The Name I Was Reborn to Bury

After the embrace, Maria kept her hands on her son's shoulders for a while, gently stroking his red hair. There was a beautiful silence there, one no word dared to interrupt — a silence brimming with overflowing love. But soon, she stepped back with a tired smile, saying she needed to check the oven. Elian nodded, but remained where he was — seated, still, as if his soul were still processing everything.

Once alone, he let himself slide down to the floor. He leaned his back against the clay wall and raised his eyes to the uneven wooden ceiling, where the afternoon light filtered lazily. Each sunbeam seemed to touch the dust particles in the air as if drawing forgotten thoughts.

Light.

That word felt more and more foreign to him. It didn't suit the hands that had killed. It didn't match the soul that carried blood — from another life, from another world. He had never seen himself as someone good. In truth, even now, he saw himself as someone desperately trying not to fall again.

And yet… Maria saw him that way.

"You brought me back to the light."

Those words still echoed inside him like a balm — but also like a wound. Because she didn't know. She didn't know who he had been. What he had done. The darkness he had once embraced with pleasure. He wasn't that innocent baby who had just entered the world. He was a man who had already failed — and who now, for the first time, was trying to be worthy of the love he was given.

He closed his eyes.

He remembered his sister, her eyes pleading for help. He remembered the spear piercing the first attacker's chest. The smell of blood and burnt flesh. Emanuelle's tears. The pain in his body. And the dark root in the dream, touching his leg with... recognition.

"As if it knew who I was."

That was what hurt the most. The world seemed to know who he was — before he did.

But then came Maria.

With that gaze. That unconditional love. That impossible belief that he was the light of her life. And maybe… maybe it was true. Even if he wasn't made of light, perhaps he could… carry one. Protect one. Give birth to one.

Not for redemption.

But for love.

Elian opened his eyes slowly.

The ceiling was still the same. The light still danced. But inside him... something was different. A new silence. Like a gentle flame — small, but steady.

Not peace.

But hope.

---

That afternoon, Arthur suggested a trip to the river for a bath. A simple gesture, yet sacred in its intent — to leave behind one last light memory, one last happiness, before Elian's departure. A sunlit anchor in the water, before the tide of longing came.

They walked the dirt trails flanked by dry trees swaying in the breeze. The sun filtered through the branches like golden threads of farewell, and each step raised dust that seemed to cling to their skin and to their hearts.

As usual, Elian and Anthony turned the walk into a race.

"Last one to reach the river has to help Dad with the pigs tomorrow!" Anthony shouted, dashing ahead.

"You're bluffing! The pigs are your job!" Elian shot back, running after him.

Their sandals kicked up leaves as they ducked under branches, nearly tripping over each other with laughter. Emanuelle followed a few paces behind, giggling loudly, until she slipped on a root and was caught by Elian.

"I'm okay!" she said through laughter, brushing dust off her skirt. "But you cheated, Elian! You stopped to catch me!"

"And I'm still going to beat you, Anthony!" Elian yelled, taking off again.

They arrived breathless at the riverbank. The sound of the current was clean and steady. They took off their shoes, and the cold water drew sharp gasps — part shock, part delight.

Anthony dove in headfirst, surfacing moments later with hair plastered to his forehead.

"Now this is life!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the stones.

Emanuelle squealed as a splash hit her.

"Anthony! You dummy!" she laughed.

Elian sat on a smooth rock, dipping his feet in the water. He watched it all with a soft smile, but his gaze carried the quiet weight of an impending goodbye.

Anthony climbed out of the water and sat beside him, still dripping.

"It's gonna be weird here without you," he said, his voice less playful now.

Elian watched the flow of the water before answering:

"Yeah… for me too. But I'll be back every weekend. We'll still have plenty of time together."

"I'll be waiting," Anthony said firmly. "You'll be learning magic, and I…" he shrugged. "I wanna train with swords. I'm no good with mana stuff, but Dad said he'd teach me with the harvest axes and blades."

"Then we'll train together," Elian replied with a small smile. "When I come back, we'll train. One with magic, the other with a sword. Like true brothers of war."

Anthony nodded. He didn't need to smile to show how happy that made him. It was the promise he needed.

Not far off, Maria watched them. Sitting on a moss-covered stone, her hands resting on her lap, eyes fixed on her children. Arthur approached quietly, sitting beside her.

"They'll remember this," she whispered.

"So will we," he replied, following her gaze.

Maria drew a long breath, trying to hold back the heaviness she'd carried since hearing the decision the night before.

"Even if it's just during the week… I already miss him," she murmured, voice trembling. "It's like time is stealing my son a little earlier than promised."

"He's not leaving us, Maria," Arthur said. "He's just growing up… faster than we expected."

"Still… when he's not at the table, when I walk into the room and he's not lying with the others… it'll hurt." She closed her eyes. "I know it's best for him. But I'm a mother, Arthur. And a mother misses even the silence her child makes while sleeping."

Arthur squeezed her hand tightly, in silence.

Ahead, the children played in the river, as if time hadn't yet begun to move.

And in that moment suspended between afternoon and night, between childhood and farewell, the family lived something that would remain — like the sound of the running water, eternal and unrepeatable.

---

By nightfall, the house was filled with the smell of soup, burning wood, and quiet voices. Candles were lit one by one, casting a flickering glow on the clay walls and the darkened wooden ceiling. The soft light barely lit their faces, but it was enough to warm the soul.

Elian helped Maria set the table, his movements calm, almost ceremonial — as if he wanted to stretch out every moment of that simple routine. His mother's hands, calloused by time, brushed against his now and then. There was no rush. Only a silent yearning for presence.

Anthony sat on the floor, a piece of charcoal in hand, sketching on a scrap of wood. Emanuelle watched with shining eyes. Her older brother was drawing something for her — a simple picture of the three of them, side by side, holding a large flower in the center. It wasn't perfect, but to Emanuelle, it looked magical.

"That's you in the middle, 'cause you're the most stubborn," Anthony said with a grin, showing her the drawing.

Emanuelle pouted, feigning offense, but quickly smiled and hugged him.

Maria smiled at the scene. Arthur stirred the soup in the pot with a wooden spoon, eyes lowered, deep in thought, as if knowing this night was already etching itself into memory.

During dinner, no one mentioned the following week.

Silence was a tacit agreement — respectful, necessary. As if breaking it would bring the pain too soon. The clinking of spoons against clay bowls, the soft breath to cool the hot tea, the act of passing bread to one another… all of it carried meaning.

Elian looked around, trying to memorize everything. The way Maria sat with her legs tucked under her. The sound of Anthony's laugh. How Emanuelle always ate the bread from the edges first. Even the cracks in the wall seemed more alive in that moment.

After the meal, Emanuelle leaned her head on his shoulder and whispered:

"I love you, Eli." Her voice was trembling, as if she were saying goodbye.

Elian hugged her, holding her tight. He didn't answer — he didn't need to. The silence was enough.

Maria cleared the dishes. Arthur helped without a word. Anthony yawned loudly and dragged himself to the bedroom, waving lazily for the others to follow.

Soon, the house fell quiet. The candles were extinguished one by one, leaving behind the sweet scent of melted wax.

Before blowing out the last candle, Maria stood at the doorway to the bedroom and watched her three children lying together, side by side, just like they used to when they were younger.

Elian was in the middle. Smaller than he seemed. But stronger than he had ever been.

She knelt beside him, gently ran her fingers through his red hair, and whispered:

"May the gods be with you… even far from me."

Even though he'd be back every weekend, and she could visit him if she wished, to Maria, it still felt like too much time. Parting from a child is always hard, but she never imagined Elian would be the first.

Then, she blew out the last candle.

And night fell — not as an ending, but as a quiet promise of longing.