He was born to the sound of rain, which seemed to personify the unshed tears of the past.
The ancestral Bennett Estate stood on a hill; it was built of light stone, with dark oak beams, high ceilings, and panoramic windows. The room smelled of lavender, candle wax, iron, and bleach.
Upon being born, the infant remained silent, frightening those present.
"Is he breathing?" the mother asked anxiously, lying exhausted on the pillows.
The doctor nodded, bringing the infant to the light.
"He is breathing. It's just... he isn't crying."
The baby immediately opened his eyes. His gaze was cloudy; it was as if he were trying to understand where he was, examining everything around him with a bewildered and thoughtful look.
Anastas grew up to be a very calm child, he almost never cried and rarely reached out to be held, preferring to stay in his cradle, where he could be safely left alone. Those around him noticed that his gaze was conscious and aware, just like an adult's. Because of this, the overly impressionable and superstitious servants avoided him.
And from early childhood, he had dreams that were not actually dreams. In them, he saw the sun over ancient, unusual temples, over forests and blooming fields; he felt the weight of a golden crown on his head, sometimes — the sticky, hot blood on his hands and a sense of loss so acute that he woke up in the middle of the night, gasping for air. The names of the people he dreamed of were always on the tip of his tongue, but for now, he simply could not remember them. Sometimes he would freeze in the middle of the room, staring at a single point, as if remembering something.
Mrs. Bennett noticed this and felt anxious every time.
"What are you thinking about, darling?" she would ask.
Anastas would look up at her.
"I don't know."
The third life was harder on him. Though it would seem it should be the opposite: he had already gone through death, rebirth, and loss, but that was exactly the catch. Now, the memories of two entire lives were packed into an immature, childish mind. And they were scattered. People, images, smells, and sensations — everything mixed together.
A new life, a new body, and a new face that he stared at for a long time in the mirror, not recognizing himself. He didn't answer to his new name right away either. And he had to learn everything from scratch all over again: walking, talking.
Full realization of what was happening came gradually: at first, he just felt he was not like other children; then he began to notice that he knew and could do more than he should.
His fencing instructor had to retrain him on how to hold a rapier, because he held it like a broadsword, and in history lessons, when covering the topics of wars, he remembered someone's screams, the smell of blood, and felt terror, even though he had never seen a war.
He was often overcome by sudden, inexplicable bouts of melancholy; he felt that he had lost someone. Someone very dear and close. But his entire family was right there, and this confused him.
He didn't tell anyone about this. He rarely spoke at all about what troubled him or what he was thinking. He felt safer in solitude. Anastas knew what attachment led to, and therefore chose seclusion.
And soon, when he finally remembered who he was and why he had been born again, came another, much more terrifying discovery — he remembered less and less of his first life, about the times when he was Thisarak Siriporn, ruler of Arichayan. The memories were slipping away, losing their clarity, fading. To him, that life began to feel like something distant and almost unreal — like one of the fairytales his nanny read to him before bed. There were no dragons or monsters there, but there were kings and princesses, knights, castles, and love. It was frightening and incredibly sad. As if someone were tearing pieces of his soul out of him.
Alas, human memory is not infinite. Some faces, knowledge, and memories are replaced by others, pushing out the old ones, even if they were dear.
And yet, strangely, Athit did not fade.
Anastas could not always remember his face — sometimes it blurred, changed, but his feelings for him remained unwavering.
Sometimes in his dreams he saw a garden and bright daylight that blinded his eyes. He is running, his heart pounding; he feels a woman's hand in his palm and squeezes it tighter. Her hand is gentle and trembling. He couldn't immediately understand who she was. He remembered the name later. Jihua. Then he hears the sounds of strikes. It's swords. He remembers he had a friend named Houwei. He remembers his knees touching the ground and someone forcefully holding him, not letting him move. Everything cuts off there, but he knows they were killed — Jihua and Houwei. He doesn't remember the moment of their death, but he remembers his feelings after losing them.
The second life was shorter than the first, but the wound from it was deeper. Perhaps because he already knew what loss was — and felt it all over again.
Anastas had an older brother and sisters; he was the youngest of the Bennett line. The relationships between them were warm; the family accepted his quirks and his desire for solitude. They immediately noticed that he was no ordinary child, that he had his own path, and they would certainly help him with it.
Soon, when adolescence arrived, Anastas shot up, becoming angular and sharp. His face lost its softness, acquiring a restrained sternness. He spent his free time in the stables or training, still preferring solitude. But the wall he had so carefully built around himself would suddenly begin to crack on one of the most ordinary days, when Thomas appeared in his life.
"Why do you always walk alone?"
Anastas turned around. Before him stood a boy — slightly younger than him, fair-haired, skinny, with disheveled hair and large eyes.
"Who are you?" Anastas asked coldly.
"Thomas Parker. I live in the neighboring estate now. Your family was at our reception, why didn't you come?"
Anastas tried to push him away with his usual coldness and indifference, but Thomas wouldn't leave.
"Easier doesn't mean better," he said one day in response to another of Anastas's claims that it was easier for him to be alone.
"You just haven't lost people dear to you yet."
"And who have you lost?"
The question hung in the air.
"Go home," Anastas said, brushing the question off.
"I'll come tomorrow."
And he came. And then again, and again. He started appearing regularly at their house, by the stables, in the garden, in the library. And, most surprisingly, he didn't take offense at Anastas's coldness.
Gradually, their presence in each other's lives became customary. They spent hours together, doing nothing in particular: sitting on the stone garden wall, watching the wind sway the treetops, riding horseback along country roads, arguing about books and views, and after a while, Anastas started catching himself becoming attached. And that terrified him.
One day, returning late in the evening, they got caught in a downpour, and Anastas silently threw his jacket over his shoulders.
"But you'll get wet and freeze," the boy said in surprise.
"The main thing is that you don't get sick," Anastas replied.
That night he couldn't sleep. The memories stung painfully, and Houwei surfaced in his mind.
Do not repeat the mistakes, he ordered himself. No unnecessary attachments.
But in the morning, Thomas was standing at the porch again, smiling, squinting in the sun. And Anastas, looking at him from the window, understood: it was already too late.