The early morning light filtered through the small hospital room's window, casting soft shadows across the walls. Rowan sat in the quiet, his eyes never leaving Henry's resting form. The beeping of the machines was a steady reminder of the fragile line between life and death, a line that felt all too real in this moment.
As the minutes ticked by, Rowan's thoughts drifted, pulled back into the recesses of his mind. The present began to blur, the edges softening as memories from long ago resurfaced, unbidden but powerful.
[Twenty Years Ago]
The sky was overcast that day, heavy with the promise of rain. Henry and Martha Stratos had been finishing up their evening chores when a strange noise broke the usual peace of the valley—a distant, rumbling crash that seemed to shake the very earth beneath their feet.
"What was that?" Martha asked, her eyes wide with concern as she looked toward the forest that bordered their farm.
"I don't know," Henry replied, his brow furrowed. "But it didn't sound good. Might be a plane crash or something."
Without another word, they both set off toward the sound, their steps quick and purposeful. The trees were thick as they made their way into the forest, the underbrush tugging at their clothes as if trying to hold them back. But they pressed on, driven by a mixture of fear and curiosity.
It didn't take long to find the source of the disturbance. In a small clearing, surrounded by the broken limbs of trees and scorched earth, lay a man. He was large, easily over six feet, with dark hair and a muscular build. His clothes were strange, unlike anything Henry and Martha had ever seen, and his body was covered in burns and bruises.
Martha gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Henry, he's hurt! We need to help him!"
Henry didn't hesitate. He moved quickly to the man's side, kneeling down to check for a pulse. It was there, strong but erratic, as if the man was fighting some internal battle even in unconsciousness.
"Come on," Henry said, his voice calm but urgent. "We need to get him back to the house."
With great effort, they managed to lift the man between them, his weight a burden they bore without question. The journey back to the farmhouse was slow and arduous, but they didn't stop, driven by the need to save this stranger who had literally fallen into their lives.
When they finally reached the farmhouse, they laid him on the old couch in the living room. Martha immediately set to work, fetching a basin of warm water and some clean cloths while Henry grabbed the first aid kit they kept for emergencies.
They worked in silence, cleaning and bandaging the man's wounds, doing their best to stabilize him. Martha's hands were gentle as she wiped away the dirt and blood, her heart aching for the stranger who had clearly been through some kind of terrible ordeal.
As the hours passed, the man's breathing began to steady, though he remained unconscious. Martha and Henry stayed by his side, watching over him with the quiet vigilance of people who knew the fragility of life all too well.
It wasn't until the early hours of the morning that the man finally stirred. His eyelids fluttered, and a low groan escaped his lips as he slowly came to. Martha was the first to notice, her breath catching in her throat as she saw his eyes open—deep, piercing eyes that seemed to hold the weight of a thousand lifetimes.
"Henry," she whispered, her voice trembling with both relief and apprehension. "He's waking up."
Henry moved to her side, his expression one of cautious concern. The man on the couch blinked slowly, his gaze unfocused as he took in his surroundings. For a moment, he seemed lost, as if he didn't know where he was or how he had gotten there.
"Easy now," Henry said gently, holding up a hand to show they meant no harm. "You're safe here."
The man's eyes locked onto Henry's, and for a moment, there was nothing but silence between them. Then, with a voice that was hoarse and filled with confusion, the man spoke.
"Where… where am I?"
"You're at our farm," Martha replied softly, her hand resting lightly on the man's arm in a gesture of comfort. "You had an accident… or something. We found you in the forest."
The man's brow furrowed as he tried to recall what had happened, but there was nothing—only darkness and the faintest echoes of something important, something he couldn't quite grasp.
"I don't… I don't remember," he said, his voice laced with frustration. "I don't know who I am…"
Martha's heart broke for him. She glanced at Henry, who nodded in understanding. They had seen this before—people lost, with no memory of who they were or where they came from. It wasn't common, but it happened.
"Well," Henry said after a moment, his voice steady and reassuring, "until you remember, you can stay here with us. We'll take care of you."
The man looked at them, a mixture of gratitude and uncertainty in his eyes. "But… I don't even know my name."
Martha smiled, her expression warm and kind. "That's alright. We can give you one until you do. How about… Rowan?"
The man—Rowan—hesitated for a moment, the name rolling around in his mind as if testing it out. It didn't feel familiar, but it didn't feel wrong, either. After a moment, he nodded.
"Rowan," he repeated quietly, as if trying to anchor himself to the name. "Thank you."
Henry clapped him on the shoulder, his grip firm but friendly. "Welcome to the Stratos family, Rowan. You're one of us now."
And with that, Rowan Stratos was born—his old life forgotten, his new life beginning in the warmth and safety of the Stratos farmhouse.
[Present Day]
Rowan blinked, the memories of that day fading back into the recesses of his mind as the hospital room came into focus once more. Martha was still by Henry's side, her head bowed in prayer, her hand clutching his as if she could keep him tethered to this world by sheer will alone.
Rowan's heart ached as he watched them. He had been lost when they found him—lost in every sense of the word. They had given him a name, a purpose, and most importantly, a family. They had saved him, just as he had tried to save Henry tonight.
The sterile quiet of the hospital room was broken by the faintest of sounds—a groan, low and pained, but unmistakably Henry's. Rowan's head snapped up, his eyes immediately locking onto the older man's face as he saw the subtle flicker of movement beneath his eyelids.
"Henry?" Rowan's voice was a whisper, filled with hope and the fear of it being nothing more than a wishful thought.
Martha, who had been dozing lightly beside Henry, stirred at the sound of Rowan's voice. She blinked groggily, her eyes quickly focusing on Henry as she realized what was happening.
Henry's eyelids fluttered, and with great effort, they opened. His gaze was unfocused at first, as if he were looking through a fog, but slowly, recognition dawned. He saw Martha first, then Rowan, and a small, weak smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
"Hey there," Henry rasped, his voice barely more than a croak, but it was enough to bring tears of relief to Martha's eyes.
"Henry," she breathed, her hand tightening around his. "You're awake… thank God, you're awake."
Rowan let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The tight knot of anxiety in his chest loosened, and a small smile crept onto his face. "You gave us a scare, old man," he said, trying to keep his tone light, but the emotion in his voice was unmistakable.
Henry's gaze shifted to Rowan, his smile growing slightly. "Seems like… I've got a knack for that, huh?" he wheezed, his words strained but laced with the same humor that had seen him through so many hardships.
Rowan chuckled softly, moving closer to the bed. "You sure know how to keep us on our toes."
Martha pressed a kiss to Henry's forehead, her tears spilling onto his skin. "You're going to be alright," she whispered, more to herself than to him. "You're going to be just fine."
Henry's hand, weak but still steady, reached up to touch her face. "I'm here," he said softly, his thumb brushing away her tears. "I'm not going anywhere."
Rowan watched the exchange, his heart swelling with a mix of emotions—relief, love, and something deeper, more complex. It was in these quiet moments, these simple gestures of affection, that he felt most connected to the life he had built here, to the people who had given him a second chance.
But even as he stood there, basking in the relief of Henry's recovery, a familiar unease began to stir within him. It was as if a door in his mind had been opened, one that had been locked for years. Memories, or the fragmented pieces of them, began to bubble to the surface, unbidden and relentless.
[Fifteen Years Ago]
It was the middle of the night when it happened. The farmhouse was quiet, the only sounds the gentle creaking of the old wood settling and the soft rustle of the wind outside. Rowan had been asleep, his body worn out from a day of hard work in the fields, but his mind was far from peaceful.
The nightmare began as it often did, with flashes of light and darkness, indistinct shapes moving at the edges of his consciousness. But tonight, it was different. The images were sharper, more vivid, as if something within him had decided it was time to remember.
He was in space—vast, endless space, the stars cold and distant around him. There was no up or down, no ground beneath his feet, only the void. And in that void, he was not alone.
She was there—he didn't know who she was, but she was there, a figure of immense power. They were fighting, the clash of their abilities lighting up the darkness around them. Her energy was bright, blinding, and it burned him, but he fought back with equal ferocity, his own power surging through him like a wildfire.
They collided again and again, their battles rocking the very fabric of space. He could feel the rage, the determination in his every movement, but he didn't know why. He didn't understand where this hatred came from, only that it was there, driving him to destroy her.
Their fists connecting to their frames and causing devastating shockwaves in the void. Yet, Rowan could feel that as she fought him, he grew more powerful. As if each time she touched him, he stole power from her. Her ferocity was incredible, but his resolve only grew the more she struck him.
And then, in the midst of their battle, he had her. His hands were around her throat, and he could feel her power—so much power—flowing into him as he absorbed it, draining her, suffocating her. Victory was within his grasp.
But then, just as he was about to crush the life from her, something changed. She looked at him, not with fear, but with resolve. Her body began to glow, brighter and brighter, until she was a blinding star in his hands. And then, in a single, devastating moment, she overcharged, unleashing all of her energy in a cataclysmic explosion.
The force of it sent them both hurtling away from each other, spiraling toward the distant blue orb of Earth. The heat, the pressure—it was unbearable, and Rowan could feel himself being torn apart, his body plummeting through the atmosphere like a falling star.
The ground was rushing up to meet him, faster and faster, and just as he was about to crash into the earth, he woke up.
Rowan bolted upright in bed, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat. His hands were shaking, and as he looked down at them, he realized with a shock that they were glowing—faintly, but unmistakably. The same red energy that had coursed through him in the dream was now manifesting in the real world, crackling around his fingers like living fire.
His heart pounded in his chest as he stared at his hands, the nightmare still fresh in his mind. Who was she? Why had he been fighting her? And why did it feel so… real?
The questions circled in his mind, unanswered and relentless. He knew that what he had experienced wasn't just a dream. It was a memory, or at least part of one, buried deep within him and now fighting its way to the surface.
But what did it mean? What was his connection to this woman, this powerful being who had nearly defeated him? And why had he tried to kill her?
Rowan didn't have the answers. All he knew was that the power inside him, the power he had kept buried for so long, was still there, waiting to be unleashed. He didn't understand it, didn't trust it, but he knew it was dangerous.
As the glow around his hands began to fade, Rowan forced himself to calm down, his breathing slowing as he willed the energy to retreat. He couldn't afford to lose control, not now, not when he had finally found a place where he belonged.
He sat there in the dark for a long time, the remnants of the nightmare lingering in his mind like a shadow. Eventually, the exhaustion from the day caught up with him, and he lay back down, closing his eyes and willing sleep to come, though it was a long time before it did.
[Present Day]
Rowan blinked, the memory fading as the present came back into focus. Henry was watching him, his gaze steady despite the weariness in his eyes.
"Welcome back," Rowan said softly, his voice laced with relief. "You sure picked a good time to wake up."
Henry chuckled weakly, his smile still holding that stubborn determination Rowan had come to admire. "Wouldn't want to miss the party, would I?"
Rowan returned the smile, though his mind was still partially elsewhere, lingering on the memory that had resurfaced. He couldn't shake the image of the woman from his dream—her face, her power, and the overwhelming feeling that she was important, that she knew something about him, something he needed to remember.
But why had he tried to kill her? And why had she fought back with such ferocity, as if their battle was about more than just survival?
As Henry settled back into his bed, Martha by his side, Rowan couldn't help but wonder if the answers to his questions were out there somewhere, waiting to be uncovered. He had built a life here, a life that he cherished, but there were still parts of himself—of his past—that remained shrouded in mystery.
Who was that woman? And more importantly, who had he been before he became Rowan Stratos?