I didn’t have a life before Anya. My only desire was to find a place where I belonged, but life kept spitting me out. Ever since I was born, the color of my hair made me stand out. I was dressed in scruffy, patched clothes covered in mud, and there was still no mistaking me. My mother said I was like a bonfire in the forest. But the other kids didn’t like living in someone else’s light, so I learned to live with the jokes and the nagging.
Roric meant strength and power. Mother said she knew this was my name when she held me in her arms. People didn’t name their children in a way that would make them feel special. Those who felt this way brought only problems. But I was special, at least to her. For everyone else, I was just the child with the odd name. Unfortunately, this included my father.
Mother said the color of my hair was a blessing, that I was kissed by fire. But that blessing was the same reason father didn’t accept me. It was a curse as much as a gift.
My father had black hair. His father too. His grandfather too. But I didn’t. I was a thorn in his side that kept driving deeper each time he saw me. The red hair, so easily distinguished, was blinding to him. I was sure he wished I would get lost in the woods or catch that illness that got to your lungs. He never taught me how to build a house, plow the fields or smith a weapon. He taught me how to take a punch. The hard way. I remember the day I found out that I would never be accepted. Not even at home.
“Mother, what does it mean to be a bastard?” - I asked.
“Where’d you hear that?” - my mother answered with gaping eyes.
“Father called me that.” - I said.
As I grew older, the fighting at home got worse. Father tried to accept me, but he never managed to force himself to do it. No matter how many times mother swore, I was his, even when he beat her, even when he cursed her. I was just a child, and the only thing I wanted was a father. But that was too much to ask for.
It was always calm at first. Father would come home, laugh and joke, call me his boy and ruffle my hair. Then out of nowhere, his eyes would change. He would call mother a whore and yell at her until her head sunk into her shoulders. But that wouldn’t be enough for him. He beat her bloody more than once, and when I tried to stop him, he did the same to me.
I lived between the shouting and the beating. I loved the sunrise, for it meant the night was over, my father was long asleep, and nothing would hurt me during the day. I would play with the kids or listen to my mother’s stories. Then came the sunsets, and I hated them. They meant the day was over, and he would come home again. Each time I heard him approaching, my heart went in my throat.
The happiest nights of my childhood were when he passed out in the inn and left the house to ourselves. Mother told me of the wonders the gods did. She told me of Perun, the god who danced with lightning in the sky. She told me of Svarog, the lord of fire and smithing, who had red hair the same as mine. The gods of the forest turned into fantastic beasts to protect people from invaders and bandits.
Do you know what hurt me the most? The days when father gave me hope. My childhood was dark, but there was a sign of hope, like the stars in the night sky. Tiny speckles of light made you believe something better was coming. Every now and then, that demon that lived in his heart would lose its grip on him. The three of us spent some days together - laughing, joking, and playing. Every time I thought, his curse was finally lifted, and whatever force kept me out of this world decided to accept me. I wrestled with my dad on the grass, and he lifted me above his head with one hand.
“One day, I want to be like you, dad!” - I would tell him these days.
I went to sleep with hope in my heart. But the next night, he would come, touched by the ale, and it would be the same story. One time I made the mistake to try and wrestle him as a joke. I got a blue eye in return.
The beating, the shouting, and the swearing continued. My father was a monster. But even monsters have good days.