Chapter 1.5: A Hero's Burden, A Farmer's Heart
The journey home from the Church was a blur of well-wishes and joyous shouts from the villagers. Ren walked amidst his beaming parents and his usually stoic brother, a knot of dread tightening in his stomach. The festive atmosphere felt like a mockery. Everyone celebrated a Hero; he mourned a Farmer.
"My son! A Hero!" his mother, Lyra, exclaimed for the tenth time, her eyes shining with tears of pride as she squeezed his hand.
His father, Elara, merely clapped him on the shoulder, a wide, rare grin on his weathered face. Even Aeron, who typically reserved his smiles for the dogs, looked at him with an open admiration that made Ren squirm.
Back in the familiar warmth of their farmhouse, as the sounds of village celebration faded into the hum of evening crickets, Ren couldn't hold it in any longer. He slumped onto a stool by the hearth, the flickering firelight casting long, dancing shadows.
"I don't want to be a hero," he mumbled, the words barely audible.
Lyra's smile faltered. "Ren? What are you saying? This is a blessing! A divine gift!"
"It's... it's not the gift I wanted," he insisted, looking up at them, his eyes pleading for understanding. "I wanted to be a farmer. Like you, Papa. Like Aeron. I wanted to work the land, grow things. Not fight demons and swing swords." He gestured vaguely, feeling foolish even as he spoke his truth. "It sounds exhausting. And dangerous. And messy."
Aeron, who had been silently watching, finally spoke. "But Ren, a Hero's Gift… that's for protecting the village, protecting us all. It's the highest honor." His voice was gentle, puzzled.
Ren looked at his older brother. Aeron, with his strong, honest hands and his unwavering dedication to the earth. Ren admired his brother's simple, direct understanding of duty, born from a lifetime in this world. But Ren's own understanding was far more complex, tainted by memories of corporate greed, environmental degradation, and the sheer, brutal inefficiency of conflict from his past life. He just wanted to optimize yield, not casualties.
His father, Elara, knelt before him, his gaze steady and deep, free of the bewildered joy that still lingered in Lyra's eyes. "Son," he began, his voice soft but firm, "the Goddess grants her gifts, yes, but they are not always what we expect. Life, much like the soil, often holds hidden challenges and unexpected bounties. You might not have been granted the Farmer's Gift, but look at your hands." He took one of Ren's small hands in his own calloused one. "They are still hands. They can still work the earth, if that is your true calling."
He paused, then continued, his voice gaining a quiet strength. "A gift, Ren, is merely a tool. A means. What truly matters is what you choose to *do* with it. A warrior can defend a field, allow it to grow. A mage can conjure rain to nourish it. Even a hero, in his own way, protects the very ground we stand on. Don't let the name of the gift define your purpose. Let your purpose define how you use the gift. This 'Hero's Gift' might just be the means to achieve the kind of farming you truly dream of, perhaps on a scale no Alden has ever imagined."
Ren looked at his father, a flicker of something new stirring within him. *A means.* A tool. The words resonated with the pragmatic core of his past life's thinking. Could this unwanted power truly be bent to his will, twisted to serve his ultimate, agrarian goal?
Lyra, seeing the shift in Ren's expression, came over and hugged him tightly. "Whatever your gift, my little sprout, we know your heart. And we will support you, no matter what."
Aeron nodded, a serious expression on his face. "Just don't go getting yourself killed trying to grow extra-large carrots, little brother." It was his version of profound affection.
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Outside, the village of Oakhaven was ablaze with lanterns, their warm glow spilling from every window. Cheers and laughter mingled with the strumming of a lute. Neighbors congregated, sharing mugs of ale and slices of freshly baked bread.
"A Hero from Oakhaven!" bellowed old Farmer Grimsby, raising his mug high. "Bless the Aldens! What a boy!"
"Imagine! Our own Ren, destined for glory!" shouted Martha, the baker, her face flushed with excitement.
The Alden family, still gathered in their small home, could hear the distant roar of celebration. For the villagers, it was a moment of immense pride and hope, a beacon in increasingly uncertain times. For Ren, it was a strangely muffled sound, like a distant storm. But in his father's words, a single, unexpected seed of possibility had been planted. If this Hero's Gift truly was just a tool, then perhaps he could forge it into a rather unconventional, yet highly efficient, plow.