"Let's see... This story... A boy named Damien...
The bustling village square pulsed with life, a stark contrast to the stillness inside him.
Lanterns swung gently from ropes strung between wooden poles, their flickering glow casting shadows that danced in rhythm with the music.
Children weaved between laughing adults, their hands clutching honeyed apples and wooden trinkets. The scent of roasted meat and cider thickened the cool night air.
Damien, the child of a traveling trader, wore a finely stitched tunic that marked him as an outsider amidst the humble villagers. His polished boots tapped against the wagon, but not in time with the music.
With furrowed brows and lips pressed in a hard line, his sharp eyes skimmed the crowd—watching, but not truly seeing.
The endless roads his family traveled, the constant barter of silks and spices, all felt meaningless. His father's wealth brought privilege, but not purpose.
The festival spun around him, the music livelier than ever, the air electric with joy, yet he felt detached—like a leaf blown in from another land... like a ghost in a world not his own.
'I've seen this before… haven't I?' A strange thought. It made no sense, yet it gnawed at him. The warmth of the lanterns, the rise and fall of laughter—it was all so familiar, like a half-forgotten dream slipping through his fingers.
'What am I even thinking? What am I even doing here?' Damien thought bitterly. He had no roots, no friends, no sense of belonging. Why would anything feel familiar?
"Why aren't you dancing?"
The sudden voice cut through his thoughts. He turned. A girl stood in front of him, hands on her hips, head tilted in curiosity.
She was young, likely his age, wearing a patched but well-kept dress. Her dark hair was tied with a ribbon that mirrored the festival's colors, and her eyes, sharp and lively, locked onto him with unshaken confidence.
Damien hesitated. 'She looks like… Who...?' Something like a memory flashed into his mind, but just as quickly, it disappeared. He shook his head. That was ridiculous. There was no 'she' to compare her to, no one he should remember. And yet, the strange, tight feeling in his chest remained.
"I don't dance," he said flatly, looking away.
"You don't dance?" she echoed, a mix of disbelief and amusement in her tone. "What, are you scared?"
He frowned. "It's pointless. Spinning in circles to music doesn't accomplish anything."
The girl sighed, shaking her head as if he had personally disappointed her. "Gods, you sound just like an old man. Fine, stay here and be miserable, then." She turned on her heel as if she would leave—but then, suddenly, she grabbed his wrist.
"Wait—what are you—?!"
"Shut up and dance with me!" she said, dragging him from the wagon and into the crowd.
His eyes shot wide open. He clearly didn't want to go… then why did his feet move so willingly to the girl's tugging? A feeling he had never truly felt before emerged—something he didn't and couldn't fully describe at the time.
"Ah, wait…" He turned back suddenly, his eyes searching for the man bartering with the villagers. But his father didn't even notice his son being dragged away. Damien's head dipped slightly.
Only for the girl's annoyed voice to snap him back.
"Oh, don't you dare look back."
"Uh…?"
"I said just keep your eyes on me… Come and dance with me!"
A pang of something unspoken twisted in his chest, but before he could dwell on it, laughter swelled around him. The music throbbed against his ears, the rhythmic pounding of drums almost like a heartbeat—his heartbeat, maybe.
He stumbled over his own feet as the girl pulled him deeper into the crowd.
She stopped in the middle of the square, grinning as she turned to face him. "Hold my hands," she commanded.
Damien hesitated. She was so close now—too close. Her presence, her warmth, the way her eyes gleamed like they had already won—it was overwhelming. For reasons he didn't understand, his pulse quickened.
And so... reluctantly, he obeyed.
"Good. Now follow my lead," she said, stepping lightly, guiding him into the rhythm. Her movements were effortless, like the wind dancing through an open field. His, by contrast, were stiff and awkward.
She laughed as he nearly tripped, but there was no mockery in it—only a lightness that made his embarrassment feel strangely bearable.
"See? You're doing it!" she said, spinning him.
For a moment, Damien lost himself.
The music. The lights. The warmth of her hands in his.
He wasn't thinking. He wasn't watching life from a distance. He was in it.
The beat of the drums pulsed through his veins, and for the first time, he let himself move with it.
As he spun, the world around him blurred—not in a dizzying way, but in a freeing one.
Laughter bubbled up from within him, surprising even himself. The energy of the dance, the rhythm of the festival—it carried him in a way he had never let himself experience before.
The notes of the fiddle soared, lifting the night into something more than just a celebration—it was alive, moving through his body as if it had always been waiting for him to take part.
His movements became less forced, his steps more natural.
The warmth of Marian's hands anchored him, but for once, he wasn't just following—he was part of it.
'Why does this feel… so right?'
Another memory—not clear, not full—just a fragment, a sensation ghosting through his mind. Another festival, another girl, another life?
No. Impossible. He was imagining things.
Still, something in his chest ached. But what did it matter now? This moment was not a memory.
The music slowed, the dance winding down. The girl was still holding his hands, her face flushed with excitement.
"See? That wasn't so bad," she teased.
Damien let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. "I… I guess not."
She grinned, stepping closer. "What's your name?"
"Damien," he said, watching her carefully, like she was something fragile he didn't know how to handle.
"Well, Damien," she said, eyes twinkling, "you're not as bad at dancing as you think."
He scoffed softly. "Thanks… I think."
"And you are?" he asked after a pause.
"Marian," she said simply.
'Marian…'
The name felt important. It shouldn't have. But it did, it felt more important than anything he ever heared.
Before he could process why, she tugged on his hand again, leading him toward a table where food and drinks were being shared among villagers.
"C'mon," she said. "If you're new to dancing, I bet you've never tasted Old Man Harold's festival stew either. Trust me, you have to try it."
As she pulled him along, Damien followed.
As Marian's hand lingered in his, for the first time in as long as he could remember, he didn't feel like a traveler passing through, he thought that maybe, just maybe, the endless roads had brought him somewhere worth staying.
Truly for the first time, he felt like he was in life, he was in this moment...
He belonged here...
...
Years passed, and Damien found his place in the village. He built a life here, a home, a trade, and most importantly, a family. Marian, with her ever-persistent energy, had carved herself into his world, and he had let her. He had married her, loved her, and together, they had a son—Edrin. The restless boy who once watched the festival from the shadows had become a man with a family, a purpose.
Life was simple. Life was good.
He embraced the simple, honest life of a carpenter, he loved the scent of fresh-cut timber clinging to his clothes, the ache in his muscles after a hard day's work, the evenings spent beside Marian, whispering about everything and nothing. And Edrin—his spirited, stubborn son—was his greatest joy.
"Why do I have to stay behind?" Edrin pouted, crossing his arms.
Damien chuckled, ruffling the boy's dark hair. "Because someone has to help your mother keep the house standing while I'm gone."
Edrin scrunched his nose in playful defiance. "What if I build something better while you're away?"
Marian laughed from the doorway. "Knowing you, you'll build something ridiculous, like a chicken palace."
Edrin's eyes lit up. "A chicken palace! That's—"
"—exactly why I'm leaving you here," Damien said, grinning.
Edrin huffed, but his mischievous smile betrayed him.
"I'll be back before the cold sets in," Damien promised, pressing a kiss to Marian's forehead before lifting Edrin into a hug. "Be good, alright?"
The boy groaned. "I'm always good!"
Marian arched an eyebrow. "He lies."
Damien smirked. "I know."
The last thing he saw as he rode away was Edrin, standing in the doorway beside Marian, waving until they disappeared from sight.
For the first time in his life, no, for the first time across lifetimes, Damien truly was happy.
But happiness had always been fleeting for the being he was.
And so, it ended.
...
The city was larger than he remembered, its market loud and bustling. He had no desire to linger—just to trade, collect supplies, and return home.
He should have left sooner.
By the time he reached the final hill before home, dusk had begun to settle. The cart rattled behind him, half-empty after a day of bartering. The road was quiet and peaceful.
Then, he saw it.
Smoke.
Thick. Black. Rising from the valley.
His breath hitched. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
"No."
Damien whipped the reins, spurring the horse into a reckless sprint. The cart lurched, nearly toppling as it tore down the path toward the village.
The moment he crested the hill, he knew.
The village—his village—was gone.
Flames licked at the ruins of thatched roofs. The market square was blackened with soot and blood. Bodies lay strewn across the streets—men, women, children—all slaughtered like animals.
The air was thick with the stench of burning flesh and iron.
Damien's legs moved before his mind could process. He ran. Past the corpses, past the smoldering wreckage, past the still-burning buildings.
His home—or what was left of it—stood in ruins.
"Marian!" he choked, ripping through the burning debris.
A small hand peeked from beneath the rubble.
His breath strangled in his throat.
"No... No, no, no—"
He tore at the wreckage, splinters slicing into his fingers, fire burning his hands as he yanked the wood aside.
Blood dripped down his hands, but he didn't feel it. He dug, clawed, and fought against the debris—until he found them.
Marian's body was curled protectively over Edrin's.
Their son lay beneath her, his small frame crushed beneath the weight of their collapsed home.
No breath. No movement.
No life.
Damien's vision blurred. His body trembled as he knelt, gathering them both in his arms.
"Please," he rasped, his voice broken and raw. "Please, wake up—"
But they didn't.
Something inside him cracked. Then shattered.
A sound tore from his throat—something primal, broken. The sound of a man who had lost everything once and again. The sound of something no longer human or was it even human to begin with...?
The heat swirled around him, the fire hungrily devouring what remained, but he didn't move.
There was nowhere left to run.
There was no one left to save.
What was the point of surviving again?
He stepped deeper into the wreckage. The flames licked at his skin, searing away his clothes, his flesh, his existence. But none of it compared to the pain within.
His voice, he had this voice once before—charred, hollow—escaped him in a whisper.
"I remember now."
His head lifted.
His breath hitched.
His grief twisted, blackened, it did not scream—it burned, slow and deliberate, it curdled into something deeper—something old.
Not rage.
Not hatred.
Recognition.
The heat of battle, the clash of steel, the scent of blood long dried on his skin.
Not now.
Not this body.
But before.
Before.
And then—
He saw them.
Not in this place.
Not in this life.
But in the spaces between.
The eyes.
The ones that had taken everything.
The ones he had promised to carve out.
Not here.
Not now.
But soon.
His gaze flickered.
"I will feast on all of you." The air itself seemed to tremble.
"Your bodies will lay still." His vision darkened at the edges.
His mind, fractured and raw, bled into something beyond...
"Remember me... my name... for I am STILL HERE." The fire roared, swallowing everything.