I knew a summer child when I saw one. It was not just the fact that he was golden, like the sun or sand or fields of wheat. It was something about the heft of his shoulders. It didn’t matter what his story was, how tragic or painful it could be; he was born in a time of bounty, and he glowed with it.
I, on the other hand, was a winter child. It didn’t matter what my story was, how I was offered the world and taught how to take it-- if it was what I wanted. (yet I was expected not to take but to give. Because I was the legacy of the selfless, the one (of two) thing(s) they did for themselves.) I was born in a time of thrift, and for the rest of my life I would echo that need.
We were not complete opposites, but we had our differences. I didn’t know this at first. I might not ever know this, if he did not let me.
I only watched him for a little bit before revealing myself. “Halt!” I jumped from the bushes and into the middle of the well-worn trail, horn poised in a way I hoped was fearsome. A second later, Furfur trotted out after me, yawning. Despite my silent urging he remained stoic. Not even the slightest bare of his teeth. We had been waiting in ambush on this road for hours now. I was young and bored and in desperate need of entertainment, so I decided to play Trolls. Naturally, I played the troll.
Now, before this gets too far I should note this was an unusual game for me. I was a quiet, introspective child, more interested in wandering the forest talking to rocks than pretending to assault men much bigger, a little older, and (I assumed) only marginally more mature than me. Blame it on boredom or growing pains or the inevitable changes that were about to take hold of me. I was growing up, and it was not a comfortable process for anyone.
I took up a fighting stance, horn lowered daringly, and though I tried my hardest to be serious, I really really tried, I could not keep the smile from leeching into my voice. “What’s the password?”
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