Nate clean the stables. Nate milk the cows. Nate water the tomatoes that'll wither and die before the harvest.
If father was good at farming as he was swinging a sword they'd not need be in the service of his majesty. What life would be like, just to take care of oneself, not worry about the bickering of others.
Nathan wanted nothing more than to tend to the flock, watch the chickens nest, and hold Larosa's hand on a hill overlooking the valley.
Valley Friarhorn, where the Pyr family made the rules and everyone else followed.
"Boy!" Father shouted, clouting him after he returned from piling hay. "Fetch my blade! Think I'm dressed like this for an evening stroll?"
"Yes sir, er, father," Nathan stammered, examining father's mail, clean steel with the Pyr insignia on the breast.
Father scowled him. "Sir? I look like a knight to you?"
"No father," Nathan said, pulling the iron trimmed scabbard with a longsword from the cabinet.
"Aye, and you better not let that slip before his majesty," father said, snatching the blade from him. "Promised he, and Captain Winwell you'd be ready for service by fourteen. Another year boy, and you'll be carrying our family name."
"Yes father," Nathan said, bowing.
Father ruffled his hair. "Not a scratch on the house, look after yourself, understand?"
Yes father, of course father, by the gods father I swear.
At last the salty bastard left, Nathan believing he would never leave, and he waited at least a day or two to be certain there'd be no early return. Wherever the Pyr lords traveled they brought their best, and none were better than the kingsguard. It was believed one sword among those hallowed seventeen, one for each Lord of Life, Maiden, and god, was worth a dozen or more soldiers.
Father did little more than drink, bitch, or clout him. It was rare, but he'd sparred with him before, and good as he seemed, it wasn't worth a dozen men by any means.
It mattered little, for the night of the blue moon was upon the valley, and he sat with Larosa as twilight settled across the horizon.
He could've stared into her hazel eyes all night, a smile enough to make his heart race, and her voice was gentle as her fair skin.
"A year from now I'll be a sword of his majesty," he said, taking her hand. "Will you be my lady?"
She moved a strand of her auburn hair from her face. "You? A kingsguard?"
"Best there'll ever be!"
She held in laughter, but broke, apologizing for being rude.
He rolled his eyes. "It's in my blood, or so father says."
"You prefer to tend the fields and pet chickens," she said, giving him a playful jab.
"Plenty of warriors were farmers once! It's all part of the gods' plan."
She laid a hand on his face. "You're a sweetheart. It's why I like you."
There was no hiding the blush on his face, and before he could turn away, she kissed his cheek.
They watched the moon until midnight, villagers celebrating with a display of fire tricks, singing, and dancing. He walked her back to her house, a cottage along the river where she kissed him goodnight before sneaking in the back window.
He may as well have been floating on his way back to the farm.
It was the same through fall and winter, celebrating the harvest, ushering in holidays, and spending more time with the most beautiful girl in the kingdom. They made one another rings, clay hardened within a furnace, with their names inscribed in the old language, promising one another they'd raise a family and grow old in the valley together.
Larosa visited often, helping him with the chores, and on a cold early spring afternoon a wagon arrived at the farm.
A grey flag atop its curtains, the Pyr flame blood red, and a knight at the helm with several capital guards on either side, it was pulled by a white horse with a golden mane.
"Nathan," Captain Winwell said, placing a hand on his shoulder, "Your father fought well, however…"
An ambush, hired barbarians by gold of the Wayfork family, killed all but two of the kingsguards, Captain Winwell credited with countering an attack saving his majesty. Nordwell slew more barbarians than any other guard, even after losing his sword arm, and he laid in the wagon with a wet towel over his head.
"He's been terribly ill since leaving the capital," Winwell said, holding the wagons folds open for Nathan to see. "Doctors say he'll be fine, though his days in the king's service is over."
A pouch full of gold, with promise of a seasonal stipend for extraordinary service, and Winwell left with his guards, leaving the wagon behind.
Father climbed out the wagon himself, refusing help from either Nathan or Larosa, and he limped into the house cursing all the gods.
Larosa stayed to cook supper, though father only desired wine. He drank himself to sleep, mumbling beneath his breath, spitting into his pillow, and shoved Nathan away at any attempts for comfort.
"He's a proud man," Larosa said, she and Nathan sitting before the fireplace. "It's a shame nothing could be done about his arm."
Nathan stared into the fire, shaking his head. "He's a damn fool!"
"You mustn't say such a thing! He was protecting the ki-."
"The Pyrs are gold grubbing bastards, you know that!"
She held his hand, and her eyes were watery as his. "He's your father, and you're all he has left. Please, don't be so hard on him."
He fought back tears, but it was no use, and he wept in her arms before she said a prayer for him and father.
It was little use, as father's condition didn't fare much better. Well into the summer he was a hermit bearing tight robes, reeking of ale or wine, offering little more than a gesture in the late afternoon whenever he woke up. His stump started to rot, and on a rainy evening he put a hot brand to it. Nathan listened to his screams all night, until he was sleep with a belly fully of ale.
Nathan tended to all the chores, Larosa helping as often as she could, for she was due to make for the capital soon to study medicines within the Achieves.
"I'll find a way to help him," she promised on a windy morning atop Nathan's favorite horse, Yuri. "Will you write me?"
"Of course," he said, kissing her hand, "my lady."
She farewell kissed him, and he returned inside where father pissed in bed yet again.
He wrote Larosa at least once every other week, and she replied little but a few times per season. On a cold morning, flurries in the air, father sat by the fire, sword in hand. He waved Nathan over, who was cutting up a tomato for breakfast.
"Starting today, you'll learn the style of sword fit for a knight."
"But, we're not knights, father."
Father growled, "Aye, and that's why our line's fought well for royalty for over a hundred years! Take hold of her man."
It was heavy, the blade he'd often hurry to father at every beck and call.
Its hilt edges were trimmed with gold, the steel was sharp even after years of combat, and Nathan could've sworn he saw a faint light within it. Within his palm there felt to be a slight warmth, and in spite of its weight there was an even balance about it.
"Blade's blessed by the Fourth Lord of Life, he who blessed all with the ability to see," father explained, winds rattling the roof. "Fear the gods, and ye' will see even in darkness."
"Fear the gods. Honor your family. Defend your king," Nathan whispered, reciting the family creed.
Each day until his fourteenth birthday it was engrained in him, and for four months, since the day he first grasped that golden hilt, he was put to the test. Sunup to sundown, even on holidays, father drilled him for hours on end, fighting back colds or drunkenness.
On a muggy afternoon, an hour before sunset, Nathan at last countered father after failing to do so all summer.
Then father moved fast, like a serpent striking, pivoting into a strike cutting the right side of Nathan's face. He didn't back down, though he was clearly outmatched. Father kicked him over, then held the dull iron sword often used for practice to his throat.
"Getting better," father said, sheathing his sword before holding out a hand, "but not there yet."
Larosa returned for the first time in over a year, her hair shorter and her eyes heavy, as he practiced beside the river.
"My lady!" He greeted her, aiding her off Yuri. "Gods, you look like a lady of the fireborne!"
She smiled for a moment, exhausted from her studies.
They sat by the river for an hour, and he showed her his skill with a blade which made her eyes widen.
"I didn't know you could move like that," she said as he twirled the blade with one hand.
"Neither did I," he said, handing it to her.
She refused at first, though caved in, and held the blade up with two hands for a few seconds before he helped her.
They laughed, pretending to slay a dragon together, then she told him of her time within the capital. It was more than she could've imagined; bright tunic citizens, wealthy merchants, holy knights, and Castle Emmerhald, a thousand-year-old wonder with centuries of history inside.
When he asked about the king her face went blank, and she was silent for a moment before replying.
"They're pigs. All of them. There's nothing redeeming about them."