In the haze of exhaustion from endless overtime in my previous life, I collapsed and died—only to awaken once more, my memories of the modern world intact, in a newborn's fragile body. This new world was one of swords and sorcery, a medieval realm where dragons soared over jagged mountains and ancient forests whispered with magic. I was born in a quiet village nestled beside a murmuring river, its cobblestone paths lined with thatched-roof cottages that smelled perpetually of fresh-baked bread and woodsmoke.
When I was twelve, tragedy struck. My parents—both seasoned adventurers with callused hands from wielding sword and staff—ventured into the shadowed Whispering Woods to hunt a rampaging pack of direwolves. They never returned. The village elder brought the news at dusk, his voice heavy as he described the bloodied remnants found at the forest's edge: torn leather armor, the metallic tang of blood still lingering in the air, and the distant howls echoing through the trees like mocking laughter. My mother's gentle laugh and my father's warm, rumbling stories by the hearth were silenced forever. They had been good parents—patient teachers of herb-lore and basic swordplay, their eyes sparkling with pride whenever I mimicked their spells with childish sparks of mana. Grief consumed me for a full year; I barely ate, the world muted to grays, nights filled with choking sobs muffled into my pillow as rain pattered relentlessly on the roof.
Orphaned like my parents before me, with no extended family to claim me, I inherited their modest home—a sturdy timber cabin with creaking floorboards and a garden overgrown with healing herbs—and a small pouch of gold coins from their adventuring days, along with a few enchanted trinkets that hummed faintly with residual magic. It was enough to sustain me. I learned to tend the fields under the scorching summer sun, sweat stinging my eyes as I harvested wheat that rustled like dry bones in the wind. Winters were harsh, the biting cold seeping through cracks in the walls, forcing me to huddle by a crackling fire that filled the room with the sharp scent of pine resin. I hunted rabbits in the misty mornings, the dew-soaked grass cool underfoot, and traded pelts and potions at the village market amid the clamor of haggling voices and the earthy aroma of livestock.
Eight long years passed in quiet solitude, each season etching resilience into my soul. Now, at twenty-five, I am an adult forged by loss and self-reliance—Elarion Thorne, a name I chose for myself from the old tales my parents once shared, evoking the enduring thorns that protect the rarest blooms. The village knows me as a skilled herbalist and occasional monster hunter, my past life's knowledge blending seamlessly with this world's magic, ready for whatever adventures await beyond the river's gentle flow.
Elarion woke abruptly in the dead of night, a dull throb pulsing behind his temples. He pressed his fingers against the ache, exhaling a long, weary sigh that hung in the chill air of the empty cabin. Moonlight filtered through the cracked shutters, casting pale silver stripes across the bare wooden floorboards, which creaked faintly under his shifting weight. The house felt cavernous in its silence—no crackle from the dying hearth, no soft breathing of another soul, only the distant hoot of an owl and the restless whisper of wind through the thatch overhead.
He sat up on the narrow straw mattress, the coarse linen sheets cool and rough against his skin. Restless, aching with a need he couldn't ignore, he loosened the drawstring of his woolen trousers and slipped a hand inside. His fingers closed around his hardening cock, warm and familiar, and he began to stroke slowly—lazy, deliberate pulls from base to tip. The faint slick sound of skin on skin was the only noise in the room, mingling with his quiet, uneven breaths that clouded slightly in the cold.
He glanced around the shadowed space, hoping some stray memory or fleeting image might spark release: the curve of a barmaid's smile he'd glimpsed in the village tavern, the sway of hips beneath a traveler's cloak—anything. But nothing came. This world offered no illicit paintings tucked beneath floorboards, no forbidden scrolls of erotic tales, no flickering illusions of naked flesh conjured by magic. Just emptiness. The strokes grew faster, more desperate, his grip tightening until the friction burned faintly, but climax remained stubbornly out of reach, a cruel tease hovering just beyond the edge.
Frustration coiled hot and sharp in his chest. His throat tightened; tears welled sudden and stinging, spilling over to trace salty paths down his cheeks. With a choked curse, he slammed his fist into the thin pillow beside him—once, twice—the muffled thumps echoing his rage. Feathers puffed faintly into the moonlight.
"Damn it… damn it all," he muttered, voice cracking. "What the hell am I supposed to do? I can't even… If Dad were still here, he'd drag me to the tavern, laughing that big laugh of his, shove a mug of ale in my hand and introduce me to some friend's daughter with a wink. 'Time you learned a few things, lad,' he'd say…"
The words dissolved into a raw sob. He curled forward, forehead pressing into the worn fabric of the pillow that still smelled faintly of his mother's herbal soap from years ago. "Mom… Dad… I miss you so much. I hate this. I hate being alone like this."
Tears soaked the linen as his body shook with quiet, helpless grief. Exhaustion finally dragged him under; his grip loosened, breaths evening out into the slow rhythm of uneasy sleep, the moonlight watching over the solitary figure lost in the vast, unforgiving quiet of the night.
Elarion slept fitfully, his chest rising and falling in shallow rhythms beneath the threadbare blanket. The room was steeped in midnight chill; frost feathered the edges of the windowpane, and the dying embers in the hearth glowed a faint, sullen red, casting long shadows that danced like silent mourners across the walls.
Then the air shifted—grew heavier, warmer, tinged with the faint scent of wild rosemary and oiled leather, the aromas that had always clung to his parents after their adventures. A soft, ethereal glow blossomed in the corner of the room, pale blue and shimmering like moonlight on still water. Two translucent figures materialized from the mist of light: his mother, her long auburn hair flowing as though stirred by an unseen breeze, her adventuring cloak still draped over her shoulders; and his father, broad-shouldered and bearded, the ghostly outline of his old sword belt visible at his hip.
They hovered at the foot of the bed, gazing down at their son's tear-streaked face and the rumpled sheets that told a story of solitary frustration. His father's spectral brow furrowed, sorrow etching deeper lines into an already careworn expression. A faint, translucent hand reached out as if to brush Elarion's hair, but passed through without touch.
"Oh, my boy," his father murmured, voice soft yet resonant, like wind through hollow reeds. "I'm so sorry. I should have arranged a marriage for you when you turned twenty—found you a strong, kind girl from the village. Forgive me, son."
His mother's ghost rounded on her husband at once, eyes flashing with familiar fire even in death. The glow around her flared brighter, casting wavering light across the wooden beams overhead.
"I told you!" she scolded, her voice sharp but laced with grief, echoing faintly as though from the bottom of a deep well. "I warned you our son needed a companion, someone to share his days and warm his nights. And now look—just look at him! Crying himself to sleep, alone, untouched. He's going to die a virgin, a single dog with no pups to carry our name. Oh gods, how will our family line continue?"
She pressed both hands to her translucent cheeks and let out a wail that rippled through the air like a cold gust, rattling the shutters and stirring dust from the rafters. The sound was heartbreaking—part lament, part helpless fury—carrying the scent of rain-soaked earth and distant campfires.
Elarion's father sighed, a long, weary exhale that seemed to dim the glow around him. The sound was heavy with regret, like the creak of old leather armor settling after a long march. He placed a ghostly hand on his wife's shoulder, though neither could truly feel the other anymore.
"We did what we thought was best," he said quietly, eyes never leaving his sleeping son. "We wanted him free to choose his own path… not bound too young. But perhaps… perhaps we were wrong."
The two spirits lingered a moment longer, their translucent forms flickering like candle flames in a draft, watching over the young man they had left behind far too soon. Then, as silently as they had come, the glow faded, the rosemary-and-leather scent dissipated, and the room returned to its cold, lonely quiet—leaving only the faint echo of a mother's wail and a father's unspoken apology hanging in the moonlit dark.