"To think he'd just grab three of them," my father said. "What do we tell Chief Aldric and the rest of the elders?"

  "Just that," my mom replied. "I can understand the little sword—it looks the most like a toy. But why'd he take the staff and feather too?"

  "He always seemed smart. Perhaps it wouldn't be bad if he became a scholar. I just hope he won't grow up expecting to become a warrior and a mage too."

  "It will be fine, dear. He doesn't even know what these things are. It's a childish tradition and a childish response—what could we expect? What can he expect?"

  Damn it, I don't know what those words mean. I looked at them, annoyed by my own inability to understand the significance of these things. I'll ask later in the village after I decide it's time to start speaking.

  They didn't teach me about the objects—I had no way of being sure back then, but as things stood, my choice did open them to the idea that I might have some unexpected learning abilities and desires. That prompted them to quietly prepare for something, though I didn't know what.

  For now, I was just frustrated and unhappy with how things turned out. I got their puzzlement, and they dismissed my choice as childish. How infuriating. Nothing I could do. Yet!

  Little did I know that my choice would stir some interest in the heart of the village chief's wife, Edith. But for now, the surprises were over, and I could finally enjoy my first real food!

  Or so I thought.

  I was met with utter disappointment. A very soft paste sat in front of me. It wasn't bad—just bland and had no satisfying texture to chew on. I longed for some real food. For pork chops with fried or baked potatoes. I'd probably have to investigate what kind of animals existed around here first.

  Should I have chosen the scythe? I might have discovered what culinary prospects existed faster. I sighed internally. Oh well, what's done is done.

  I surprised my parents again by eating without help and relatively politely at the table, without making a ruckus or throwing food or refusing to eat. Aside from the fact that my small hands had a hard time grasping the spoon and that my mouth was too small for it, I was eating pretty much just like them.

  Seeing them stupefied, I wondered if I'd overdone it.

  To salvage the situation, I took some paste in my spoon and extended it toward my mother, as if asking if she wanted some since she kept staring at me. What at first seemed like a good idea, I soon realized would turn out strange. I wasn't supposed to understand sharing or the gesture I was stuck in either.

  So I froze, not knowing what to do.

  Now we were three living statues staring at each other, neither of us knowing what to do or how to process the situation. In the end, I broke the standoff by just eating.

  I didn't know if it was the right choice, but it was the only one. And my hand was hurting from keeping it extended straight with a filled metal spoon. As I ate under the frozen stare of my parents, myriad thoughts rushed through me.

  "A-hahahahuh!" My father broke into a dry, strange laughter. One that seriously made me fear for his sanity. At least my mom's attention shifted to him.

  "What's so funny?" she asked, looking very displeased.

  "Oh, nothing. I just thought we looked very stupid right now, standing petrified like that."

  "Very funny!" My mom became even more annoyed, but with a sigh her tension dissipated. "How do you think he learned to do that?"

  "He takes after us?" My father looked at the fork he was holding, then back at me, and answered defeated. "I have no idea."

  "I'll ask Eld-Mother Edith about this later. At the very least, this made things easier. No mess to clean at the end."

  "Yeah," my father answered with a weak, tired voice.

  Soon they started eating again. Their movements were stiff, but there was nothing I could do now. I'd overlooked how strange perfectly coordinated eating would look from a six-month-old. Well, when thoughts are troubling you, meditate. Move your focus to the one thing that undoubtedly requires it all.

  First, though, I had to finish this paste. Damn, it could use some ketchup.

  After we all finished eating, Dad hurriedly left. He looked very tired and irritated these days. I started to wonder if he'd taken up a different occupation than what he was used to, so that he'd be home for me. Of course, he was probably enjoying his bonus time with Mom too if that was the case, but it definitely took a toll on him, whatever it was he was doing.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  At first he came back looking somewhat greasy. He didn't get close enough for me to see better before he was washing up outside—the weather would have made for a bad time washing indoors. Now he was cleaner, but he carried a more minty smell and sometimes I spotted wood flakes on him.

  I wondered how long it would take until he cracked.

  Should I act more foolishly cute? But I wasn't a real baby. If I really tried, I think I'd make him feel better about it, but then my own pride would be in shambles.

  Hm? Pride? What pride?

  That was gone since the days I was defecating and urinating uncontrollably, crying for my mom to change my rags and clean me and the mess. What did I have to be proud of anymore?

  You know what? Screw it. I'll make the damn faces.

  I started making faces at Dad whenever he was home. It was effective. Not in the way I planned, but it worked, so I wouldn't complain. All his bad mood from work turned into bafflement whenever he saw me making faces.

  It took a few days and talks with Mother for them to figure out that perhaps I'd noticed he was in a bad mood and I'd copied their way of trying to make me happy. They were about right. Only I did it because I had the face of a baby, which meant my expressions would be cute regardless, while the two of them would have made a normal baby fill their garments and cry.

  Over these days, I found it strange that no one said anything about my eating manner or my choice of objects. It was as if the matter was solved and forgotten. If not for the fact that I still got incredulous side-eyes while eating, I'd have been worried that something had happened.

  Since no one did anything or said anything, I decided to play it cool too. Let them think I was some kind of genius. I'd planned on that from the beginning.

  The next few months passed quickly, and I reached the age of nine months. The only noteworthy event was a fight between the girls and the boys over custody of me during the goods exchange.

  It started one morning when I was being passed to the auburn-haired girl—I'd learned her name was Mira—and one of the older boys, maybe twelve, stepped forward.

  "Why do they always get him?" he complained to his friends, loud enough for everyone to hear. "We never get to show him anything."

  "Because you'd drop him or teach him to throw rocks," Mira shot back, adjusting me on her hip. "Besides, what would you even do with a baby?"

  "Same as you! Just... carry him around. Show him cool stuff instead of boring girl things."

  The other girls bristled. "Boring? At least we don't spend all day hitting each other with sticks!"

  The argument escalated quickly. The boys were at a clear disadvantage—all the older ones had left with their fathers to work, so only those below fifteen remained. The girls, unlike the boys, were only capable of enjoying this moment of peace because of me. Otherwise they'd have to stay home to clean, make baskets, sort grains, or help in the house. The boys were free to do what they wanted until they were thirteen, so in my eyes their claim was weak.

  Their numbers were small, their arguments lacked depth, but they had determination, so they pressed on.

  In the end, my mom intervened. Together with Eld-Mother Edith, they decided it would be determined on a rotation basis—once the girls would keep me, then it was the boys' turn.

  This allowed me to observe the games of the boys, which were nothing impressive. Throwing at targets, stick fights, running after one another, throwing insults, then chasing each other for a beating. A lot of running, so I couldn't participate. It was boring—all I could do was watch.

  Not like those rough-headed idiots who were insulting them. I still hated the fact that to the girls I was their plaything, but at least they carried me around for convenience, and I didn't need to just wait and watch from afar while they did their stuff.

  In other words, despite the humiliation, I preferred to be left with the girls rather than the boys. The girls also seemed to know much more—their gossip was more than welcome, allowing me to enrich my vocabulary and delivering a lot of common knowledge to me on a platter.

  Now with nine months under my belt, I decided to start walking. I was bored of crawling and I was old enough. I thought so, at least. And if I paid attention constantly to how I walked, I should be able to avoid the worst-case scenario. Even more so since I was basically walking barefoot.

  The only form of shoes I'd seen around were leather foot wrappings tied around the ankle. Strangely, everyone seemed to have a pair. As I thought about it, I realized how odd that was. Not only the footwear, but there were also many leather pieces in the clothes—straps, ties, trim, and decorative stitching. This and the metal cutlery made no sense to me.

  Things didn't add up from the perspective of my old world, where even in modern times, natural leather was expensive. Here it seemed like a commonplace, expendable material. And yet, aside from some birds kept for eggs, there were no other domestic animals around. Or at least none that I saw or knew of.

  Strange.

  I waited for the right moment when both my parents were home and awake. I crawled around to get them to be vigilant and pay attention to me, then I tried to gain as much dramatic momentum as I could. I straightened myself, placed a foot in front of me, turning my position from all fours to a one-knee kneel, then pushed myself up to stand on my own two feet and started walking.

  I expected a big reaction or something. Gasps, maybe. Applause?

  But no. I'd made my parents numb to my strange acts. At this point they might suspect something was off, but they'd stopped reacting dramatically.

  Great. I can walk now. Just a walking prisoner instead of a crawling one.

  Still, a flicker of disappointment settled in my chest. I'd hoped to make them proud with this milestone, to see their faces light up with joy. Instead, I got mild acknowledgment. Maybe that's what I deserved for being too clever too early. I'd set their expectations so high that normal baby achievements didn't register anymore.

  Well, there'll be more impressive moments in the future. Hopefully.

  "I'll bring some skins tomorrow and let you make some more suitable clothes and some footwear for Cato," my father said.

  "Mhm! It's about time. I'll take care of the dyes too. I'll make sure he gets some cute clothes."

  Quite the unimpressive reaction. While shoes and clothes better than my current rags were quite welcome, I'd wanted to make them happy through this sudden act, but it seemed I'd failed.

  It mattered not. There would be more prideful occasions in the future as I grew and displayed hard-won prowess. My speech was still impeded somewhat, but it was getting pretty good by my own standards, and I planned to start talking soon too. Perhaps that would draw more of a reaction.

  With the new set of clothing coming, I was ready to embrace the new stage of this life that would be unfolding before me.

  Want to read ahead?

  You can read 10 chapters ahead right now on my !

  Enjoying the story?

  Please leave a Rating and hit Follow. It helps the story reach the Rising Stars list and supports me greatly!