The sun and moon traded places. The stars turned overhead.
On this particular day, not a single cloud drifted in the sky, not even a breath of wind stirred. The blazing summer sun scorched all of Sicily.
Even Mount Etna, with its legendary temper, seemed to feel the heat. It blew out a ring of smoke, shook itself once, and shed its snowy robe.
The melting snow trickled into rivulets, tumbling joyfully down the mountainside.
The streams flowed past sparse shrubs growing on volcanic soil, cutting through forests of chestnut, beech, oak, pine, and birch.
One stream merged with the northern Alcantara River, drawn by the vineyards, olive groves, and citrus orchards scattered across the foothills. Its pace slowed as it wound through a valley full of farmland.
From above, the valley looked like a great horse had stamped its hoof onto the crumpled hills, leaving a horseshoe-shaped basin with a single hill rising untouched at its center.
The peaceful afternoon was broken by the crisp voice of a child.
"Don't move again—or I'm not washing you anymore!"
The voice came from a shallow bend in the river, where a six-year-old boy was struggling to bathe a young colt, no more than three years old.
The colt's coat was a deep chestnut, sleek and unblemished, and it appeared calm and obedient.
But on closer look, its eyes flicked slyly, ears twitched, and its tail swayed—clear signs it had a mind of its own.
"All done. Stand still, okay? I'll get a towel to dry you off."
The boy turned to grab a cloth.
The well-behaved colt, however, suddenly dashed away—straight into a muddy pit. It flopped down, rolled in the muck, then scratched its back vigorously against the ground.
Moments later, it sprang back to its feet and galloped right back to its original spot, standing there innocently—as if it had never moved.
But of course, the commotion didn't escape the boy.
He had seen the entire stunt. He stared at the colt, now trying to act clever, and his face turned beet red with anger.
With a huff, he threw the towel into the basin and grabbed the bucket, splashing water all over the horse.
The colt was thoroughly drenched and stopped pretending to be good. It galloped in circles, kicking up droplets.
The boy kept hurling water at it, but the agile colt dodged each one. Panting, the boy finally gave up, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.
The colt paused its antics. Seeing that the boy wasn't reacting anymore, it slowly walked back to his side and nuzzled him with its head.
The boy patted its neck and said, "Gift, the sun's setting. Enough playing for today."
The colt, named Gift, seemed to understand. It nodded, standing still to let the boy finish cleaning and drying it.
The clouds in the western sky were already tinged with fire. The boy tucked the basin under one arm and carried the bucket with the other, with Gift trotting obediently behind him as they made their way up toward the hill at the center of the valley.
As he walked, the boy sang,
"Beneath the banyan tree by the pond, the cicadas cry out for summer…"
It was a song he remembered from the past, but he'd already lost the melody halfway through. He stopped singing.
Instead, he began to think about his past life.
In that world, he always felt like an extra.
His parents had divorced when he was young, both starting new families. Neither of them wanted him, so they shipped him off to a private boarding school that combined elementary and middle school. He never lacked money.
The school itself was quite good, and the teachers were responsible—but he didn't like it there.
Other children got to go home for holidays. He stayed in the dorms, scrolling through the latest smartphone, aimlessly browsing the internet.
His teachers often told him, "You're a bright kid." But he had no interest in studying.
What he was good at were emergency drills—fire safety, first aid, and the like. He always performed well.
Of course, there were subjects he completely failed—like history. He'd usually sleep through those classes out of boredom.
In fact, just before arriving in this world, he had been napping on his desk during a history lesson… and then suddenly, he was here.
He had become a baby, reborn into a new life—with a new father, Count Roger of Sicily, and a new mother, Lady Adelaide.
He even had an older brother—Simon.
Simon was two years older, but they barely interacted.
Frail and sickly since birth, Simon rarely left his medicine-scented room—a place the energetic boy always avoided.
He liked this world.
Compared to the last one, his parents here loved him deeply.
Still, they had sent him away—to serve as a page under Baron Rollo, a renowned knight who had made his name on the Crusade battlefields.
But unlike in his past life, he knew this wasn't neglect. It was tradition.
Noble families often sent their sons to serve as pages under a higher-ranking lord as a sign of loyalty.
Some, like his father, preferred to send their sons to respected knights—not for political gain, but for proper knightly training.
Here, receiving a knight's education was an essential rite of passage for any nobleman.
Skipping this step often earned scorn.
He was still lost in thought when he reached the small hilltop village.
It was truly tiny—just a few dozen wooden houses of varying size along a single cobblestone street. A wooden fence circled the village, barely enough to keep out wild animals. The gate stood open, unwatched.
The boy and the colt walked right in. Gift's hooves clopped loudly on the stone path, echoing through the quiet settlement.
They passed a crumbling church—the only stone building in the village. Ivy crawled up its walls; it clearly hadn't been maintained.
Not long after, they arrived at the end of the road, where a slightly larger wooden house stood.
The boy patted Gift, who trotted off toward the stables on its own.
He pushed open the door. A wave of raucous voices hit him.
Five men were drinking and laughing around a wooden table, eating chunks of meat.
A bald man with a beard down to his chest spotted the boy and raised a wooden mug, waving a pig knuckle.
"Come on, Roger! Have a drink with us!"
"It's Friday, Father Poppo," Roger replied, walking past him.
A scar-faced man immediately reached for the priest's plate and said mockingly,
"Fridays and Wednesdays—you're supposed to fast!"
Father Poppo shoved the hand away with his elbow, snatching back his pig knuckle.
"I'm old. Old men don't have to fast."
"You're not old. You're just sick," Roger muttered, setting down the basin and bucket.
"Exactly. I'm sick."
Chewing the meat, the priest sprayed crumbs as he added,
"My illness requires pig knuckles to cure."
Everyone burst out laughing.
Roger walked to the main seat and addressed the large, broad-shouldered man there.
"Baron Rollo, I've returned."
The baron smiled kindly.
"Go on to the kitchen. The ladies saved you something. I'll speak with you later."
Roger ignored the scarred coachman bantering with the priest, the blacksmith devouring meat beside him, and the forester challenging the baron to a drinking match. He headed into the kitchen beyond the wall.
There, three women—wives of the coachman Usman, the blacksmith Smith, and the forester Woodward—greeted him with a simple meal: chopped onions with minced meat and lentils.
Roger thanked them and sat down to eat.
Halfway through, the back door creaked open—nudged by a horse's head.
"Out, out!" one woman scolded, shooing Gift away.
"Roger, tie up your horse properly! Who raises horses like this?"
Roger sighed, set down his spoon, grabbed some oats from the jar, and led Gift back to the stables.
The colt lowered its head to eat from his palm.
"Easy now, there's plenty," Roger cooed.
After a mouthful, he scattered the rest into the trough over a bed of threshed straw and husks. Gift munched contentedly.
Roger refilled the water bowl and stroked the horse's back.
And as he did, old memories surfaced—
---
"Papa, where's my birthday present?"
"Roger, Christians don't celebrate birthdays," the Count replied, pretending to be stern.
"But I want one! I want one!" Roger whined.
The Count surrendered shamefully fast.
"Alright, alright. A gift, then. How about… a colt?"
Roger blinked.
"Are you serious?"
"No, just teasing." the Count said with a smirk.
"Anything is fine, really. I don't actually care," Roger replied, fiddling with his fingers, feigning indifference.
"You said it. Here's your gift."
The Count handed him a small riding whip.
"Maybe… you'll find it useful in the stables."
Roger's eyes widened. He got the hint—but hesitated to believe it.
Then he bolted from the hall, forgetting to say thank you.
There, in the stables, stood a chestnut colt about a year old, flawless in color.
Roger rushed back:
"Papa! I love you! Thank you! You're amazing!"
The Count watched his son bouncing around the hall in delight, smiling quietly.
"My son… your joy is the reward for all my efforts."
Roger's sharp ears caught that, but he was too thrilled to respond.
He pounced on his father, needing final confirmation.
"Is it really mine? That colt—is it really mine?"
"Yes, yes. It's yours. All yours."
"Thank you, Papa! I love you—I'll always love you!"
---
Roger snapped back to the present.
The colt had finished eating, drank a bit, and should've been ready to sleep—but it didn't. It nuzzled up to him again.
He stroked its mane.
Gift sighed in satisfaction, then finally dozed off.
Roger stood there, watching the little horse as its head drooped, eyes shut in peaceful slumber.
He should have left—but the memories returned once more.
---
"Young master, that's not how you raise a horse."
The stablehand had tried to correct him, leaning on his years of experience.
But Roger—spoiled, stubborn—refused to listen.
"It's my horse. I do what I want. Even Papa said so."
"But—but that's not proper horsekeeping."
Roger didn't really know how to raise a horse. In either life, he'd never owned one.
But he had raised a dog.
"The bigger the animal, the smarter it is," he thought.
"If I could raise a husky, how hard can a horse be?"
So he insisted:
"I'll raise it my way."
And what could the stablehand say? The Count's favored son was not someone to argue with.
From then on, Roger's colt was nothing like the others.
It wasn't tied up. It roamed freely.
It refused food from others—only Roger could feed it.
Its temper was fierce, unruly—just like its master.
It caused plenty of trouble, but no matter what, it never changed.
---
"This is my horse."
Roger ended the memory with mixed feelings—both pride and guilt.
"My horse is different. Just like me."