"Camden."
My laughter paused, my new mind registering the name.
"That shall be your name," she murmured, cradling me close as she leaned back against the tree. "My little Camden…"
I sighed, nestling deeper into her embrace. A new beginning, a new life and a mother who already adored me.
I had no complaints.
My mother held me for a long time, resting against the rough bark of the tree, her arms wrapped securely around my tiny form. Her breathing evened out, the tension in her muscles fading as the aftershock of giving birth began to ease.
A gentle wind rustled through the trees, carrying the scent of wildflowers and damp moss. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted, its deep call reverberating through the quiet forest.
Beside us, a brown mare stood patiently, snorting softly, as if watching over us. The horse's large, dark eyes held a quiet intelligence, its ears twitching at every distant noise.
My mother sighed and looked down at me, brushing a few stray leaves from my soft blanket.
"You are strong, little one," she whispered. "You didn't cry at all… only laughed. Perhaps the gods have truly blessed me."
Her voice was gentle, filled with an indescribable warmth, and I felt my tiny body relax further. I hadn't known what kind of life I would be born into this time, but if this woman was to be my mother, then…
Perhaps this world wouldn't be so bad.
She held me close as I drifted into sleep, the soft murmurs of her voice lulling me into comfort.
"..."
By the time I stirred awake, the night had deepened, and my mother had regained enough strength to stand.
She carried me carefully, her steps slow and deliberate as she made her way through the forest, guided by the gentle sound of running water.
Soon, we reached a clear, shimmering river, its surface reflecting the moon's pale light. The air was cool, tinged with the fresh scent of flowing water and damp earth.
With a relieved sigh, she knelt by the riverbank and carefully unwrapped me from my blanket.
"Just a quick cleanse, little one," she murmured. "Then we'll rest."
The moment the cool water touched my skin, I gasped—a tiny, startled noise escaping me. She chuckled softly. "There now, it's not so bad, is it?"
Her hands were gentle, washing away the remnants of birth, her touch filled with a carefulness that made my tiny heart ache.
She cleaned herself as well, washing away the exhaustion and pain, letting the cold water revive her tired limbs.
Once she finished, she wrapped me up once more and held me close, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead.
"There. All clean," she whispered, pressing her cheek against mine. "A fresh start."
I yawned, content, and buried my face against her chest.
By the time we returned to our original spot beneath the tree, my mother had fully regained her strength.
She led her mare to a nearby patch of grass and carefully removed the saddle, whispering soft praises to the loyal beast.
Then, with deft hands, she began setting up a small camp.
A fire was lit, crackling softly as it cast a warm, golden glow across the clearing. The light flickered against the dark trunks of the trees, pushing back the shadows.
She laid down a thick woolen blanket near the fire, settling onto it with a sigh, then pulled me into her arms.
"This will do for tonight," she murmured. "Tomorrow, we will move again."
I nestled against her, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath. The warmth of the fire, the soft rustling of leaves, and the rhythmic beat of my mother's heart…
It was peaceful. And for the first time in countless lives—I felt at home.
As I drifted into sleep, a single thought crossed my mind—Maybe this life will be different. Maybe this time, I can just… live.
Without chaos. Without war. Without the burden of being something more than just a son to a mother who loves him.
=.=.=
=.=
=
The days passed in a gentle rhythm, one that felt strangely familiar despite how different this life was from the others.
Mornings were crisp and filled with the sounds of birdsong, the golden light of the sun filtering through the trees, casting a warm glow over the forest floor. The air smelled of damp earth, pine, and wildflowers, and the steady clop, clop of hooves was the only sound besides the rustling leaves.
My mother—Evelyne—held me close as we rode through the endless expanse of trees. She never let me go for long, always keeping me tucked safely against her chest, wrapped snugly in soft fabric.
I could feel the warmth of her heartbeat, hear the quiet hum of her voice as she spoke to me throughout the day, as if she couldn't bear the silence.
At night, she would set up camp in a quiet clearing, feeding the horse before gathering wood to start a fire. The moment the flames flickered to life, she would sit down, pull me into her lap, and begin singing.
She had a beautiful voice.
Soft. Comforting. It carried a sorrowful, wistful quality, as though the songs she sang were older than she was, passed down through generations.
Most nights, she would hum a melody before whispering,
"My mother used to sing this to me when I was a little girl… and now I will sing it to you, my sweet Camden."
Her voice wove through the night air, blending with the crackling of the fire and the distant calls of owls. I would watch the way her eyes softened, her lips curving into a small, almost dreamy smile as she rocked me gently in her arms.
And, just like that, sleep would take me.
During the day, Evelyne would talk as we rode through the woods, her voice lilting with amusement, sometimes frustration, and always a deep, unshakable affection for me.
"You are such a quiet baby," she mused one afternoon, adjusting the sling that kept me tucked against her chest. "Most newborns cry all the time… but you? You just listen. And watch. As if you already know everything in this world."
I do, I thought to myself, though I only responded with a tiny gurgle.
She laughed, pressing a soft kiss to the top of my head. "You really are a strange one, my love. But I think I like that about you."
Her voice carried no judgment—only warmth.
She often told me stories to pass the time, most of them tales of heroes and lost kingdoms, of women who defied fate and men who challenged the heavens. Some were folklore, passed down through generations, while others… others were stories about her own life.
"I used to love stories as a child," she murmured one afternoon, her voice wistful. "My mother was not a kind woman, but when she told stories, she became someone else. A storyteller, a poet, a dreamer. I think that's why I never feared the dark—because the night was when the best stories were told."
I listened, tucked against her warmth, my tiny fingers gripping the fabric of her cloak.
"You know… I wasn't always running," she admitted softly one evening. "Once, I thought my life would be simple. I would marry a man my father approved of, live in a grand house, have children, and never know what it was like to be truly free."
She paused, as if deciding whether to continue. Then, in a whisper, she said,
"But the man I married…"
She didn't say anything more after that, only tightened her hold on me, as if seeking comfort from my tiny presence. I reached up, as best as my infant body allowed, and grasped a strand of her hair in my fingers.
She laughed, the sound wet, like she was holding back tears. "Oh, my sweet boy…" She kissed my forehead, rocking me gently.
"I promise you this…" she whispered. "I will keep you safe, no matter what happens."
And I believed her. Evelyne was an incredible mother.
Even though she was running from something—someone—she never let her exhaustion show.
She never snapped at me when I fussed, never grew frustrated when I refused to sleep. If I cried in the middle of the night, she would wake immediately, soothing me with soft words and gentle strokes against my back.
If I squirmed during the day, she would chuckle, adjusting me in her arms.
She was patient, kind, and fiercely protective.
When we came across a stream, she would carefully bathe me, ensuring the water wasn't too cold. She would take her time, washing my tiny hands and feet, murmuring little words of love as she did.
"Look at you, my perfect boy," she would say, kissing my cheeks. "So small… but so strong."
At night, she would whisper about the town she was trying to reach before winter set in, about the life she hoped to build for us there.
"It won't be grand," she said. "But it will be ours. And you will be happy, Camden."
I had lived so many lives. I had been a warrior, a king, a thief, a scholar…
But I had never—never—been loved like this. Not in such a pure, unconditional way.And so, for the first time in centuries, I did not think of the past, nor did I wonder what the future held.
[A/N: This type of love is one only a mother can give]
I simply lived.
Wrapped in the warmth of a mother's love, lulled by the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, I allowed myself to be something I had not been in a very, very long time.
A child.
=.=.=
=.=
=
The village was small, a quiet little port nestled between the sea and the sprawling wilderness Evelyne had just spent days navigating. Modest wooden buildings lined the winding dirt roads, the salty scent of the ocean lingering in the air.
Seagulls cried overhead, while the distant clatter of fishermen unloading their morning catch filled the air.
It was a simple place, untouched by the grand schemes of nobles and kings—perfect for someone hoping to disappear.
But Evelyne did not get to admire any of this. Because she collapsed at the very gates.
One moment, she was urging her tired horse forward, Camden tucked securely against her chest, his tiny hands gripping the fabric of her cloak. The next, her vision blurred, her legs buckled, and the world tilted sideways as exhaustion finally took its due.
Some children playing near the entrance gasped, their wooden swords and makeshift pirate hats forgotten.
"Miss?! Miss, are you okay?!"
"She has a baby! Go get someone—quick!"
Feet pounded against the ground as they ran, their small voices rising in panic. Within moments, a handful of burly fishermen, smelling strongly of salt and stubbornness, came barreling down the road.
"Gods above, she's out cold!"
"Get her to the clinic! And someone take the horse to the stable before it tramples someone!"
"The baby—oh no, what do we do about the baby?"
"…Do babies bite?"
"What? No! Why would you—"
"I dunno, he's lookin' at me funny—"
"Just pick him up, Harold!"
Harold, a large man with hands like oars, leaned in cautiously to take Camden, only for the teeniest baby fist to grab his beard with alarming strength.
"OW! The little demon's got me!"
"Harold, you're six-foot-five. He's the size of a loaf of bread. Let go of your dignity and pick him up."
After much fussing (and prying baby fingers from Harold's whiskers), the unconscious Evelyne and her fiercely protective infant were rushed to the clinic. Camden had never been more insulted in his many, many lives.
Two nurses—a pair of sweet-looking women with aprons and well-meaning smiles—had dared to try and take him away from his mother while she rested. How dare they?
The first nurse reached for him. He screamed.
The second nurse tried again. He screamed louder.
When they attempted to use their advanced adult tactics—soothing shushing sounds and gentle swaying—Camden upped the ante.
He wailed. Big, pitiful, heart-wrenching baby cries that made it sound like they were committing war crimes rather than attempting to check his mother's condition.
The nurses, overwhelmed, defeated, and slightly fearing this deceptively tiny tyrant, backed off.
And thus, Camden remained at Evelyne's side.
Hours passed.
The soft glow of late afternoon light filtered through the room's window as Evelyne finally stirred. Her body hurt.
Everything ached. Her limbs were leaden, her head felt stuffed with wool, and her throat was so dry she was sure she had swallowed an entire desert in her sleep. But none of that mattered.
Because the moment she opened her eyes, she was met with a pair of wide, worried, baby-blue eyes staring back at her. Tiny hands clutched her blanket, his chubby cheeks slightly puffed from how very hard he was pouting.
"Oh, my sweet boy…" Evelyne croaked, her voice raw. She weakly lifted a hand, brushing her fingers against Camden's soft hair. "You've been watching over me, haven't you?"
Camden made a tiny, disapproving noise.
'Of course I have. Do you even know how close they came to trying to separate us? I almost had to wage war on this entire village in self-defense.'
Instead of crying, Camden just clung to her, his baby-sized arms wrapping around her wrist.
The sight alone made Evelyne's exhaustion feel lighter. She barely had time to pull him into her arms before she realized they weren't alone.
Across the room, sitting with all the silent authority of a man who had seen things, an elderly gentleman observed them both with keen, scrutinizing eyes.
He was broad-shouldered despite his age, his white beard neatly trimmed, his calloused hands resting atop a polished cane. His gaze was piercing but not unkind—like a grandfather who had long since stopped being fooled by anyone's nonsense.
"Ah," the man finally spoke, his voice deep and measured. "You're awake. Good."
Evelyne, instincts sharpened from years of careful self-preservation, immediately sat up, cradling Camden closer.
The old man chuckled. "Easy now. If I meant you harm, I wouldn't have bothered waiting for you to wake up." That… was fair.
"Who are you?" Evelyne asked, her voice steadier now.
"I am Elias, chief of this village," the man introduced himself, leaning forward slightly. "And you, young lady, are an unknown face arriving with nothing but a horse, a child, and an exhausted body. So tell me…"
His gaze sharpened.
"Who are you, and why have you come here?"
Evelyne's grip on Camden tightened.
She had expected some scrutiny upon arrival, but this? This was not the welcoming embrace of a nameless town that wouldn't ask too many questions. This man was sharp, experienced.
Lying outright would be pointless. But telling the truth was not an option. So she took a deep breath and settled for something in between.
"My name is Evelyne," she began carefully. "I… was a wife once. I am no longer."
The chief's gaze flickered over Camden, then back to her. "I see."
"I wish to start over. Somewhere quiet. Safe."
"And are you running from something?"
Evelyne hesitated.
"…Yes."
The chief exhaled through his nose, clearly weighing her words.
Then, much to her shock, he shrugged.
"Fair enough."
Evelyne blinked. "…What?"
"You're not the first woman to come through here looking for a new beginning," he said gruffly. "And you won't be the last."
Her breath hitched slightly.
"So you'll let us stay?"
"For now." His eyes locked onto hers. "But know this—this is a small village. We take care of our own. If trouble follows you here…" His fingers tapped against his cane. "We will handle it."
The unspoken implication was clear. If she brought danger, the village would not sit idly by. She would not be given a second chance.
Evelyne met his gaze, her own resolve hardening. "I understand."
The chief nodded. "Good." He stood, his joints cracking from the movement. "Rest for now. We'll talk more in the morning." And with that, he turned and strode out the door, leaving Evelyne alone with her thoughts.
Alone… except for Camden, who had somehow stolen the chief's wool scarf in the brief seconds it took him to leave.
Evelyne stared at her son in horrified amusement.
"Camden!"
The baby just grinned.
[Much Later]
[Camden POV]
The first few days in the clinic were peaceful. Almost too peaceful.
After countless lifetimes of war, espionage, assassination, and even one particularly insane international high-speed truck pursuit, waking up every morning to nothing but the sound of the waves and my mother's gentle humming was… weird.
Not bad. Just weird.
There were no alarms blaring, no mission briefings, no last-minute sword fights or political betrayals. Just me, my mother, and the scent of sea salt drifting in from the open window.
She was still recovering, so we stayed in bed for most of the day, her arms always curled protectively around me. Every time I stirred, I could feel her warmth, hear the soft beat of her heart, and for the first time in many lives, I felt something I hadn't realized I'd missed.
Safety.
It was enough to almost make me forget that my new mortal body was as fragile as wet paper. Almost. But then the children started coming.
The first time it happened, I was minding my own business.
Evelyne had fallen asleep, her breathing soft and even. I was tucked into her arms like the perfectly behaved son I was. Then, I heard it—giggling.
Not my mother's. Not a nurse's. But high-pitched, mischievous little gremlin giggles.
The sound made every instinct in me—honed over lifetimes of battle—immediately go on high alert.
I cracked an eye open.
At the foot of the bed stood three little girls, no older than five or six, staring down at me with barely contained excitement. They had tiny braids, smudged cheeks, and the kind of wild energy that only kids could have.
One of them leaned in closer. "He's awake!"
"Awww, he's so cute!"
"Can I hold him?"
"No, I wanna hold him!"
My very soul recoiled in alarm. Hold me? Excuse me? Then, before I could even process my impending doom, one of them reached forward and poked me.
POKED. ME.
Like I was some tiny, defenseless little baby. Which honestly I was.
"Soft!" she squealed.
I stared at her in silent betrayal. What kind of demonic creatures were these?
"Let's play with him!" another one chirped. "I saw my mama playing peekaboo with my little brother—maybe he likes that too!"
I had never wanted to escape a situation more in my life.
Alas, my tiny newborn body betrayed me. I couldn't roll away. I couldn't walk. I couldn't even swat their little hands away like the hardened warrior I once was.
I was trapped. My only saving grace was Evelyne, who woke up just in time to stop them from turning me into their personal plaything.
"Girls," she murmured sleepily, rubbing her eyes. "What are you up to?"
"We wanna play with the baby!"
"Yeah, he's cute!"
Evelyne chuckled softly. "Camden is still very small, little ones. You have to be gentle with him."
"We will!"
I didn't believe them for a second. But did that matter? No. Because for the next several days, the little gremlins kept coming back, slowly wearing me down with their ceaseless affection.
And I hated to admit it, but… I eventually started tolerating them. Maybe even… liking them a little bit.
Aside from my growing kid fan club, the other constant visitor was Elias, the village chief.
Every so often, he would stop by our room and settle into the old wooden chair in the corner, telling Evelyne about the village.
"Most folk here are fishers," he explained one afternoon, his rough hands resting on his cane. "Some are craftsmen, some traders. We get the occasional traveler, but it's mostly the same faces day in, day out."
Evelyne listened intently, nodding along.
"And the people?" she asked. "Are they… kind?"
Elias hummed. "They take care of their own. That's what matters." His sharp gaze landed on me. "That little one of yours is already making a name for himself."
Evelyne looked down at me with an amused smile. "Oh?"
"The children adore him. Even the old fisher wives are smitten. You'll have trouble keeping him to yourself once he starts walking."
I did not like the sound of that.
"And you?" Evelyne asked softly. "What do you think of him?"
Elias considered me for a long moment. Then, with a slow, thoughtful nod, he said, "He's got sharp eyes for a baby."
I held his gaze, unwilling to be out-stared by an old man. He just smirked. "You'll be trouble when you grow up, I can tell." Well, he wasn't wrong.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months.
Evelyne grew stronger.
Her face, once pale and weary, regained its color. She laughed more, sang more, and even started venturing outside the clinic, walking through the village with me tucked securely in her arms.
The townsfolk greeted her warmly, their initial wariness melting into open acceptance.
And me? Well, I thrived.
I was carried everywhere, showered with attention, fed delicious things, and generally adored by everyone who met me. It was, quite frankly, the best retirement life I could have asked for.
Of course, that didn't mean I had grown complacent. No, no, no. If anything, I was carefully preparing for my inevitable return to mobility. Because the moment my little legs worked…
The moment I could crawl, walk, or gods willing, RUN…
I would finally reclaim my freedom. And ohhh, the world wouldn't be ready.
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