I call myself a "world traveler," a wanderer drifting from one world to another, chasing amusement and perhaps a deeper truth I can't quite grasp about myself that being "identity". I have walked through quite a few worlds be it a highly advanced civilization or some kind of back water world. I have seen various things. I've seen wonders that defy comprehension and horrors that linger even in my jaded mind. Yet, for all my travels, my identity remains a void. I have no memories before waking in some random corner of some random world, my past something I am looking for everywhere.
Floating through the vastness of space, I sensed a new world pulsing with a weird energy, a chaotic symphony of vitality and decay which felt all to familiar to me. It intrigued me, promising secrets I might unravel, so I descended to explore. But as I pierced the atmosphere, a dark, ominous presence disrupted my focus during the landing. My descent turned into a freefall, and I crashed onto a scarred battlefield with a force that cratered the earth below me, sending shockwaves. I heard the clash of steel and bows, explosions, and the screams of the dying in a distant place. The sharp smell of blood and smoke surrounded me. Two factions warred with savage desperation their faces etched with exhaustion only.
As I rose up, brushing dirt from my tattered clothes, a scrawny boy approached. He was a ghost of a child, no older than eight, his bones projecting beneath skin stretched by starvation. His blonde hair was matted with grime, his black eyes lifeless as they come. He muttered, "Potest habere aliquid cibi?" his voice faint, trembling with need. I've mastered quite a few languages across worlds, from the melodic tongues of celestial courts to the guttural dialects of subterranean tribes, but this one was new, it was alien to me. Still, hunger speaks louder than words, a universal language I've seen in every world I have been. I conjured a loaf of bread and a flask of clean water, handing them to him. His eyes flickered with a spark of life, and he whispered, "Propter cibum," his gratitude probably. I deduced that "Potest habere aliquid cibi?" meant "Can you give me some food?" and "Propter cibum" was "Thanks for the food." It was a starting point but I'd need to learn its language, culture, and history from scratch, through the slow and methodical grind of trial and error to understand this world much better.
The boy tugged at my sleeve, his frail hand insistent, his eyes pleading for me to follow. I complied, not out of compassion but because it offered me an opportunity to gather knowledge a currency more valuable than gold in a strange world. As we walked through the ravaged town, I observed the townsfolk, their lives a brutal testament to a world that demanded their submission. The village was a graveyard of broken homes, their walls disfigured by explosions, roofs caved in, exposing skeletal frames. People moved like shadows, their faces haggard, their eyes hollow with despair filled in them. Some fought over scraps of food, their desperation turning them feral and wild, clawing at each other like animals for a small portion of food. Others sat motionless, clutching their loved ones or staring at the horizon, as if waiting for salvation. Corpses lay unburied, their flesh scavenged by those too hungry to care about dignity or taboo and who can blame them, survival is everything everywhere.
I watched a group of women huddled by a stagnant stream, dipping crude containers into water fouled with sewage, its surface slick with an oily sheen. They drank it anyway, their children beside them, mixing the same filthy water with mud and salt to form "cookies"—a pitiful attempt to quell their hunger. A man, his arm wrapped in blood-soaked rags, cut himself with a shard of glass, letting his toddler drink the blood that seeped out, a grim substitute for milk. The famine was absolute, the war a disaster that devoured all. Yet, amidst the despair, I saw flickers of defiance: a woman who was the most fragile looking sharing her last crust with a stranger who was fragile and old, her hands trembling but resolute; children laughing as they chased each other through the rubble, their joy a fragile rebellion against the world's cruelty. Her face lined with exhaustion. But she smiled when the children started to show joy.
The boy led me to a dilapidated house, its walls leaning precariously, ready to collapse under the weight of neglect. Inside, a girl lay on a rotting bed, her condition mirroring his. She was sixteen, my physical age, with the same blonde hair and black eyes as her brother. Her name, I'd learn, was Sylra, and the boy was Darian. She was bedridden, her body wasted by starvation and illness, her coughs wet with blood she tried to hide from Darian. He spoke to her with excitement, "Soror, inueni hunc hominem et etiam mihi cibum adiuro,"—likely telling her about me and the food I'd given him. Sylra forced a smile, responding, "Id est magna audire," but her gaze on me was sharp, laced with distrust.
Darian turned to me, his expression pleading. "Mister, potest adiuvare soror mea sis?" I caught the word "soror"—sister—and guessed he was asking me to help her. I conjured more food and water, offering them to Sylra, but as I approached, her suspicion deepened. I paused, sensing an unnatural energy within her, a dark thread woven into her essence. Healing her would be simple for someone of my abilities, but it could draw attention from forces I'd rather avoid—perhaps the same presence that disrupted my descent. I'd learned in my travels that tampering with a world's natural order could invite consequences, and this world felt off, its rules guarded by something ancient and unyielding. I shook my head, a gesture that translated here. Darian's face crumpled, tears streaming as he sobbed, "Non potuit adiuvare vos." Sylra, despite her pain, consoled him, "Nolite solliciti, i erit finis," her voice strained but gentle, sitting upright at great cost to her strength.
As Darian fell asleep, exhausted by grief, Sylra turned to me. "Gratias ago tibi, quia frater meus auxilium," she said, her voice weak but sincere. Then, with a pleading tone laced with reluctance: "Quaeso, potes quaerere fratrem meum, cum id facere non valeo propter morbum meum. Scio contentionem esse contentionem quam ego hoc peto ab aliquo quod paulo ante feci, sed id fac quaeso. Ego post eum quaerere non potero et videris satis bene et evigilavi." I couldn't understand her words, but her desperation was clear—she was likely entrusting Darian to me, a stranger she barely trusted. To communicate my ignorance, I spoke a few words in a lilting tongue from a distant world, then used gestures: tapping my temple, shaking my head, miming speech while pointing to my mouth. Sylra's eyes widened, but she nodded, understanding.
I gestured again, pointing to my ears and her mouth, asking if she could teach me their language. Despite her weakness, she agreed, pointing to objects—a bowl of murky water ("aqua"), a stale crust of bread ("panis"), the bed she lay on ("lectus")—and naming them slowly. She taught me verbs like "edere" (to eat) and "bibere" (to drink), using feeble gestures to illustrate. I mimicked her, committing the words to memory, my mind a sponge for this new tongue. The session was short; her strength waned, and she needed rest. Before she lay back, she pointed to Darian and said, "Cura,"—take care—her reluctance palpable but overshadowed by necessity.
That night, as the wind howled through shattered windowpanes and distant thunder rumbled like a sleeping giant, I observed the two siblings from my corner. Darian nestled beside Sylra on the bed, his thin arms wrapped around her waist as though she were a fragile treasure that might vanish if he let go. Despite her frailty, Sylra smiled and brushed a hand through his grimy hair, her fingers trembling yet gentle.
"Meministine fabulam nostram?" she asked softly—Do you remember our story?
Darian nodded eagerly. "De dracone rubro et puero?"—About the red dragon and the boy?
"Etiam,"—Yes she whispered. "Fabula quae semper nos protegit."— A story that always protects us.
She began reciting it in fragments, her voice weak but laced with a melodic rhythm, almost chant-like. From her words and gestures, I inferred it was a tale they made up one they used to tell each other when the world felt less kind. It spoke of a brave little boy who tamed a feral red dragon by feeding it kindness instead of fear. Together, they soared through the skies, seeking stars to give to the sick sister who waited beneath the dying tree. Darian chimed in with excitement, filling in gaps she could no longer remember, sometimes correcting her with exaggerated indignation.
"Non fuit stella caerulea, soror! Rubra fuit!" he insisted.—It wasn't a blue star, sister! It was red!
Sylra laughed weakly. "Recte, recte—rubra. Semper memini, parvus professor."—Right, right—red. I always remember, little professor.
Darian puffed his cheeks, pleased with himself, and leaned in to press a kiss to her cheek. "Cum adulta ero, tibi omnes stellas dabo.," he whispered solemnly. — When I grow up, I will give you all the stars
"Iam habes," she replied, eyes glassy with exhaustion. —You already have,
They held each other in silence after that, the lull in conversation more eloquent than any word. No matter how bleak their surroundings, the ruined home, the war, or her dying body—this story, their shared myth, was a shelter from the storm.
I watched with detached interest, committing every word of their "story" to my memory. It revealed more about their bond than any language lesson could. The tale was foolish, sentimental. But it was... functional. It kept them alive. It gave them a purpose. I suppose I can make make use of this...
I agreed to watch Darian, not out of compassion but because Sylra's knowledge would accelerate my learning. The boy was a burden, but a necessary one for my goals: mastering this world's language and unraveling its secrets. It was a fair trade, one I'd made in other worlds with less hesitation.
Weeks passed, and I settled into their crumbling home, tired of living in squalor. Using my abilities—subtle manipulations of matter and energy—I reinforced the walls, patched the roof, and made the house livable, a sanctuary amidst the ruin. Darian watched with wide-eyed wonder, his spirits lifting as the house took shape, his chatter a constant backdrop. "Domus nostra nova est!" he exclaimed—Our house is new!—his excitement. Sylra, too, seemed to be a little livelier from the restoration, her faint smiles a rare break in her pain. I cared little for their gratitude; a stable base served my purposes, nothing more.
My language skills improved, though I was far from fluent. The tongue was complex, with words like "ego" shifting between "I" and "self" based on tone, and "cura" implying "care" or "concern." I made mistakes, much to Darian's amusement, but Sylra was patient, correcting me gently. To accelerate my learning, I ventured into the town daily, interacting with the townsfolk, observing their lives, and extracting knowledge.
At the market, a pitiful affair of splintered stalls and meager wares, I met Varen, a trader whose gaunt face mirrored the town's decay. His stall held wilted vegetables and dented cans, relics of a time when trade meant more than survival. "Quid vis?" he snapped, his voice sharp with desperation, his eyes darting as if expecting theft. I traded conjured food for knowledge, learning words like "mercari" (to trade) and "pretium" (price). Varen spoke bitterly of the war's origins: a feud over lands between nations. I could barely understand him but still we manage to communicate
I encountered Lira, a weaver whose loom sat idle in a crumbling workshop, her hands empty of thread. We had met a few days ago. She taught me "filum" (thread) and "texere" (to weave), her voice soft but weighted with loss. Her husband had died in the war, her children among those eating mud cookies by the stream. She spoke of a time before the conflict, when it was peaceful and when festivals lit the streets with color and song. "Speramus in nihilum," she said—we hope for nothing—her eyes distant, yet she offered me a tattered scarf, a gesture of kindness that cost her more than I could fathom. I don't know why she offered me that scarf when in fact we had known each other for only a couple of days. But her resilience intrigued me, not for its sentiment but for what it revealed about the people of this world: they endured, not because the world cared, but because they refused to be broken by the cruel world.
Children played in the rubble, their laughter a stark contrast to the misery around them. Mira, a girl no older than seven, clutched a twig doll she called "puppa," its crude form a symbol of her defiance. She taught me "ludus" (game) and "currere" (to run), her voice bright despite the hunger gnawing at her. She spoke of her mother, who had "gone to the stars," a substitute for death I'd heard in other worlds. Her innocence shielded her. I asked her, "Quid est puppa?" and she giggled, explaining, "Est amica mea,"—It's my friend. Her joy, fragile but fierce, was a window into the townsfolk's spirit: they lived for the world, finding meaning in its scraps.
At a makeshift clinic, I met Tira, a healer with no herbs or bandages left. She taught me "sanare" (to heal) and "herba" (herb), her voice exhausted as she tended to a child with a festering wound. "Nos pugnamus, sed perdimus," she said—We fight, but we lose. Her patients died more often than not, yet she persisted, offering me a sip of her precious water. "Accipe, viator," she said—Take, traveler—a gesture that cost her dearly in a world where every drop was life. Her selflessness was illogical.
I took Darian to the market, where he introduced me to Coren, a baker turned scavenger, sifting through ruins for scraps. Coren taught me "furnus" (oven) and "farina" (flour), sharing a crust of stale bread as he spoke of the days when his bakery fed the town. "Eramus felix," he said—We were happy—his eyes distant with memories of warmth and plenty. Darian's liveliness contrasted with Coren's despair, the boy's hope a spark in the darkness. "Coren panem bonus facit!" Darian said—Coren makes good bread!—his enthusiasm a stark contrast to the baker's resignation.
I explored Esenia, the energy I'd sensed upon arrival, its presence thick in the air like an unseen current. Sylra explained it was the world's foundation, a particle woven into everything—air, soil, flesh—manipulated by the gifted who are called 'Awakeners': Healers who mended wounds, Conjurers who created matter, Attackers who wielded it as a weapon, Manipulators who bent it subtly. Each tied to a state of matter—Solid, Liquid, Gas, Plasma—Esenia was both resource and necessity for every being in this world. I felt it thrumming around me, vibrant but guarded by something ancient.
Back at the house, Darian clung to me like a shadow, teaching me slang like "es" for "edere" and "bib" for "bibere." His chatter was incessant but useful, revealing the town's undercurrents—whispers of rebellion, tales of gods and wars. Sylra's condition worsened, her coughs more frequent, her strength fading. I sensed that dark energy in her again, a thread I couldn't unravel without risking exposure. Darian started to cry watching his sister in the state she was in.
The townsfolk grew accustomed to me, their wariness easing as I traded food for words and stories. A mother named Alira, singing a lullaby to her child amidst the ruins, taught me "cantare" (to sing) and "infans" (child). Her voice, soft but unbroken, was a defiance of despair. "Cantus vitam dat," she said—Song gives life. A man named Rion, carving toys from debris for orphans, taught me "sculpere" (to carve) and "lignum" (wood). His hands bled from the work, but he smiled as the children played. "Pueri merent gaudium," he said—Children deserve joy.