Awkward. During the first sixty six days of little Damian’s new life, he developed a profound comprehension of what that word could mean. There was baby talk, breast feeding, and diaper changing. Of those he couldn't decide which he found to be the most awkward, but by far, the most disturbing thing about being little Damian Dagger, so far, was sleeping in his new parents bed.

“Did my little man make a stinky pee pee?” Rose might ask before changing his wet diaper. It was a rhetorical question. Fortunately, his mother did not need a reply and would promptly change him. “Oh, you made a lot of pee pee this time, didn’t you?” another rhetorical question.

He didn’t take offense to his mother's belittling. It was an appropriate way to talk to an infant, and as far as she knew, he was her possibly retarded but otherwise “perfectly healthy” newborn baby boy. She didn’t know that her baby already knew reading, writing, and arithmetic, nor did she suspect in the slightest that he understood exactly what her and her husband did at night. He had thought of trying to interrupt the couple, except he still wasn’t sure he could make a convincing baby cry, so he uncomfortably endured.

Little Damian had to be cautious. The message he’d received said not to get caught by gods or man, and he still didn’t know how he’s supposed to keep his secret from the gods themselves. They were, as his blessing had proven, very real but that was the extent of his understanding. For all he knew, they could be omnipotent beings watching his every move, looking for any indication he retained his memories, ready to damn him for a thousand years of suffering in an instant with no trial, or they might be some kind of real life RPG skill tree that accepts gold and red beads in exchange for special abilities and stat bonuses. It could have been one, both, or neither of those things.

He was ignorant, bhat he did know was that no one had approached him with the intent to damn his soul for a thousand years, yet. “What the fuck is up with that anyway? Suffer for a thousand years? Isn’t that a little bit extreme?” Little Damian thought he was a decent guy in his last life and didn’t think himself capable of doing something so bad it’d warrant a thousand years of suffering. The message made it seem like it was he himself who somehow cheated to retain his memories and no longer remembers doing it. It sounded cool, but he wouldn’t have done it if he’d understood the consequences of getting caught.

“Could the message have been a practical joke?” he wondered, “Maybe there’s some kind of humorous god out there giving people their old memories and a fake message to freak them out.” He figured it might be something like that because there was no way he would’ve done anything, in any life, so bad he should suffer for a thousand years over it. Though, he probably would, if he could, somehow “arrange” for him to keep his memories in this world. Frankly, it seemed awesome. There were too many coincidental resemblances to the fantasy of his world for it to all be a coincidence. It was clear that they’re related, but he didn't know if this world took after the fantasy of Earth or vice a versa.

Could it be that his life was saved on Earth and what he’s experiencing now is a really high fidelity simulation he’s hooked up to? If that’s it, then the technology used would be more advanced than what he was aware existed. “Why would someone want to make me a baby in a fantasy world?” he wondered, “Is this some kind of psychological test? Am I alive but brain damaged?”

His thoughts seemed completely normal considering his circumstances, but he couldn’t discount sim-theory or brain damage as possibilities. Neither could he discount the possibility that everything was how it seemed. He somehow cheated to reincarnate with his memories, and if he gets caught he’ll be sentenced to a thousand years of suffering. Little Damian had to be cautious.

“Awe, that’s a lot of stinky pee pee!” Rose cheerfully declared. “That means you’ll grow up to be big and strong, just like your bladder,” she teased, unaware her baby understood every word. He did appreciate his mother’s care. She was diligently changing his sandpaper coarse, hemp wool diaper, after all, which would have left the newborn sensitive skin scraped and rashed in mere minutes, had his mother not been so diligent about changing him.

She was also very diligent about her other parental responsibilities, like feeding, regular naps, and spending a lot of time interacting with her baby.

He didn’t want to come off as cold to his new mother, as he felt quite sympathetic to her plight. It was only a suspicion among the Daggers, but apparently there was a rumor going around that he was retarded. He was pretty sure that was not true, but Rose didn’t know that. Her misunderstanding could have been easily cleared up, but without knowing what the gods are, it seemed like keeping the status quo for now was the safer choice, so to keep from being found out as an otherworldly, grown adult imposter, masquerading as this woman’s newborn baby, little Damian kept his silence, and pretended to be retarded.

He didn’t start off that in mind nor did he feel good about doing it, but he felt it was for the best. It was a fact, that his father was a strong warrior who, despite his gentle demeanor, used a fucking sword and shield to fight fucking monster for a living, which made the fish face with sound effects he was making that much more embarrassing. Since little Damian was not actually a brand new person experiencing existence for the first time, he felt it was his moral obligation not to encourage that kind of behavior in any way. He merely looked away from his father's attempts to entertain him, and stared at the wall.

“He doesn’t seem to interact with people like a normal child does,” Dillon said in human speech, no longer speaking in his fake fish language.

“Maybe he’s just the strong silent type,” Rose speculated.

“Maybe, but isn’t there something we can do for him, in case he’s having trouble learning? What do you think dad?”

Old Dean paused his whittling and said, “Well, when he gets older we can give him intelligence potions. That, along with ample tutelage, would be what we can do for little Damian, if he is mentally challenged.”

“Intelligence potions and ample tutelage sound great. When can we start?” Little Damian wondered, pretending to watch an imaginary TV in the wall.

Dillon took a long look at his unusually quiet boy. His unease was evident from the complicated expression he wore.

“This isn’t easy for me either,” little Damian thought.

“Well, he might also be just fine. Either way, we won’t know until he gets older,” old Dean said.

This type of exchange was common. Dillon and Rose would worry, and old Dean would be the voice of reason. Little Damian thought this whole, “him being retarded,” business was overblown. It wasn’t like he was pretending to be a vegetable. He did not cry, but he did do some normal baby things, like looking at sudden noises and flailing his arms and legs around occasionally. It was enough for an Earthly physician to be able to declare him fine, which he considered to be sufficient to meet his moral obligation of not making his parents worry.

He was keeping his options open. It seemed like pretending to be an artistic kid could be easier than pretending to be a normal one. This wasn’t a nice thing to do, and he knew it, but if he was really was facing a thousand years of suffering, what would happen to these innocent people who are unwittingly caught up in whatever this is? Possibly for their own good, keeping his secret was little Damian’s highest priority at that time, even if it meant these people thought their son might be retarded.

A wrap on the door brought a much desired change of pace.

“Come in,” old Dean said casually, and even though little Damian didn’t think his voice was loud enough to be heard outside, the door opened.

The Black Paws had come over for a visit. Vance, who seemed to trail his company, was the first to enter, leading little Damian to suspect the Rascals’ scout had particularly sharp ears.

He’d been looking forward to this ever since he overheard old Dean’s comment a half hour ago. “It seems Vance has news,” he said, seemingly out of nowhere. He was beginning to suspect his grandfather had particularly sharp ears as well.

The common greeting around there was to state the other person’s name, often with a nod acknowledging the named person. When all the name calling and head bobbing was over with, the Daggers and the Black Paws settled at the kitchen table for a meeting. A bench wide enough for three sat on either side of the crude table. All of the furniture was made from the same untreated, splintery softwood as the rest of the house. Though he had to take care of that to get splinters, little Damian appreciated his infrequent independence from his mother’s bosom as he and little Theressa sat next to each other on the table.

Unfortunately, little Theressa did not seem to be an adult in a baby’s body. She seemed to only do three things, eat, sleep, and cry. Currently, she was sleeping.

“Awe, little Theressa’s getting even cuter,” Rose said.

“She is, when she’s asleep,” Victor said grimly.

“It is normal for newborns to cry. She will likely grow out of it soon,” reasonable old Dean assured the whary cat.

No one knew why little Theressa spent almost every waking moment of her life crying thus far, but it was clearly taking a toll on her parents. “You guys are really fortunate, little Damian is so well behaved,” Mary said. Victor and Vance both made a single solemn nod in agreement.

Little Theressa’s crying was far in excess of what could be considered normal. Little Damian thought on it. Maybe she did have her memories, like how he sort of became retarded, her excessive crying could just be part of her cover. He hoped it wasn’t something bad, like she only got pieces of her memories and what she remembers is making her cry. Maybe her thoughts got scrambled during whatever transfer process that got them there. She might not understand what’s happening and… “It could be anything,” he thought.

Maybe he should listen to his grandfather on this one. It’s normal for babies to cry. She’ll likely grow out of it soon. Other than coincidental arrival times, he didn’t have reason to suspect she’s in another worlder at all.

Suddenly, Mary gasped, pointed a finger at little Damian, and said “Look.”

“Fuck! What did I do?” little Damian shouted in his head, feigning amusement over the shape of his fingers.

“Awe, little Damian was just looking at little Theressa like he’s worried about her, but he’s not doing it anymore,” Mary said disappointedly.

Little Damian took an inconspicuous look around to see who else noticed his little fumble. Everyone seemed interested by his possible display of intellectual functioning, but Vance, and old Dean in particular, had slightly furrowed brows, like they were trying to discern something.

“Crap,” little Damian though, “those two have really good hearing. They might be listening to my heartbeat. A mentally challenged infant’s heart shouldn’t sound like a jackhammer because someone pointed and said ‘look.’”

He needed to calm his racing heart. To achieve the world record for holding his breath the longest, a man slowed his heart rate using meditation and ice water.

Ice water wasn’t an option. “Into my cave. Into my cave. Step deeper into my cave,” little Damian hastily thought.

It worked. He lowered his heartbeat, and though old Dean was still observing him, he switched topics. “So Vance, what did you learn?” he asked the hooded black cat, who’s gaze also still lingered on little Damian.

“Why all the men and equipment is headed east,” he replied.

Little Damian let the penguin in his mind’s cave drift away and allowed his thoughts to race. He’d have to be especially careful around these two. If he shows a pattern of heart palpitations correlated to circumstances he should have no or a limited comprehension of, old Dean would catch on immediately, and Vance doesn’t seem to let anything escape his notice. He would have to learn how to control his heart rate, breathing, eye moments, and maybe even his pupil dilation. He needed to master these skills, and fast. One sympathetic glance at an adorable kitten nearly got him busted this time. He wouldn’t let there be a next time. Keeping his secret in a world of might and magic might be harder than he’d thought.

“If this really was my own doing, I’d like to ask myself one simple question. What was I thinking? One tiny misstep and I’ll get busted, then a thousand years of suffering?” Little Damian was inclined to believe that he was not the author of the message. Still, he’d have to carefully coordinate all of his bodily functions from this point forward. His every movement was under scrutiny. Maybe or maybe not by the gods, but this old man had his eyes on him, and his ears.

Before Vance could elaborate, Little Theressa woke up and started crying. Little Damian snapped his attention to the kitten before quickly becoming disinterested, just like he had practiced. Dillon and Rose, who’d been eagerly observing, looked dejected. Vance rubbed his palm across his face, his thoughts moved onto Little Theressa.

It was old Dean that was worrisome. He was still studying him like one would an unsolved puzzle.

“This is bad,” little Damien thought. He’d have to live there for maybe his whole life. Old Dean was smart, if he started getting suspicious now, that could spell disaster for a little Damian in the future.

He needed to get his grandfather to stop scrutinizing him, and he needed to do something now, so little Damian played his trump card.

“Did somebody make a pee pee?” Rose happily asked the culprit. It was another rhetorical question. This time little Damian was happy to hear it. He was less happy about the tickling. Though it felt more like violent poking, he was used to it by now, and remained expressionless.

Little Theressa was doing one of her three usual activities, which thankfully, was feeding.

With a steely finger gouging at his undefended abdomen, little Damian was finally able to hear Vance’s report. “The Wicked Ninth Prince is marching to our borders,” he said.

Victor’s face was stern, Dillon looked concerned, Rose and Mary gave the impression they were smelling something disgusting, while old Dean rubbed the stubble on his chin with a thoughtful expression.

“If Kismond attacks, we’ll be sent to war,” Victor asserted, the aggressive glint in his feline eyes suggesting that he was fully prepared for that eventuality.

“That is not likely,” old Dean rebutted, “King Henry won’t allow the Ninth Prince to invade.”

“Then why is he sending his armies?” Mary asked.

Dillon was the one to reply, “This happened thirty years ago. Kismond sends an army to pressure the border, isolating Hobart from the rest of the kingdoms. Hobart has to spend more than it can afford on defense. In a few years, the kingdom goes bankrupt, and Kismond’s relative strength soars.”

“The blockade lasted a decade last time,” Vance said.

“Riots and unreasonable food prices is why we moved to Brunseborough in the first place,” old Dean added.

“I thought we moved so the Rascals could be closer to the frontier.” Dillon seemed to have a misunderstanding.

“The Rascals’ hunting did put food on the table, but we move because of the riots and food prices,” old Dean clarified.

Mary, who’s unfamiliar with politics, asked “Why would the Good King do that?”

“Kismond has always bullied the smaller kingdoms,” Victor replied with deep indignation, bordering on hatred. He seemed like he had a serious bone to pick with Kismond.

“We should stock salt,” Vance stated.

Dillon nodded and said, “In a couple of years we won’t be able to get anymore.”

“There’s going to be a lot of crime,” Mary said with concern for the little ones.

“We’ve been through this once before, and we will get through it again,” old Dean assured, “This time we’ll be much better prepared.”

Dillon thought for a moment about what this news meant for his family, and said, “If little Damian or Theressa need extra help, it could get expensive. There will be lucrative opportunities with this.”

“Lucrative opportunities?” Little Damian was intrigued.

“The public order will go to shit.” Vance too was intrigued.

“And there’s going to be a lot of gold being moved for military materials,” Rose added excitedly.

“That gold will find its way out here too,” Victor said.

“This probably isn’t what it sounds like,” little Damian thought.

“Dad,” Dillion addressed his father with a serious tone, “I think it’s time we start doing riskier jobs.”

Victor, Vance, and Rose each expressed their agreement.

“One or all of you could easily be killed over some of those ‘riskier your jobs’ you’ve proposed.” Old Dean was firm.

“We’re not kids anymore,” Dillon said assertively, “We can we can manage an ambush.”

“We’re usually in and out without anybody noticing,” Vance added.

“I really hope this isn’t what it sounds like,” little Damian thought.

“That may be true,” old Dean said, “but you’ll not be doing anything brash.”

“Dad.”

“Old Dean.”

“Dean.”

“Look old man,” All of the Rascals tried to speak at once but Victor took charge saying, “I appreciate what you do, but I have a kid to feed now. Either you put us on some loot, or I’ll take my spear east.”

There was silence. Old Dean sized up Victor and calmly said, “It might get cold tonight. I’ll make us a fire,” nodded, and walked out of the house to get wood. Everyone watched him leave.

“Don’t bluff with old Dean. You’ll lose.” Vance chastised his brother.

“It’s not a bluff,” Victor said.

Dillon tried to reason with him. “The pay will pick up. Dad will come around.”

Vance followed up. “You wouldn’t even make much if you sold yourself.”

Victor wasn’t backing down. “I’ve fought Kismen before. The Barron would pay pile of gold for me. My salary would easily be twice what I make now.”

“The benefits wouldn’t be as good,” Dillon reminded him.

“Victor, you’re the core. The Rascals need you,” Rose said as if she were scolding an unreasonable child.

Mary, who’d been quietly nursing, spoke very slowly to her husband. “Victor, you will not sell yourself to the Barron. It is not worth the price of a father and husband. You will never speak of this again, except to tell old Dean that you’re reconsidered.” She was livid.

Victor looked like he wanted to say something to Mary. Mary looked like she wanted to kill Victor. Victor backed down before old Dean returned with wood.

Eight people watched Old Dean walk in, and casually build a fire in silence. This suited little Damian as he was able to clearly hear his grandfather speak his incantation when he lit it. The spell he cast sent a two-foot flame that looked like it came from a punctured aerosol can rushing out of the metal chopstick. Though the wood was only engulfed for a second, it was sufficient to light the leaves and twigs he had arranged.

Little Damian assumed his grandfather was able to do this because he was a witch, which little Damian had learned was quite common for a Dagger. His father too was blessed by the Witch when he was born, but instead of studying magic and potions like old Dean had insisted, Dillon trained with sword and shield so that he may adventure the great frontier.

Little Damian respected his father's adventurous spirit, but adventuring seemed to entail an awful lot of violence, something little Damian had never been a fan of. He figured the magic and potions route was more his style. So what if he had to be a witch? Magic and potions seemed like they’d be really useful, and he probably didn’t even have to wear a weird hat.

Old Dean didn’t wear a funny hat or a wartted nose. He look normal. His large ears and nose fit his aged face nicely. Little Damian was pleased that his grandfather was still handsome, despite his senior condition. In this life, he seemed to have gotten a good start. He should be able to achieve comfortable success in this other world with his good genes and a magical education. Only if he could stay alive long enough for those things to matter though.

He wasn’t particularly concerned with his physical safety. His protective, well armed family seemed to have that under control. It was his so-called blessing that caused him concern as of late. He didn’t know much about blessings in general. He thought his might be special, but it could have been completely common. For all he knew. it could have been a powerful ability for witchcraft or a remote killswitch hidden in his head by the gods.

For a single second in the church, after the velvet cloth deflated, little Damian’s world changed. He saw something everywhere, even where he could not see with his real eyes, behind him, above him, below him, everywhere. It was attached to everything around him, even the air and the people. He saw it as glowing multi-colored lights. The people were especially bright. What that stuff was and how he was “seeing” it, were two more things he couldn’t be sure of, but he had a hunch that what he saw was magic, and for a single second he saw it in all directions. Then came a splitting headache for a few seconds before he passed out.

He assumed it was because of the “eyes” that let him see the knowledge that made him, or something like that. What his blessing really did was give him an intense migraine. It was like the magic eyes were inside him, but they were being blocked by a giant boulder. When he strained to move the metaphysical boulder, it made his head hurt. He didn’t think the gods would give him a blessing that only hurt and thought that maybe, if he could just move that border, he’d be able to use his ability.

It was just that the splitting headaches and loss of consciousness was stopping him. Maybe it was dangerous. It could be that it’s a really great ability that he’s supposed to spend years developing, until he’s an old man even. He couldn’t wait that long, he had problems now, mostly that he was ignorant. His ability might be able to help him figure out what’s happening, so little Damian excepted the risk of attempting to use an unknown magical blessing, granted by shifty looking witch deity, with an infant’s body, and day after day he tried to move his mental boulder. Four times a day he’d concentrate, get a migraine, and pass out. Maybe he was making progress. Maybe he was giving himself brain damage. He didn’t know, but when old Dean lit the fire he accepted the risk and heaved his metaphysical boulder with all the mental might his baby mind could muster.

He saw it. It was vague, but he certainly saw it. Magic streamed out of the tip of old Dean’s wand as he chanted. Each spoken syllable made a symbol that arranged itself into a circle in front of his wand. When the incantation was complete, old dean dimmed for a second, and spell was activated.

Rose was first to notice little Damian losing consciousness and happily asked, “Is somebody getting sleepy?”

His mother's rhetorical question was the last thing he heard before blacking out. “I really hope I wasn’t born into a loving family of highway robbers” was his last thought.