In the strange world that I now lived in, there were a number of roles in our community. Hunter. Gatherer. Smith. Caretaker. And… yeah, no, that was about it.

Something that took me an embarrassingly long time to realize was that there were no names. None.

Instead, people were referred to by their role instead of real names. Like Smith or Hunter. (Wait… aren’t those real names?)

My mother was Weaver and my father was, obviously, Hunter. There were a lot of Hunters, but somehow no one ever got confused.

Thus comes the question: are roles given based on name, or are names given by role?

I wasn’t sure yet, but what I did know was that those titles weren’t given lightly.

For example, my mother. One fine morning when I was mentally lamenting my fate, my mother had finished crocheting a blanket. It had been an even weave that put all of my attempts from my past life to shame.

Humming to herself, my mother had clicked her tongue at the blanket that had somehow not met her standards. She continued to fucking summon a fireball and douse the blanket in the odd looking fire.

To my absolute astonishment, the blanket was removed unharmed, and, if anything, strengthened.

From there she pulled out a knife, signaling that the blanket’s suffering was not yet over. She drew the knife downwards across the fabric, drawing a sound like the scratching of metal against metal, sending sparks flying.

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So yeah. I think they’re good at their jobs. I didn’t really need to worry. Besides, and though it made me uncomfortable to say, they weren’t really my family. They were basically strangers to me. It felt… strange to care for them.

I watched as my mother held the severed limb of my father to the bloody stump, sewing the parted flesh together. As I watched, a dark red flame burst into existence around the wound.

As it subsided, it revealed clean, healthy flesh without the slightest glimpse of a scar. I didn’t really know anything about medicine or such, but I was sure that was a miracle. Even with the medical knowledge of Earth, I wasn’t sure if that was even possible.

My mother looked over to me, where I was sitting on the floor, blankly staring at the wound that disappeared faster than your father.

Anyway.

My mother looked at me, smiling affectionately. “Oh, look. The baby looks so sad!”

What?! I was certain that my expression was as devoid of emotion as ever. She was seeing things!

She ran a hand through my hair as I squirmed under her grasp. She looked… oddly sad.

“He has to be… he can’t be Forgotten.”

At that last word, I frowned. I couldn’t… hear it? I was sure I had heard it, but I couldn’t recall what it was that had been said.

As I tried to remember what she’d said, a throbbing headache erupted from my thoughts. The pain was way too much for it to just be a normal headache though. It was like I’d pulled a muscle… in my brain.

To reassure her, and also because I was freaked out, I placed a small hand on hers. “It’s okay,” I murmured.

She stared at me. Hmm? Was there something on my face?

Her eyes rolled back into her head and she fell backwards. Hmm. Hmmm. Hmmmmmmmm.

Oh. Right. That was the first time I’ve spoken in this life.

Though, now I was alone in our tepee with the only two adults in my life unconscious.

Hmm. I was too little to cook for myself. And it was lunchtime.

I hoped one of them would wake up sometime soon and feed me.