The Name I Was Reborn to Bury

Night had arrived without haste, covering the sky with a thick and silent shroud. Outside the house, the wind whispered through the wooden cracks as if it longed to enter and be part of the life that unfolded within. The fireplace crackled softly, casting dancing shadows upon the clay and straw walls — as if it too were trying to warm some forgotten soul.

Elian remained awake, watching his siblings sleep beside him.

Emmanuelle rested peacefully, as if nothing in the world could disturb her. Her chest rose and fell with a soft rhythm — innocent. She slept like someone untouched by the cruelty the world reserved for the poor or the merciless winters that often came uninvited.

In contrast, Anthony slept heavily, his muscles relaxed from exhaustion. The day in the fields had drained him, as it did every day. Yet, there was no complaint on his face — only the resigned silence of someone who had learned far too early to carry the weight of the world on his own shoulders.

Elian, meanwhile, was awake. Clutching the grimoire he had received only hours earlier, he felt the warm glow of gratitude and the cruel weight of doubt.

His arms wrapped tightly around the book, as if to protect it — or perhaps it was he who sought protection in that object. A symbol. A future. A promise.

Lying on the straw mat, he stared at the wooden ceiling, golden eyes wide open, burning like smoldering coals. He could still feel the echo of the hugs, the touch of their hands in his hair, the birthday smiles. He could still hear the thank you whispered through a trembling voice.

But now, in the silence of the night, the joy retreated… and the shadows returned.

They always returned.

"I'll become strong. I promise. But… what if I can't?"

His chest tightened.

He was loved. He was cherished. They believed in him.

But he... still saw himself as tainted. As someone who had stolen a destiny that was never his.

It was like wearing clean clothes over a body stained with blood that wouldn't wash off — no matter how hard he scrubbed.

He turned to his side, hugging the book even tighter.

"Why me… and not her?"

The image of Luciana came like a dagger. Her smile — small and full of life. Then her body — still, cold, silent.

She, the one he had sworn to protect.

She, whom he let die.

A tear rolled down, warm, from the corner of his eye.

— Elian? — murmured a small voice.

He turned. It was Emmanuelle.

She was standing beside the mat, her face still sleepy, her hair a mess, eyes half-closed.

— Yes? — he answered, trying to discreetly wipe his face.

She stepped closer and looked at him carefully. When she noticed the tear still glistening under the faint firelight, she frowned.

— Are you crying? Are you sad? Did you get hurt?

Elian didn't answer. He just looked at her.

Emmanuelle then knelt down and, with a simple and affectionate gesture, wiped away the tear with her fingertips.

— No need to cry, — she said with a light, almost innocent smile. — Today is your birthday. A day to be happy, not sad.

Without warning, she began crawling under his blanket.

— Manu… wait… what are you doing?

She snuggled beside him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

— Today I'm sleeping with you. Just in case you're scared of the monsters from Dad's stories... I'll stay here to protect you.

Elian sighed. He couldn't say no. Not to her.

— Alright…

— Good night, Elian. See you tomorrow.

She hugged him tenderly, the kind of embrace only siblings know how to give. And without even knowing it, she chased away the shadows of that night.

Elian closed his eyes.

And for the first time in a long while… he fell asleep in peace.

---

The next day began like any other.

The breakfast table was set — or rather, improvised. On the worn wooden surface sat a piece of rye bread — hard and aged — and a bowl of watery porridge, made from the wheat they themselves had grown. The water, served in clay pots, was the only drink available.

It was little. But it was what they had. And more than anything, it was made with effort — meant mostly for Arthur and Anthony, whose days in the fields began before the sun fully rose.

Arthur chewed in silence, then after swallowing a bite of bread, he said:

— I'm going to the village today. We need to sell the wheat we harvested last week.

The words were direct, like most things in their lives. Life in the countryside didn't allow for embellishment.

Then he turned to his eldest son:

— Anthony, I want you to take care of the farm today. The work can't stop.

Anthony only nodded, serious. His tired eyes met his father's. No hesitation. It was a burden he bore without complaint.

Maria, ever helpful, opened her mouth to offer assistance — but even before she could finish, both Arthur and Anthony replied in unison:

— No, Maria. Take care of the house. That's more than enough.

She stepped back, silent, though her eyes carried a hint of sorrow — the pain of not being able to do more, even if she wished to.

Arthur then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at the two younger children, still chewing their porridge slowly:

— Elian, Emmanuelle… you're coming with me today.

Both looked at him, surprised.

— It's time you see the village. Manu's never been, and you, Elian, haven't either. I want you both to come with me.

Elian felt a spark of anticipation in his chest. In five years of living in this world, he had never gone beyond the borders of their small homestead. The farthest he had ventured was the back field, where he trained magic with Maria.

And the forest — always within view, but far — remained forbidden. A place cloaked in stories and warnings.

"When you're older… and strong enough, you'll be allowed to go there. But until then, it's better not to."

He remembered Arthur's firm voice from years ago.

— Alright, Father. When do we leave? — asked Elian, trying to sound calm, though his heart raced.

— As soon as we finish breakfast. I want us back before dusk. The roads aren't safe after sunset. There might be bandits.

The word hung in the air for a second.

"Bandits…"

The word echoed louder inside Elian than it should have. He knew exactly what it meant. Not from others' stories — but from his own past.

His mind was hijacked by a filthy, cruel memory, stained with blood.

A family.

Screams.

Panic.

A blade cutting without hesitation.

And him… smiling.

"I'm sorry."

The words burned inside. There was no one to say them to. Nothing that could be undone. Just a plea thrown into the void.

He looked around at his new family. Emmanuelle smiled, excited. Maria watched him with love. Anthony prepared for work. Arthur made plans like any honest father would.

They trusted him. They loved him. And all he could think was:

"My soul is filthy. Will I ever be worthy of this?"

Then Maria, always perceptive, noticed something.

— Elian… did something happen? You don't want to go? — she asked gently.

Elian flinched. He felt exposed, naked before his mother's gaze.

"Again… I'm weighing down her heart."

Panicked at the thought of making her worry, he reacted quickly.

— No, Mom. It's just that… I wanted to train with you today. That's all. — he lied, and not well.

Arthur watched him closely.

— If you don't want to go, you can stay. I'll just take Manu. She'll love seeing the village.

Elian turned slowly to his sister.

Emmanuelle, until then excited, wilted like a flower under dry wind. Her smile vanished. Her eyes dimmed. It was as if the world had taken away a promised celebration.

Elian felt a stab of guilt.

— No, Dad! — he said, before the silence grew awkward. — I want to go. Manu was excited. And… I want to see the village too.

He turned to his sister, forcing a small smile.

— Missing a day of training won't hurt. Actually… it's good to rest a little, right?

Her smile returned slowly — small but sincere. Maria relaxed her shoulders.

Arthur nodded, satisfied.

— Alright then. Finish eating. We leave shortly. The earlier we go, the safer our return will be.

Elian looked out the small window. The sky was already brightening, tinted with orange and pink hues. A new day had begun… but today, something would be different.

It was the first time he would leave home's borders. The first time he would see the village with his own eyes — the place he had heard so much about since being reborn here.

As he chewed the last piece of hard bread, Elian couldn't ignore the tightness in his stomach. Maybe it was just nerves… or maybe it was something else.

Outside, Arthur was already preparing the worn-out harness of the cart. Emmanuelle, animated, fixed her hair with her hands and smiled at everything.

Elian slowly rose, picking up the grimoire still beside him.

With slow steps, he left the house alongside his sister. The morning air was fresh and slightly damp. The earth still carried the scent of night.

The road before them began narrow, dirt-packed, lined with low vegetation and fields that stretched like a sea of dry stalks.

Elian took a deep breath — and stepped forward.

After all, it was just the beginning of the day — and something told him… he wouldn't return the same.

The road to the village was far from beautiful. Quite the opposite.

The ground was full of holes, covered in dry dirt, loose stones, and shallow ditches carved by rains long gone. The cart wheels creaked with every meter, protesting against the uneven terrain.

Trees flanked the road in dense clusters. Some were small, twisted, and thin. Others were large, with hollow trunks, as if slowly dying — rotting from the inside out. Fallen branches piled at the edges of the trail, mixed with old leaves, tall weeds, and invisible insects whispering among themselves.

In certain stretches, the forest seemed to close in completely, forming natural tunnels where sunlight barely passed through. It was a humid, dark, and silent atmosphere — broken only by the sound of the wheels, Arthur's footsteps, and Emmanuelle's excited questions that echoed against the oppressive stillness.

Every now and then, they would pass the remains of old houses or huts — simple constructions made of clay and wood, partially collapsed or burned. One house still released a faint trail of black smoke near its base, and it didn't seem to have been struck by lightning.

Elian smelled it before he saw it: dry smoke, mixed with ashes and something bitter.

There were several smoke columns scattered across the distant hills.

— Daddy… why is there smoke over there? — Emmanuelle asked, pointing with a finger still sticky from porridge.

Arthur walked ahead of the cart, guiding it steadily. He turned his face just enough to respond:

— Some houses were burned… sometimes by bandits, sometimes by beasts. And sometimes… people burn their own homes before they leave.

His voice was firm, without drama.

Emmanuelle didn't ask any more questions.

Arthur wouldn't allow the children to walk. He preferred both to ride in the old wooden cart while he himself walked beside it, holding the reins of the old mule. His feet kicked up dry dust from the road, and sweat gathered on his body from the constant effort.

Elian watched him in silence.

"He could be sitting here with us…" he thought. "But he chose to walk, without complaint… just so we could rest. Will I ever be like him?"

The journey continued in silence for a few more minutes, until Emmanuelle turned to Elian, her wide eyes shining with curiosity.

— Eli, do you think the village has a shop that sells magic cloaks?

— I don't know, Manu… I don't think so.

— What about swords? Do they have big ones, like the kind that glow in the dark?

— Maybe they have swords… but I don't think they glow.

— And do you think their bread tastes better than ours?

Elian laughed. It was impossible not to smile in the face of his sister's innocent enthusiasm.

He looked at her — her red hair tied in two messy braids, her eyes curious, her spirit light.

And even with all the melancholy he carried inside, even with the weight of memories and a past that never let go… something warm stirred in his chest at that moment.

"I love this girl. I love her as if she had always been my sister."

— Manu… the village probably doesn't have any of that. But I promise we'll look at everything, okay?

She nodded with a broad smile and leaned her head on his arm.

The cart continued to creak, loaded with tied sacks of wheat. There were at least six large bags, carefully sewn by Maria over the past few days. Each one represented weeks of work under the sun, calloused hands, and aching backs.

"It's not much… but it's everything we have to sell," thought Elian. "If Arthur gets a good price, maybe we can buy extra flour… or blankets for the winter."

The road felt endless.

For nearly an hour and a half, they followed that rugged path. The heat slowly increased. The sky brightened, but despite the day rising, the forest around them kept its gloomy appearance — as if the sun were too timid to touch it.

When they finally caught sight of the village, it was almost by accident.

The trees gave way little by little, revealing a cluster of houses, most built from rough stone and battered wood.

There were no walls. No sentries.

The smell came first.

A stench of mold, dung, salted and burned meat. The odor of filth accumulated in muddy streets, and of sweat soaked into clothes never properly washed.

The village was not beautiful. It was raw, poor… and alive. A muddled stack of precarious buildings, with crooked rooftops, smoking chimneys, and voices — many voices — echoing through narrow alleys.

Arthur slowed his steps and said:

— We've arrived.

Emmanuelle looked on, eyes sparkling. Elian simply stared, unsure of what he felt.

The cart creaked once more as they passed beneath a cracked stone arch that served as the village's "entrance."

And thus, for the first time since his rebirth, Elian crossed the borders of the field… and entered the world.