Author's Note: I was a bit surprised at how few stories there were with the Hero's parents. And I had this little idea...

Oakvale was quiet in the pre-dawn light. Even the tavern regulars had stumbled home or slumped onto the tables by now. No one heard the light steps on the frosty ground, or the swish of a cloak through the air.

No one knew that a killer had come to Oakvale.

The hooded figure swept through the town, past the tavern and up the hill, a red shadow in the chilled and misty air. If someone had watched, they might have seen dark hair underneath the cowl. They might have glimpsed the glint of a sword, or a hint of the leather armor. But no one saw. The figure continued undisturbed to its goal: the last house on the road.

Most families locked their doors at night, even in Oakvale. Especially in Oakvale. Bandits roamed closely, and a slim bar in the door was a better defense than nothing at all. Strange, then, that the last house should be unlocked. The figure glared at the open door, then slipped inside the house, leaving a barely audible click as the door shut.

A fire burned low in the grate, giving off just enough light to see the small family asleep in their beds. Two children, a boy and a girl, snored lightly; the boy lay sprawled across his mattress. The figure watched them for a moment in the flickering light.

And then the figure turned away, towards the other bed, the parent's bed. And then it went to work, unbuckling and tugging at the sword on its back, completely silent.

--

Brom dreamed. He dreamed of his daughter, blind and sad, hopeless in the hands of bandits. He dreamed of his son, training in the Guild of Heroes, roaming Darkwood, fighting Balverines, standing in the Arena, the champion.

He dreamed of his wife, broken and bleeding, the way he had first found her so many years ago. She reached out to him, and a fire began to consume her. Brom, she called. Brom.

"Brom."

The whisper in his ear pulled him from dreams and into his wife's arms. Her hands were cold from the mist outside, and she still smelled of the road and traveling.

"You just get back, then?" He whispered. A glint of metal caught his eye, and he saw her sword and bow resting by the fire, the red cloak folded neatly on top.

"I told you to lock the door, dear." Scarlet admonished.

Brom turned to face her, his arms pulling her closer. "Luv," he said, "when you leave, that door is always unlocked.",

--

Scarlet listened to her husband sleep, and could just hear the soft dream-sighs of her children. She let out a sigh of her own, and rolled over. Despite the Balverine blood on her cloak, and the human blood on her clothes, she knew she would rest well. It had been a long journey home from the Arena, but one well worth it. Her family would eat. Her children would grow.

And no matter how many she had killed, bandit or Balverine, the door would always be unlocked.

Final Note: Aw, Brom may be ugly as sin, but he's super sweet. So yes, this is quite short, just a glimpse of how nice things were before the whole Destruction-of-Their-Lives-and-Homes. All belongs to Peter Molyneux, who is god.