"Do not let what you cannot do interfere with what you can do." - John Wooden

  The man found himself lying in a sea of darkness. It didn’t really feel like much. The deep dark was reminiscent of the floating sensation in the white void, however here there was a constant pressure and he would occasionally be jostled. The man couldn’t even move, and knew his body was far too small to really be his. In fact, all he could do was think, sleep, and sleep some more. It was agonizing. It was torturous. Yet somehow, despite the loneliness and solitude, his mind held itself together.

  The first days, perhaps they were weeks, were all consumed with thoughts of the man's family. He spent time remembering their faces, wishing he could talk to them. His chest hurt from thinking about them day after day, week after week, but he couldn’t cry for his loss. And so he simply lay there and thought about them. Of his fiancé Jess, of his parents and siblings. He wondered what the folks at work would think, if they would miss him or if they would be sad for a week before moving on and hiring a new software engineer.

  After a while he grew numb to his emotions; he had to stop himself from diving deeper into this depression. He was driving himself crazy with these thoughts and distracted himself with some new thoughts. Though the thoughts were forced, he welcomed any distraction in this void. First, he imagined what sort of world he was being sent to. What sort of wonderful or horrible things would he witness there? What awaited him? Would there be monsters and horrors, or would it be similar to his last life?

  He hoped it would be different, like stepping into a video game. Maybe with less danger, but if he could learn magic, a little bit of danger was a healthy trade-off, in his mind. Hopefully, it differed from his old world in ways other than magic. Perhaps in this new world, the weak and poor would stand a better chance? Hopefully effort would actually be meaningful. The man had seen too many people killing themselves for their employers, working eighty-hour weeks for a paltry paycheck just to survive, and not being lifted for their efforts.

  When this thought came, Isaac attempted to shake his head but found it extremely difficult. Instead, he just imagined himself shaking his head and clearing it. Right, back to what’s important. He forced himself to think. What do I actually want to do, aside from learning magic? A dozen ideas flitted through his mind. First came the hobbies the man had had while alive. I could be a cook? That could be fun. It felt a bit too mundane, though. He could cook without dedicating his life to it. I could be a bard... I’ve always loved music and storytelling. He had never been a talented singer though, and wasn’t much for writing songs. Aside from some poetry for a college English course, the man had hardly written anything.

  What do I regret from my last life? The man would ask himself whenever the topic of his future sprang to mind, which was often, as this was how he had chosen to distract himself from his more painful thoughts. Each time he asked this, dozens of things would fly into his mind, but one thing stood out the most. I wish I had been more free. How can I be free?

  The more he thought about it, above everything else, he realized his biggest regret was becoming a cog in someone else's wheel. The more he looked back, the more he realized he had lived his life as a wage slave. He had explored his world a bit, but there were so many adventures he had put off in favor of trying to climb a corporate ladder. So much time was spent clicking away at a keyboard at his desk or sitting in a stuffy classroom. So much time that now felt wasted, spent away from family and from his dreams of traveling and seeing all that nature had provided his people. All that his people would surely tear down if given the chance.

  I don’t want to feel stuck again. The man thought one day. Truly, he thought that often. Especially as the darkness continued to surround him, leaving him only with his thoughts and a vague sense of motion. By this time, perhaps several weeks or months into his confinement, he realized where he was. A womb. It was strange to think about. It took all he had to stay sane. Constant thinking and sleeping when he grew tired, which was often, were the only activities he had. Though at some point, he began to hear something. Voices warbled by distance and obstacles, became welcome distractions. Even though he couldn’t understand them, they helped. One voice was obviously feminine, and she sang to him often. The other was quite gruff, but warm in a lot of ways.

  What do I want to do when I grow up? The thought came up most days. He had debated many things. The core of these thoughts came back to his regret. They always came back to wanting to feel free. To be his own boss. I could be a courier or a merchant. That doesn’t feel quite right. I know I want to learn magic, but what would let me do that while staying free? The man had some ideas in this direction too.

  I could be a wizard, depending on the country's view of them. Whenever he thought of this, he would think of fireballs and lightning bolts. Massive storms emerging from his own hands and words. Tidal waves washing the shore away of foes. A tower where he did his own research far from the eyes of the people, left alone. I could be a swordsman. Can I do sword stuff with magic? Or I could be an enchanter... Blacksmithing kind of ties in with these, so could I do all four? Is that too ambitious? He knew he would have to see what the world was like before coming to a conclusion, but he had a lot of ideas.

  Perhaps a beast tamer? I’ve always loved animals. This came from a wish when he was alive, that he had gone into zoology instead of engineering. Often he would think about this, about how he envied Stever Irwin and his son. How he wished he could have followed his passions better. Or maybe a farmer. There’s honor in farming. I could use magic to grow plants faster and crossbreed them to make better veggies and fruit.

  There are two things I want most. Whatever will take me there will be the path I choose, ambitious or not. Number one... I want to do something more meaningful, something to help those who are afraid to stand up to the forces that be, if possible. Number two. I want to explore every inch of my new world.

  This was how Isaac spent the first several months of his new life. Trapped and alone with his thoughts, barely able to move, slowly growing as a brand new human being, the man fought off insanity and loneliness by cycling through thoughts of his future, his past, and his present. The voices that sang to him and spoke to him soothed him. He knew that someday, someday relatively soon, he would be free.

  Of course, this knowledge didn’t help entirely. He still faced being alone in the dark for ages, unending and constant. There were times his thoughts turned a touch darker. He questioned his reality, wondering if there was a chance that the god had lied, had sent him to hell. Or that this was all a figment of his imagination, that he was dreaming a long unending dream and that the voices were trying to wake him up. His thoughts, the lack of connection and other people, he feared they were driving him mad. But the voices, when he wasn’t deep in his head, soothed him. Reminded him that other people were nearby. He was just somehow the first case of a cognitive fetus he had ever heard of.

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  Many times he wondered why the strange god, who stole a name from the Romans, would shove his soul into a fetus and allow him to remain cognitive. He wondered if it was purposeful, if the god intended for Isaac to fall into insanity before he was even reborn. Or if this was an oversight from a powerful deity who had not considered the effects of loneliness on the human brain.

  One thing was for sure, though. Isaac Duran was quickly developing an aversion to tight, dark spaces. As he grew, the space felt like it was getting tighter. He wanted nothing more than to claw his way out, but he knew, logically, the implications of doing so. He knew that doing so would kill both him and his mother. Whoever she was.

  As time went on, it became a bigger chore to think about his plans for after he was born. It grew harder to focus on it, especially after he had somewhat resolved himself to his path. He knew he wanted to play with swords and magic. Bridging the gap between enchanting and blacksmithing would be an excellent goal. He worried he was perhaps overreaching, that he would take on too many concepts, but felt it would be possible even if it took a while.

  The next thoughts were about whether he would tell anyone he was a reincarnation and even had some old memories from a past life. On the one hand, he knew it would likely be risky to divulge his truth. On the other hand, he didn’t want to lie about it. He wanted to share the good that came from his homeworld. He didn’t want to forget ?it all either, and he feared unless he had people to talk to about it that all of his memories would slowly fade away.

  With all of this in mind, he resolved at least to share his history with those he couldn’t live with lying to. He would also take some time to figure out if the knowledge would be dangerous to him or those he told.

  These were the things he thought about until one day, one day everything changed.

  In a small house on the outskirts of a small city, near the edge of a forest, a woman cried out and clutched her husband's hand. She screamed as her muscles clenched and her flesh tore a little at a time, stretching beyond its limits.

  “Elaine, you’ve got this! Push, push, take a deep breath. I can see his head, keep going!” A woman dressed in a white robe called out over the sounds of her patient's cries.

  The man beside her winced as her grip tightened on his hand, but wisely said nothing. Concern was evident in his eyes and tense expression. He fixed his gaze on his wife's red, pained expression. She had already been in labor for a while, too long he felt like. With his upheld hand, he reached up and brushed a lock of hair from her sweaty forehead. Then he took a damp cloth and whipped away the sweat before it could enter her eyes. No need for her to experience even more discomfort.

  “Shit, shit, fuck. Luma’s tits! Come. Out. Of. Me!” Elaine growled and swore as she pushed again. She took another deep breath and pushed once more, repeating this action several times.

  She cried out and swore between breaths, her husband whispering beside her, telling her she was doing great, telling her to breathe, anxiously wiping the sweat from her brow as there was nothing more he could do. He remained in his guard uniform, unable to change before he heard Elaine was in labor.

  He bowed forward and kissed her hand, pressing his lips to her knuckles as he continued to encourage her. Each time she took a breath and cried out, ferociously pushing a human baby from inside of her, he flinched. The sound of his wife in pain while he could do nothing to help her was almost too much for the man to bear. And they had already been at it for hours.

  However, something changed with this last push. A new cry ripped through the stone-walled room of the temple. The cry of one small human, who cried despite himself. He was in pain, a feeling he had not experienced for months. But the sounds that came from his mouth were not entirely caused by pain.

  No, for the first time in ages, after the man -boy- had given up all hope of seeing light again, of breathing and feeling again, he felt and saw and heard. He forced his eyes to stay open as they adjusted to the light. He barely flinched as a woman in white robes cut his umbilical cord, still pristine despite having accepted him. She was now wiping him down with a white towel.

  It was rough, not the fluffy material that he had grown used to on Earth, but a scratchier material. He didn’t mind. The boy breathed in deep and stifled his screams of elation and pain, and tried to focus on what was around him.

  The woman who was cleaning him - a nurse or a doctor perhaps - wore a veil over her face alongside the white robes. On her fingers were two rings, neither of which was on her ring finger, but it was unlikely that the same traditions were present here. She was wrapping the boy in a fresh, clean towel, still rough on his sensitive new skin, but it was warm and that was enough. The woman cooed sweet words at the baby as she slowly and carefully wrapped him up.

  Once she had, she stepped around the bed in which another woman, the boy's mother he presumed, panted from the exertion of giving birth. Upon seeing the robed woman approaching her with the boy, her expression shifted from pained to exhilarated. She reached out with both hands to take the boy into her arms, staring into his face as though memorizing every contour and feature.

  The boy observed both her and the man, who was nervously wiping his hands on thick pants. She was pretty, even with her face pale and arms shuddering from tiredness. He took her all in — her freckled cheeks and pink lips, her bright green eyes as they filled with joyous tears, replacing the pained ones. Her vibrant red hair, curly and wild as it was. She cuddled her son and kept her eyes on him without deviation, even when the robed woman and the man said something to her. To the boy, it sounded much like gibberish.

  I suppose it was too much to ask for them to speak English. The boy noted wryly. As she watched him, he let out a bit of a giggle. She had just birthed him; she deserved some sort of reward, and this was the best he could do. She lit up immediately.

  As she laughed emphatically, a golden glow filled the room for a few brief moments, and she sighed with clear relief. Healing magic? The boy's heart thudded in his chest. Magic was real; even this tiny moment proved that. He wanted nothing more than to learn magic at that very moment, but knew with his tiny body and inability to communicate he would have to wait.

  Instead of dwelling on this, however, he turned his attention to the man as his mother passed him over. The man wore his brown hair short and shaved, very military. Buzzed sides and back, with short hair up top, he looked like a soldier. He was even wearing chainmail armor with a plate over his vitals. It looked like some sort of uniform. There was a sort of cloak or cape folded on ?top of the chair behind him that seemed to be dyed green and brown. The man’s pants were also brown.

  He took the boy into his arms, watching the child with startling blue eyes that struggled to hold back tears of happiness. He spoke a few words to the boy, words he understandably didn’t understand. Isaac, or whatever his new name was, responded with a wide smile and a gentle giggle ?despite the fact he still had a headache from before.

  He sat and entertained his father for the next few hours, while his mother drifted off to sleep. The simple act of making sounds, of hearing his father's voice, which he vaguely recognized from its distorted tone while he was in his mother’s womb, excited the boy. He could see again! He could breathe, and well, he couldn’t speak just yet, but he could babble. He could tell his father was equally ?excited, and also quite nervous, that he was there. Isaac would have been nervous too. He had never really considered himself ?father material, but he had already been a kid once, so he felt he could at least play into his role.

  After the first few hours though, he felt fatigue set in. Blue eyes blinked closed. He fought it; he fought the constant pull of sleep. He fought unsuccessfully, yawning as his father did. His eyes drifted closed once more; he opened them again only for them to sink back to closed. This time he stopped fighting what felt like a fruitless battle. Instead, he grumbled mentally before slipping into a deep and heavy sleep. His snoring briefly woke his mother, who fawned over his adorable sleeping face, before she drifted back into slumber.