I smiled, accepted his offer, and thanked him. I bowed my head, too, the blood rushing to my brain as my forehead touched my lap. My skin stretched, and the ache in my body screamed. Bruises blossomed, and my hands shook.

My ears rang.

I was dizzy.

The younger Agnes—that is, the Agnes without my new memories—believed in the Church. While she held secrets from them, she remained a stout believer, quietly thanking the Highest Creator, the Origin of Existence, for the talent she was given: the ability to restore dying plants. As a child of farmers, this ability was highly valued, and the whole farming village elected it as a well-kept secret.

A little whisper here, a little whisper there, and the next thing younger Agnes knew, speaking about her secret to anyone was an act of betrayal against the Highest Creator themselves. She never told anyone, so someone in the village must have talked or an outsider saw her manipulate her magic.

My magic. (The pronoun thing was hard to keep track of since we were the same existence anyways.)

I, the older Agnes, found this Church suspicious. My paranoia was triggered due to my possession of this magic, and now more paranoid with the implications of this magic due to my new memory. There was no true evidence for it, but the way my father’s muffled voice echoed in my head, the way the armed knight knocked and had his hand on his sword’s hilt, and the way the priest already enrolled me in a school too expensive for me to attend before they met me, all sat wrong.

And so I bowed, showed him I was humbled by their actions, and kept my head down. When the priest told me to raise my head, I did. When he told me of how the next few days, weeks, and months were already decided on, I took note, thanked him again, and nodded. Then, I smiled. The muscles on my cheeks strained, dimples and smile-wrinkles digging a spot on my skin.

When the priest and the knight finally left, I passed out.

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A week passed.

Perhaps it felt like a cop-out, skipping past a week, but nothing could be done about it. I was bedridden, my body shutting down as my brain attempted to parse through two lifetimes of memories in one comprehensive narrative. I was in and out of consciousness, enough only to recall vague memories of eating a liquidy gruel that tasted like processed oatmeal, but somehow with less taste.

I kept dreaming, although there never was a conversation between me and an apologetic god, or perhaps a very sexy goddess, nor any kind of sadistic god who wanted me to suffer, or the child-god that wanted fun or perhaps a god who made the simplest mistake and, as reparation, reincarnated me in another world.

There were only memories of my life here.

Most passed by too quickly for me to comprehend, but there was one that stood out with unerring clarity.

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I was Agnes. (Of course.)

The forest bustled with life. The birds chirped, twittering as they sat on willowy branches, grooming their wings, pecking themselves clean. A soft breeze rustled the leaves, gentle, caressing my skin. The sunshine danced when the shadows moved. A squirrel climbed up a tree, froze, turned to me, then circled the trunk, disappearing inside it.

I was quiet, footsteps taken with practiced ease and care, slow and methodical as if I stalked a prey.

There was a loud whistle. I stopped. The whistles continued, and I understood a message within its melody: 'go forward and right'.

I followed the directions, my eyes scanning the surroundings. I walked and kept walking. My tanned leather hide seemed to creak with every move, boots squelching against the mildewy grass and soil. It sounded like every branch and root snapped underneath my feet, even if it didn’t.

There it was.

A large boar, as tall as half of me and as thick as an old tree trunk, purred as it ate a plant. Its hide was thick, its bristles stiff. Its tail wagged as it kept eating, expelling a grunt of air whenever it breathed out.

Then, I had a bow in my hand, an arrow nocked and pulled taut.

I aimed and let it go.

The arrow struck the eye, the boar shrieking in pain. Another arrow was readied, and it flew. Its remaining eye popped, the shaft buried deep within its face.

The boar went into a rampage, rushing invisible enemies, its tusk ripping the surrounding tree barks and gouging the wet earth with its feet as it ran away. I climbed the thickest tree and watched it exhaust and bleed itself.

A whistle: ‘Hurt?’

I whistled back, ‘No’.

As the boar’s legs failed and it neared death, I climbed down, approaching it with a sturdy knife. It heaved, keening. The warmth in my chest as I saw it dying, a result of pride from the outcome of my hunt, was uncomfortable.

I was studying it, stepping around and showcasing my work. It must have sensed where I was because it burst into movement, its tusk piercing my stomach. The dream blurred, but there were viscera and blood and I scrambled to back away, pushing myself off of its tusk only for the boar and I to drop to the ground. I pressed my hand against my wet, punctured stomach, groaning in pain as I shoved magic in the wound. It was blinding to look at.

To turn away, I closed my eyes and it resulted in opening my vision to the real world. I laid in a pool of my sweat, scratchy blankets damp with my nervous sweat. My stomach ached but not only in hunger. It ached in places I didn’t know it could. The thatched roof was both familiar and ugly. I forced myself to sleep.

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When I woke up, I stood up and made my bed. I wiped a damp rag against my sensitive skin and dressed in my worn farmer’s dress. It was surprising that not my mother or my father heard my stumbling and grunts of pain while I moved, but it did not deter me from entering the main room.

Ma was cooking, and Pa was nowhere to be seen. Instead of just us three close-knit family, a shining knight was sitting on our chair. He was stiff on his wooden seat and, in turn, the wood strained. It creaked when he moved and his armour rattled in the way iron did.

Overall, he looked hilarious and out of place and had I been in a better mood, I would’ve found the mirth as mother did. Her smile was hidden from him, and she busied herself with our breakfast food. From the way the slop moved, it looked to be the usual thick porridge.

“Morning, ma,” I greeted her before turning towards the knight and giving him a bow that commoners usually gave to those of higher stations than them, “Good morning to you too, Sir Knight.”

He cleared his throat, entirely looking too serious, “My name is Amel, Miss Agnes.”

Miss. What a dangerous honorific. It easily elevated me to a higher status than just a mere commoner farmer. I decided to ignore it, considering I could do nothing about it, ultimately. The Knights served their lords and ladies, and in that way, they were the nobles’ calloused hands, doing both honest and dirty work for them.

So the memories of Agnes and my past said.

“I understand, Sir Amel.” I took a seat and looked at him unabashedly. I realized that was probably rude to do, but I would just blame my recovering state. I turned to my mother. “Where’s pa?”

“Pa’s talking with the village head, you know how he is, and he’s bragging to the Church and whoever he can get his hands on about your attendance in the First Academy.” Ma said, her ladle scraping the sides of the pot before scooping up the gruel in wooden bowls. She set a bowl for each of us, handing out spoons for us to use.

Sir Amel didn’t look quite appetized by the food in front of him.

I dug in. Bland. Filling. That was enough. Mother followed suit, making humming noises as she ate. Father was the better cook in this household.

Sir Amel tried to hide his distaste, forcing a smile on his lips as he said, “This is delicious.”

Ma smiled. “No, it’s not.”

We ate in the awkward silence.