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The Seacaster Boy did not usually get nervous around his papa. His papa was brash, bold, and loud, and he encouraged the Seacaster Boy to be the same way in everything he did; it didn’t matter who he was talking to, he should never cower before anyone.
But the Seacaster Boy was nervous, and he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps, because he knew, somehow, that what he was about to do was incredibly important. He didn’t quite know why. He had, even at his measly age of seven, met all kinds of people in his many adventures with his papa. His papa kept the company of a diverse array of individuals, and many of them had led unusual lives. And what were the Seacasters if not an unusual bunch? Special, unique, extraordinary? It only made sense, then, that the Seacaster Boy was unlike other boys, unlike the other people he had met. He was not born into boyhood, he had to seize it for himself, had to take into his own hands what was rightfully his. There was no other way to be a Seacaster.
But still, the Seacaster Boy knew something important, even then, during his life at sea at the age of seven— to be special was to be alone. And if there was one thing the Seacaster Boy hated, it was being alone.
When his papa finally came into the cabin, plunking down in his chair, the Seacaster Boy approached him. “Papa!” He exclaimed.
His papa smiled at him. “What is it you need, my darling girl?”
“Papa…” he was reminded again of his nerves, and of that lonely feeling that came with being unusual. He pushed through it. If he would claim boyhood, he would have to fight for it. “I was wondering… what would you have named me, if I had been born a boy?”
His papa scrunched his eyebrows at the question, then leaned on his knee. “Well, it’s hard to say, my darling. Why do you ask?”
“I…” The Seacaster Boy paused. This was not in his plan of conquest. His papa was supposed to answer with a name, and the Seacaster Boy would then ask to be called that.
“Do you not like your current name?” His papa asked in his ‘serious voice.’
“N-no! I mean,” The Seacaster Boy stumbled over his words. It was starting to become obvious, at this age, that he didn’t talk like other people did; that he sometimes found it more difficult to be fluid with his words the way other people were. “I do like it, but…”
“It’s not yours, is that right, my darling?” His papa softened.
“Y…yes…” The Seacaster Boy looked to the ground. Shame filled him. He shouldn’t’ve needed the help. He shouldn’t’ve felt so bad about being unique. He shouldn’t’ve been afraid of his papa.
“You know,” his papa started, “I never did get along with my old man. And for years, I wore his last name on my back, bringing that devil with me when all I wanted was to be my own man.” He put his hand on the Seacaster Boy’s shoulder. “So, I became just that. I made a new last name all for myself, and now I share that last name with you. So if you want a new name, you can have one. It’s okay. Be your own man, and make your own name. I won’t be mad at you.”
The Seacaster Boy began to feel tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. He tried to be a strong boy and not cry, but sometimes his emotions became so big that it was difficult not to. “But I want one from you.”
His papa smiled softly. “You already got one from me, didn’t you? And you can keep it, if you’d like. You’ll always be a Seacaster, my darling. Unless you ever want to be anything else, you’ll always be a Seacaster.”
He tried to will away the tears, but they trickled down his face instead. “Papa…” he said, and without hesitation, he became, “Fabian… Fabian Aramais Seacaster. I want to be your son.”
“Oh, my darling boy,” his papa chuckled low. “You already are. You don’t need my permission.”
He pulled Fabian into his arms, wrapping him in a big, all-encompassing hug, as the boy cried.