plans like ruin ruin ruin ruin
He was a child with no name and no home that wanted him and it’s not fair and it’s not his fault and it can’t be his fault— not all that, not so young.
He was a child and he wanted to be loved and he wanted to be held and he wanted to be weak.
He was a child and he was taught he couldn’t be, couldn’t be?
Mixed up, messy child, full of emotions too big, full of pain too big, and doesn’t your heart just melt? Don’t you just want to reach out and hold him and love him and tell him it’ll all be okay?
How come more people didn’t tell him it would all be okay?
How come more people didn’t hold him while he cried?
How come fate plays favorites?
He was a child but he doesn’t know how to remember that without the disgust he was taught was part of him. He was a child but they killed that child and if they hadn’t, I think he would’ve done it himself.
***
He was a child.
Old enough to handle a bit more responsibility, old enough to know right from wrong, old enough for his own opinions, old enough to be held accountable.
Old enough to think he wasn’t a child.
Young enough to have no business holding the weight of the world.
We pray and we say it’s to the gods.
We worship gods and we say it’s because they’re our elders, our teachers, our guiding wisdom.
So tell me how a boy who’s barely twenty is your goddamn elder.
Tell me how a boy who’s barely twenty has the wisdom to guide a kingdom.
Tell me how a boy with more hope and heart than experience was ever meant to support all of this, all of you.
Tell me how he’s different, tell me how he’s special, tell me how he’s the protagonist, and tell me how disappointed you are when he fails.
He’s old enough to not want to be called a child, old enough that perhaps he really isn’t one, but his wisdom has yet to be tested. His experience has all been within the safety net of those that came before.
But tell me how he’s different, tell me how he can handle this, tell me how he’s so brave, tell me how if he just tried a little harder—
Tell me how he made the wrong choice, tell me how you hate him, tell me how stupid you think his plans are, tell me how naive he was.
Now tell me how much smarter you were at that age.
Now tell me how well you would have fared with the weight of your whole world on your shoulders.
Now tell me, now tell me, now tell me, now tell him.
He was a child.
No— he was a prodigy, he was a god, he was fate’s favorite, he was so mature.
Does it make you feel better when you remember it like that?
Does it make you feel better to laugh at the way his world fell apart? What a silly joke he is. What a clown. What an idiot. What an unfortunate story.
And he deserved it, you’ll say.
And he listened.
He was a child, an adult barely figuring things out. Aren’t we all a bit embarrassed about the things we said when we were young? Why did his have to carry the weight of lives?
***
He was a child, and now he’s an adult because that’s how time works, because that’s how age works, because that’s what happens when eight lifetimes pass.
He was a child but he wasn’t because he wasn’t allowed or he didn’t think he was allowed or he just wanted to grow up so fast— why do they always want to grow up so fast?
He was a child but he couldn’t be. He was a child but he wouldn’t be.
They were so young.
Do you remember what it was like to be that young?
Do you know how important those years can be?
How eight lifetimes later those hands you laid on that child or those words you spat at that baby still grow and fester?
Do you care?
They were so young.
Now sit with that.
They were so young.
Now mourn for that.
They are so old
But they were young once, aren’t we all young once?
Just get over it, just move on, didn’t it happen so long ago, why do you still care?
But how do you forget the hatred you were taught to have for yourself before you were taught your own name?
But why should he be made ashamed for the mistakes of youth he’s spent lifetimes atoning for?
Now tell me, in your judgment,
Do you remember being a child?
Now tell me, in your wisdom,
Have you forgotten all the harmful lessons you were taught?
Now tell me, in your perfection,
Was your youth without mistakes?
Now tell me, now tell me
How a child earns such animosity.
They were children. So young. Too young.
They are not children anymore. They are not young anymore. They will never get the chance to be children, to be youths, playful and careless and weak and loved.
But maybe when they’re together, old enough for eight lifetimes, experienced enough to be called elders, strong enough to be trusted with heavy burdens— maybe then they can be playful and careless and weak and loved.
Just for a few moments.
It won’t hurt anyone to be children again, just for this moment. This breath.
Do you think they remember how children laugh?
Of course they do.
They were once children.