It’s warm, just as it should be. Ralic gets up next to his wife as usual, but now dawns the garb of “the hero”. It was delivered to him yesterday evening to put on, passed down from generation to generation–and now it is his turn. It fastens on easily. Ralic’s surprised; the clothing fits him perfectly, as if it were meant for him. In a way, it is meant for him–just as it was meant for his great , great, great, great, great grandfather; each generation of men given the same task. He leans over to his wife, the daughter of the blacksmith, and kisses her lightly on the cheek. “Good morning,” he says. Her features clench and she opens restful green eyes and stretches forward her pregnant center. “Mornin’, Ral’.” She gets out of bed herself, returns the kiss, and prepares for the big day. Ralic walks up to the mirror, a symbol of his great wealth, and looks himself over. Long, clean, handsome features–he looks just like his father at that age, who looked just like his father, and so on.
