There was I, called Achilles, though neither I nor my father knew why. 'Twas said once by a wandering minstrel passing through the village, and my father, Sir Cedric, struck by its boldness, declared, "Let the boy be Achilles, for he shall need valor, though what that be, I know not." And so it was. A name given by chance, yet one that would follow me through every laughter and every sorrow.
I was a boy of mischief and curiosity. The river ran like a vein through our land, and I ran along its banks barefoot, chasing dragonflies and shadows alike. I leapt from trees taller than I imagined, fell into mud, and returned home laughing, only to be scolded by my mother, Lady Elowen, who had eyes soft as dawn yet firm as the roots of the village oaks.
Isolde, my sister, quick as the wind and clever beyond her years, would tease me endlessly.
"Achilles," she cried one morning, balancing atop the fence, "catch me, if thou art not too slow for thy own shadow!"
Tristan, my brother, ever eager to challenge me, sparred with wooden swords, our duels ringing with laughter and clumsy clangs. Sir Halric, visiting knight and mentor, would often shake his head in amusement
"Boy, thou swingest thy sword as if swatting flies. Yet in thy folly, I see courage untempered. Guard it well, lest it turn upon thee."
Life flowed as a gentle river. Mornings were for chores: feeding animals, delivering water, learning the ways of horsemanship. Afternoons belonged to exploration and play. Evenings glowed with tales by the hearth—my mother's stories, my father's counsel, and the quiet murmur of a village alive with ordinary miracles.
"Achilles," Lady Elowen would say, "remember, a strong arm is nothing without a strong heart. Treat all creatures with care, and thy strength shall be true."
By twelve, I began earnest training with Sir Halric, yet never lost the joy of mischief that defined me. I raced horses, sparred with village boys, climbed trees with Isolde, and laughed until my belly ached. Life was full, and I embraced it with every pulse of my heart.
Yet even sweetness carries a subtle edge. A spark in the granary took one of our cows and much of our small fortune. I remember the smoke curling, Tristan's frustration, my own helpless tears, and my father's hand upon my shoulder.
"Achilles," Sir Cedric said softly, "sometimes the world asks more than we can give. We endure, and we learn. Today it is the cow; tomorrow… who can say?"
In that moment, I glimpsed the first weight of the world pressing upon joy. Still, we rebuilt, teased, and laughed again. Life was fragile—but alive.
I wandered the roads beyond the village, carrying grain or helping travelers, meeting strangers like Rowan, the tall, quiet trader with hair streaked gray, or families passing through, whose children clung to skirts and laughed with unfamiliar delight. The road was patient, unseen, yet it left its mark on all who traveled it.
In these days, I began to wonder, quietly, while watching the river
"If the river forgets the stones that bind it, does it cease to flow, or merely wander?"
"Hands that give and hands that take, are they not one and the same?"
Life was a river, flowing, gentle, yet sometimes carrying stones hidden beneath the surface. I did not yet know how sharp those stones could be.
And there was I, Achilles, learning, laughing, stumbling through mud and grass, learning patience, courage, and care. A boy with a name too large for his years, yet one that would follow him through every joy and every sorrow, through roads, rivers, hands, and quiet promises yet to come.