The afternoon dragged on under a sickly sky, soaked with heavy clouds. Outside, the rain fell relentlessly — not as a blessing, but as a lament. Inside a poor house made of clay and straw, screams pierced the air: the raw sound of a woman caught between life and death.
The smell of urine and feces mixed with the metallic scent of blood, stinking up the stuffy room. The cries of pain echoed between the fragile walls, accompanied by the creaking of the wooden straw bed — now drenched with sweat, blood, and despair. Everything there was fragile. Everything there was painfully human.
Lying down was a young woman of perhaps twenty-two — navy blue eyes and red hair, once straight and beautiful even for a peasant — now unrecognizable: tangled hair, pale skin, a sweaty face marked by an expression mixing strength, pain, and fear.
Next to her, an older woman — gray hair tied with a dirty scarf, face lined with wrinkles and exhaustion. The midwife's green eyes showed no panic, only urgency. It was the gaze of someone who had witnessed countless births… and some deaths.
"Take a deep breath and push harder! The baby's head is coming! Don't give up!" shouted the gray-haired woman, her firm voice cutting through the thick air of pain.
At the side of the bed, a young man tightly held the laboring woman's hand. His hair was black as coal and his eyes glittered like newly minted gold, reflecting the flickering lamplight with an intense, warm glow — a stark contrast to the terror etched on his face.
"Hold on, Maria! I'm here... you can do it, my love..." he whispered, voice trembling, nearly breaking under the weight of helplessness.
Maria screamed once more, the sound tearing through her throat and filling the small room. Sweat poured from her body as if each drop was a piece of her life slipping away. Her eyes rolled in pain, but she refused to stop. She couldn't stop.
The midwife leaned in, calloused fingers moving quickly and precisely. "He's coming! Just one more push, Maria, just one more...!"
Then came the cry. First weak, a choked sound as if the world still hesitated to accept it. Then loud, clear, desperate — as if it already knew it was born not in peace, but in ruin.
"It's a boy," said the midwife.
The man brought his hands to his face, and tears ran down before he even realized it. His body trembled, consumed by a weariness that was not just physical, but of the soul. The midwife, with calloused hands and sharp eyes, cut the cord with a simple spell — a blade of light shimmering in the air for a moment — and carefully wrapped the baby in a thick cloth, already stained with blood and sweat.
Maria, lying down, barely managed to keep her eyes open. Her fragile arms still reached out, as if afraid something would take her child before she could touch him. The midwife approached and placed the newborn on her chest. He cried. A thin, sharp cry that seemed older than him, as if carrying memories of a pain not of this world.
And then... silence.
Not the silence of death, nor of peace. It was a suspended silence — the kind that precedes a true storm. A moment's pause when everything seems to hang by a thread. The mother's fragile breath. The father's trembling hands. The strange warmth blurring the air.
In that moment, there was no celebration. Only held breath. As if the very world waited to see if there would be life... or loss.
Maria smiled. Weak. Tired. Her eyes met her son's, and there, for a brief moment, there was peace.
But the peace broke almost immediately.
The midwife frowned. The cloth beneath the woman's body continued to stain red. The straw mattress was now a swamp of blood. She placed her hand on the woman's belly and felt the skin damp, cold... and the blood — flowing as if nothing could stop it.
Arthur noticed. The smile vanished from his face the instant he saw the midwife's alarmed look.
"What's happening?" he asked, voice urgent.
The midwife didn't hide her fear. "She's bleeding more than she should. I used magic to seal the delivery wound, but... something is wrong. The blood won't stop."
Arthur knelt beside his wife. Held her hand tightly, almost desperately, as if it could prevent what was coming. His expression was of a man about to break.
Sweat dripped down his forehead. Fear overtook his body. The instinct to protect clashed with helplessness.
And deep in his mind — dirtied by despair — came a thought he would never dare admit aloud: "If this child hadn't been born, Maria would be fine…"
As soon as the thought passed, he cursed himself for conceiving it. Regret cut like a knife. His eyes turned to his wife — now pale, lips almost colorless, but still conscious. She looked at him tenderly, as if she knew everything he was feeling.
With a weak voice, broken by pain and blood loss, she whispered:
"Arthur... if I die... take care of him. Please. Don't blame him. Love him... as if he were... a part of me..."
Arthur crumbled inside. She knew. She knew everything. And yet, she asked him to love the child. As if she were entrusting him with her broken heart. As if that baby was, in fact, what would remain of her in the world.
He nodded, tears in his eyes.
And there, in the arms of a dying woman, the child watched. Still without strength in his muscles, but with a mind clouded by ancient sensations. Rodrigo.
He didn't know what it was. Reincarnation? Punishment? A chance for redemption?
But when he heard the woman — his new mother — say he was not to blame, something inside broke. He wanted to scream, to hug her, to tell her she was wrong. That he was guilty. That the blood left her because of him, even if he was a baby. Even if he had done nothing yet. That's how he felt.
And then came the memory.
The word "die" echoed in his mind like a distant bell, and suddenly he saw — his mother, there on Earth, collapsing to the ground with a bullet in her chest, murmuring an "I love you" that was never said.
He tried to move his head. Managed. Saw the desperate midwife, mumbling spells, pressing hands on Maria's belly. A bluish light flickered between the old woman's fingers, but it was weak, unstable. The magic faltered.
Rodrigo wanted to do something. Anything. But there was no strength. No body. Only tears that would not fall, burning guilt, and an old fear returning to haunt him — the fear of seeing, once again, the only person who looked at him with tenderness die without him being able to do anything.
For a moment, everything stopped.
Time, sound, the whole world seemed suspended. Rodrigo — or whatever remained of his consciousness — felt his mind shatter. The reality around him seemed distant, muffled, as if submerged.
"Please, take my life... Give it to her. She deserves to live more than I do."
The plea sprang from his soul, silent but desperate. He begged the entity that reincarnated him. Begged that this gift — this second chance he never felt worthy of — be taken away. That his existence be ended. That the woman holding him — the one now dying — be spared.
"I am not worthy. I should burn in hell for all I've done. This woman shouldn't die because of me. Please... kill me. Take me."
But nothing happened.
Maria's eyes closed.
Despair tore the newborn apart. Rodrigo, even trapped in a fragile, limited body, cried as if the world were collapsing — a cry not just of a baby, but of a man in ruins. It was the muted scream of a condemned man trying to redeem himself too late.
"Another death... it's my fault. Always is. The curse is me."
"It's my fault!" — he wanted to shout. — "Misfortunes are drawn to me. I beg you! Kill me, but let her live!"
But there was no sound. His words echoed only inside his mind.
On the other side of the bed, Arthur — the man who had cried with joy minutes earlier — now trembled in panic.
"Do something, Elise! She's going to die! Look at her eyes, they're fading!" he shouted, his voice choked with pure terror.
The midwife, hands still pressed on the bleeding belly, answered the shouts:
"I'm trying! I've used all the healing magic I have — but this bleeding won't stop!"
Then Rodrigo felt it. Something strange.
A discomfort in his sternum. A cold heat. A pressure pulsing in his solar plexus, as if something inside was being torn out or awakened.
He didn't know what it was, but he felt — or hoped — that maybe the entity had heard his cry. Maybe his essence was being drawn out, as a sacrifice. If it saved that woman… then it would all be worth it.
And then it happened.
A small black light burst from inside his chest and floated gently through the air, heading toward Elise.
No one else saw it. Only him.
But Elise... felt it. Her eyes widened. She looked at the baby with a mix of astonishment and reverence. Then looked at her hands. The blue healing energy flowing from her fingers now merged with the black light — like ink dissolving in water, completely altering the spell's flow.
She took a deep breath. One minute passed. Another. Her eyes returned to Maria.
Then, in a whisper almost relieved, she said:
"It's over."
The word hung in the air, ambiguous, cruel.
"Over...?" Arthur repeated, voice stuck in his throat. "You mean... she's dead?"
"No." Elise answered quickly. "She's going to survive. By some miracle... we managed to save her."
Her eyes briefly turned to the baby.
"She lost a lot of blood… she'll need complete rest." Elise said, sighing tiredly as she collapsed onto an old creaking chair. "Maybe she'll sleep for a few hours... maybe an entire day. We won't know until the body reacts."
Her gaze, once tense and heavy, softened as she looked at Maria — now asleep, chest rising and falling slowly, as if struggling to keep existing. Beside the bed, the man lightly squeezed his wife's hand, his eyes red, emotion still pulsing in every gesture.
The relief was real, but fragile. Like thin cracked glass. Any stronger wind could shatter it.
Arthur broke down in tears, bringing his hand to his face. The tension exploded into relief, and he knelt beside his wife, now unconscious but alive. Still pale, but alive.
Rodrigo, for his part, felt a deep weariness swallow him. The small black light — that spark of something he didn't even know he possessed — had drained the last of his energy. His body felt heavy. His mind floated.
"She lived…"
And that was enough.
"If my life was used to save hers... then maybe, for the first time... I did something right."
With that last hope lingering inside him, Rodrigo — newborn, ex-criminal, broken man, and penitent soul — let himself fall into unconsciousness.
No pain. No guilt. Just... relief.
★★★
A whole day had passed since the birth. The rain had stopped outside, but the sky remained gray — as if time refused to move forward until everything inside that house was well.
Maria and the newborn had yet to wake.
Arthur hadn't left his wife's side for a moment. Sitting beside the bed, with sunken eyes and his body leaning forward, he held one of Maria's hands with moderate strength, as if afraid letting go would mean losing her for good. In the other hand rested the baby, wrapped in a rustic blanket, silent, sleeping as if the weight of the world rested on his tiny shoulders.
Maybe it was guilt. Maybe remorse. Maybe the words said — or thought — in despair still echoed in his mind.
He didn't even respond to the insistent calls of Anthony and Emanuelle, the couple's other children. Even when the little girl tugged the hem of his tunic or when the boy silently cried in a corner of the house, Arthur didn't move. His eyes were fixed on Maria. On Rodrigo.
Elise, for her part, needed to rest. The magic used during delivery had drained more than just energy; it had drained part of her very essence. Still, she remained in the family's house. She lay down on a blanket spread near the wall, but her senses never fully slept. From time to time, she discreetly glanced toward the baby. She knew what had happened, even if she couldn't explain it — she felt something pass through her at the moment of healing, something ancient, something dark and yet... sad.
As for the older children, Anthony — six years old — tried to be strong. He held back his tears, cared for his little sister, and pretended to understand what was happening around him. He was the firstborn, and his name was chosen in honor of the father, as tradition dictated: the first letter of the child should reflect someone important in the couple's life.
Emanuelle, three years old, was named after Elise. A simple gesture, but one that showed how much the old midwife meant to that family.
Hours passed. The late afternoon light filtered through cracks in the clay wall, tinting the house's interior with a pale golden hue. It was at that moment, as if connected by something beyond flesh, that mother and son awoke almost simultaneously.
Arthur, exhausted but alert, noticed Maria's slight movement. Her eyes opened slowly, heavy, watery. He rushed to her side, and before he could say anything, she whispered, anxious:
"Where's my baby? Where is he?"
There was panic in her voice, as if something inside her sensed a loss.
"He's here." Arthur answered quickly, pointing with his right hand at the small bundle sleeping beside her.
With effort, Maria stretched out her fragile, trembling arms and pulled the baby to her lap. The moment their bodies touched, Rodrigo's — or rather, Elian's — eyes opened. He looked at her silently.
"Am I still alive?" he thought. The doubt was legitimate. The pain still pulsed in his memories, like a scar on his soul.
But seeing Maria's smile, and the silent tears of relief flowing down her face, something unexpected happened. A breeze of peace — light but real — passed through Rodrigo's heart. He still felt unworthy, still believed he did not deserve this rebirth. That he did not deserve this woman. But there she was, holding him as if he were the greatest gift life had given her.
At that moment, two children appeared in the doorway, guided by Elise.
Anthony, silent, watched with eyes too mature for a six-year-old. Emanuelle, more impulsive, ran to the bedside and leaned over the blankets.
"Mom… is he my little brother?" she asked, curiosity shining in her eyes.
That sentence made time rewind. Rodrigo remembered, with brutal clarity, when he used the same words upon seeing Luciana for the first time. Emanuelle's sweet, pure voice tightened his chest — and then a thought struck him like lightning:
"I almost took their mother away."
The guilt surfaced, heavy. But Emanuelle's loving gaze disarmed him. Maybe... just maybe... being someone's brother again... wasn't a curse.
"What's his name, mom?" the little girl asked.
Maria looked at Arthur, who nodded slightly. Then looked at Elise, who smiled tenderly. Finally, her eyes rested on the baby, and she said with a weak but firm voice:
"His name is Elian. In honor of Elise... but also... because it means 'The one who illuminates.'"
Rodrigo blinked, surprised. He — who knew darkness well — now carried a name that meant light. It seemed a cruel irony. He was not worthy of illuminating anything. But before the guilt could suffocate him again, Emanuelle smiled and said:
"Elian… The one who illuminates. I like it. His eyes are just like daddy's, and his hair is just like yours, mommy."
Rodrigo watched her. For the first time, something inside him gave in.
Weariness took over his small body. His eyelids grew heavy. But before sleep took him, a single promise formed in his mind — without anger, without pain, just a silent resolve:
"Even if I don't deserve this name... I will be the light they see in me."
And then he slept, cradled not only by his mother's arms... but by the fragile hope of redemption.