When I first opened my eyes, I was surrounded by dim light and muffled sounds. My body felt small, frail, and unresponsive. I couldn't move much, only wriggle my fingers and toes in a clumsy, unfocused way. The air was heavy with the scent of smoke and hay, mingled with something earthy that I couldn't place. It was disorienting, to say the least. The warmth of a thick, woolen blanket wrapped me, and a pair of arms held me close. The steady rhythm of a heartbeat thudded against my ear, slow and reassuring. I was alive—that much I could tell. But beyond that? I knew nothing. Not who I was, not where I was, and not what had happened to me before this moment.
A voice—soft, high-pitched, and filled with an almost musical cadence—spoke above me. I couldn't understand a single word. It sounded like a lullaby, gentle and comforting, but entirely alien. Another voice joined in, this one deeper, rougher, and edged with exhaustion. These two voices—one soft, one rough—continued their dialogue, their tones carrying a kind of warmth that I instinctively latched onto, even if the meaning of their words escaped me entirely.
The light around me came from a fire burning low in the corner of the room. Shadows danced on rough wooden walls, and the occasional crackle of embers was the only other sound besides the voices. The air was cool, though the fire offered some warmth. The space smelled of wood, damp earth, and something sweet, like dried herbs. A small window near the ceiling let in a pale sliver of moonlight, cutting through the dimness and revealing just how humble this place was.
It wasn't much of a room, more like a hovel, honestly. The walls were bare save for a few wooden shelves laden with earthenware jars and bundles of herbs tied with string. The floor was packed with dirt, uneven and cold beneath the straw scattered over it. In one corner, a crude wooden table with two stools stood near the fire, their surfaces scarred from years of use. A large clay jug rested beside a stack of wooden bowls. It was all so simple, so… rustic. Yet it was not unpleasant. There was a coziness to the cramped space, a sense of purpose and care in how everything was placed.
The two figures loomed above me, casting elongated shadows across the walls. One was a woman with long, dark hair that fell loose around her face. She wore a simple dress of coarse, homespun fabric, the kind that spoke of a life rooted in hard labor. Her hands were calloused but gentle as she cradled me against her chest. The man beside her was broad-shouldered and wiry, his face framed by a short, scruffy brown beard. His clothes were similarly plain, and his hands looked like they had seen their fair share of work—rough and scarred, with dirt permanently embedded beneath the nails.
They were speaking to each other in low voices, occasionally glancing down at me. The woman smiled, her face softening with a tenderness that made me feel strangely safe. The man's expression was harder to read—a mixture of worry and pride, perhaps. They seemed… happy, or at least content. Their voices ebbed and flowed like a current, and though I couldn't make sense of their words, I began to pick up on the emotions behind them. Love, curiosity, concern.
It wasn't long before exhaustion overtook me. My small body was so weak, so fragile, that just being awake felt like an effort. My eyelids grew heavy, and the world blurred into darkness as I drifted off to sleep, still nestled in the woman's arms.
The first few weeks of my new existence passed in a haze. My days were a repetitive cycle of sleeping, eating, and being cleaned. I was entirely dependent on the two people I had come to think of as my caretakers. The woman—my mother, I presumed—was a constant presence, always there to soothe me when I cried or to wrap me tightly in a soft, patched blanket. The man—my father?—was less frequent but no less attentive. He would lift me with his strong hands, holding me up as if to inspect me, his face breaking into a rare smile whenever I gurgled or cooed in response.
The language barrier was a constant frustration. They spoke often, both to each other and to me, but their words were a jumble of sounds that meant nothing to my ears. I'd listen intently, trying to discern patterns or familiar phrases, but it was all alien. Still, I began to notice things. The woman's voice would rise in pitch when she was excited or drop to a soothing hum when she wanted to calm me. The man's words were more clipped, more direct, often accompanied by gestures that seemed to convey meaning. I felt like an outsider in my own life, an observer trapped in a body too small and weak to do anything but watch and listen.
As the months passed, I began to grow stronger. My limbs, once so feeble, now had the strength to push against the blankets that swaddled me. I discovered my hands, marveling at the way my fingers opened and closed, how they could grasp the edge of a cloth or the rough texture of my father's sleeve. Crawling came soon after, though it was more of a desperate wriggle at first. My movements were clumsy and uncoordinated, but they brought me a newfound sense of freedom.
It was during one of these exploratory crawls that I began to truly understand my surroundings. The small house consisted of a single room, divided into distinct areas by purpose rather than walls. The hearth, with its ever-present fire, seemed to be the heart of the home. A large iron pot hung above the flames, often filled with something that smelled savory and comforting. Nearby, the wooden table and stools served as both a dining area and a workspace. The far corner held a makeshift bed made of straw and covered with woolen blankets, where my parents slept. My own sleeping space was a crude cradle carved from wood, set near the bed so they could reach me easily during the night.
There were few personal belongings. A small wooden chest sat against one wall, its contents a mystery to me. A couple of crude tools—a sickle, a hammer—leaned against the other wall, along with a pair of worn leather boots. Everything about the house spoke of a simple, hardworking life. It was clear my parents were poor, but they made do with what they had. There was a quiet dignity in their resilience.
By the time a year had passed, I had learned much. Not only had my body grown stronger, but my mind had begun to piece together the fragments of this new world. The language, once incomprehensible, was now starting to make sense. Words and phrases had taken root in my brain, their meanings gleaned from context and repetition. I still couldn't speak, but I could understand enough to follow simple conversations.
I had learned their names, too. My mother was called Eleonore Grimstone, and my father, Darrick Grimstone. They called me Ronan, Grimstone of course. Eleonore was a kind, patient woman who spent her days tending to the small vegetable garden behind the house or weaving rough cloth from bundles of wool. Darrick was a man of few words, often out in the fields or chopping wood, his strength evident in the way he carried himself. They worked hard, their lives dictated by the rhythm of the seasons and the demands of the land.
Though I still had no memory of who I had been before, I felt a growing sense of belonging here. Eleonore's laughter, Darrick's gruff affection, the crackle of the fire on a cold evening—these were the things that defined my world now. I had no need to dwell on the past; the present was enough.
In my explorations, I had also learned about the limits of our little home. Beyond the wooden door lay a vast, untamed world. I had glimpsed it once, when Darrick carried me outside to let the sun warm my face. Rolling wheat fields stretched out in every direction, dotted with clusters of trees and bordered by distant hills. The air smelled fresh and clean, a sharp contrast to the smoky interior of the house. Chickens clucked in a small pen nearby, and I could hear the faint sound of a sheeps trickling somewhere beyond the garden. It was a simple, pastoral life, but it held a quiet beauty that I was only beginning to appreciate.
My parents helped me a lot with the language: before going to bed they often read stories from our two books, the only ones we had, that told the stories of the world.
Keep hearing the same stories, day after day, could tire but the desire to learn the language came first. I think it is thanks to this body being more accustomed to learning.
Another year passed, and my world had grown significantly larger. I could now understand nearly all of my parents' language, even if my speech was still halting and simple. Words were tools I was learning to wield, and though my sentences often stumbled, Eleonore and Darrick were endlessly patient, encouraging me at every step. My body had grown stronger too. I could walk now, albeit with a slight wobble, and I reveled in the freedom it gave me. No longer confined to crawling on packed dirt, I could explore the little home and even step outside into the garden on my own.
I also learnt where we were living. The village's name was Brustel and all of the families were more or less in the same situation as us. It seemed that this place respected all the canons to describe it as Medieval.
I started to think about this world. It was my second year here and I haven't questioned myself about it a single time. I was conscious that I was not from this place, I belonged somewhere else. Why was I sent here, what was my goal? My mind started to ache.
To start well I had set myself some temporary goals:
1- Learn as much as possible about this world;
2-Find someone else from where I come from.
The second is a bit unlikely but it would be nice to find someone to share this with…
I'd focus more on the first.
Darrick had recently started taking me out with him to the fields. He'd hoist me up onto his shoulders and carry me as we walked beyond the small garden and into the golden expanse of wheat that surrounded our home. Once there, he'd set me down on a blanket beneath the shade of a tree and go about his work. From my spot, I could watch him labor, the rhythmic swing of his sickle cutting through the stalks of grain. The sound of wind rustling through the wheat was soothing, and I often found myself lulled into a quiet reverie.
It was during one of these outings that I first noticed the town. Far off in the distance, nestled at the base of a hill, was a cluster of rooftops. The thatch and stone structures were barely visible through the haze of the summer heat, but they were unmistakable. Smoke rose from chimneys, and faintly, I could hear the sound of bells chiming. I tugged at Darrick's sleeve, pointing toward the town.
"That's Punzel," he said simply, his voice carrying an edge of pride. "A good place, though not one we visit often."
"Why?" I asked, the word still clumsy on my tongue.
Darrick shrugged. "We've got all we need here. The town's for trading, for those who can't grow or make their own."
I didn't fully understand his reasoning, but the sight of the town filled me with a strange longing. It seemed alive in a way our little house wasn't—busy, bustling, full of people. I wondered what stories those rooftops held, what lives unfolded beneath them.
Life continued in its quiet rhythm, punctuated by small moments of joy and discovery. Villagers from nearby farms would occasionally visit, bringing news or offering goods to trade. They were always kind, their faces weathered by sun and toil, their voices carrying the same musical cadence as my parents'. I had grown used to their visits, finding comfort in the familiarity of their rough hands and hearty laughter.
But one day, the knock at our door was different.
It came in the late afternoon, just as the shadows of the trees began to stretch long across the garden. Eleonore, who was stirring a pot of stew over the fire, paused and exchanged a glance with Darrick. He wiped his hands on his trousers and moved to answer the door. I stood by the table, my curiosity piqued.
The figure that stepped inside was unlike anyone I had ever seen. He was an old man, his frame stooped beneath the weight of layers upon layers of cloaks. Each garment was a patchwork of colors and textures, giving him the appearance of a moving tapestry. Trinkets dangled from cords around his neck, catching the light as he moved—small bones, polished stones, and bits of metal that jingled softly with each step. His face was deeply lined, his beard long and streaked with gray. Sharp eyes peered out from beneath bushy brows, scanning the room before settling on me.
"I come with blessings for the little one," he announced, his voice deep and resonant. His accent was strange, his words carrying a lilting quality that set them apart from the villagers' speech.
Darrick hesitated, his expression wary. "We don't have much to offer in return."
The old man waved a hand dismissively. "I ask for nothing, only to give what I can. A blessing for the child."
Eleonore, ever the gentler of the two, nodded. "Come in. You're welcome here."
I wasn't sure what to make of him. There was something theatrical about his appearance, something that felt almost too deliberate. I wondered if he was a charlatan, someone who traveled from village to village peddling empty words. But my parents seemed to take him seriously, their superstitions outweighing their skepticism.
The man knelt before me, his many trinkets swaying as he moved. He reached into the folds of his cloak and produced a small vial of clear liquid, which he uncorked with a practiced flourish. "Hold still, little one," he said, dipping a finger into the vial and drawing a symbol on my forehead. The liquid was cool against my skin, its scent sharp and herbal.
He muttered words I didn't understand, his voice low and rhythmic, like the chanting of a prayer. His hands were shining for a few seconds and I felt relaxed. The atmosphere in the room grew heavy, charged with an energy I couldn't explain. Even Darrick, who rarely showed emotion, seemed captivated, his rough hands gripping the edge of the table.
When the blessing was complete, the old man leaned in close to me. His eyes, sharp and piercing, held mine as he whispered in a voice only I could hear: "Reaper's Peak. Go there."
I froze, my small body going rigid with shock.
The words were not in the language of this land. They were in a tongue I had almost forgotten—a language that felt like it belonged to another life, another time. Fluent, fluid, unmistakable: Japanese.
How did he know this language? How did I know it? Memories stirred at the edges of my mind, faint and fleeting, like shadows slipping through my grasp.
The old man straightened, his expression unreadable. He turned to my parents, smiling as if nothing unusual had happened. "The child is blessed," he declared, bowing his head. "May his path be a fortunate one."
With that, he gathered his cloaks around him and stepped back toward the door. My parents thanked him profusely, their relief palpable. To them, he was just an old wanderer who had performed a harmless ritual. But I knew there was more to it than that.
As the door closed behind him, I stood in stunned silence. The words he had spoken echoed in my mind, their meaning heavy with implication.
Reaper's Peak. Go there.
I didn't know where Reaper's Peak was, or why he had told me to seek it out. But deep down, I felt that it was important—vital, even. It was a thread connecting me to the life I had forgotten, to the person I had been before I woke in this small, rustic house. And again, I found myself wondering: who was I? What had I left behind?
That night, as I lay in my cradle staring up at the flickering shadows on the ceiling, I whispered the words to myself again, committing them to memory.
Now I had a third goal:
3 - Reaper's Peak. Go there.