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Preminger was only 8 years old and already he knew the unrelenting toils of labor. He knew how it felt to stand for hours beneath the beating sun, knee deep in filth and swaddled in the stench of the farm. Exhaustion to him was like a living breathing accomplice whom he met each morning and shouldered through the day. Before he could stand he knew the company of starvation. Before he could speak he had felt the sting of death and at 8 years old, he carried half of the labor on his father's farm.

"One day, Preminger," His father would say to him on the nights he had the energy to speak. "You will leave this farm."

"I don't want to leave the farm." Preminger would say, innocence sparkling in his honey colored eyes. "Who would help you care for it?"

His father would chuckle softly beneath his breath and take Preminger into his arms, his large, calloused hands resting in the boy's platinum hair. "You wont need to worry about me or the farm, my son. We will be far away from this place."

"Will we have a castle, father?"

His father smiled, watery blue eyes reflecting the lonely candle flame on the table. "We will have whatever you want! We will live in a castle and we will have servants and cooks and we will eat dessert before dinner whenever you'd like!"

Preminger would laugh and his father would listen as though that were the single greatest sound his ears had heard. Then his face would grow solemn and he would look into Preminger's eyes and speak with such surety, there was no doubt in Preminger's mind that what he was hearing was the truth.

"You're going to rule this land one day, Preminger. They'll try and stop you; the whole world will push against you, but you stand your ground and you climb to the very top."

These words filled every crevice of the young boys mind and in them, he found strength. Life had not come easy to him, but he faced each day with a smile.

That is until the winter of his 10th year.

That was the year he stopped smiling.

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