He was reborn as Aron, in the male-dominated village of Riverton, nestled against a gentle bend of the great river. Two dozen mud-brick huts stood surrounded by terraced fields that climbed the hills like ascending dao platforms. Riverton's patriarch was Elder Thorne, a burly, imposing man with a beard like tangled black roots and eyes sharp as freshly knapped flint. Thorne was the richest in the village, owning vast swaths of prime farmland where wheat waved like a golden sea and herds of goats numbering in the hundreds, their bronze bells tinkling like distant temple chimes.
Thorne had taken five wives, each chosen through careful ceremonies under the full moon, with prayers offered to the gods for fertility and obedience. Aron was born to the fifth and youngest wife, Lila, a gentle woman with sun-kissed skin and long hair braided with fragrant river reeds. Lila had been young and graceful when Thorne claimed her, drawn by her nimble fingers that wove the finest baskets. But in the patriarch's household she was the lowest rank, constantly belittled by the older wives. The first wife, Mara, a sharp-tongued woman with a face like weathered stone, would sneer openly; "Look at little Lila, barely more than a girl, yet she dares warm our husband's bed." She assigned Lila the harshest chores, scrubbing soot-blackened pots until her fingers bled, or tending the most distant fields alone under the merciless sun.
Young Aron witnessed it all from behind mud walls, small and silent. Worse still, he saw how his father treated his mother. Thorne did not love Lila, he used her. At night, Aron once peeked through a crack in the wooden door out of childish curiosity. In the dim firelight he watched Thorne's heavy body press down upon Lila, rough hands gripping her hips without tenderness. Her soft cries mixed pain and resigned submission as Thorne thrust into her with animalistic grunts, sweat dripping from his brow. There were no soft words, no lingering caresses, only raw taking. Lila's face, twisted in endurance rather than joy, burned itself into Aron's young heart.
"This is not love," he thought even then, a quiet horror stirring alongside faint immortal memories. "It is a chain… a disgrace without soul or heart."
Aron grew up working the land from the moment dawn painted the river gold. At five he followed his father into the fields, tiny hands clutching a child-sized hoe, breaking clods of rich earth. "Work hard, boy," Thorne would bark, voice like grinding stone, "or the gods will curse our yield and bring locusts upon us." By ten, Aron planted seeds with unnatural precision, cleared irrigation ditches with care, and whispered sincere prayers as water flowed. He tended the animals gently , milking goats with patient strokes, shearing sheep in the shade of ancient trees. The villagers soon noticed his blessing. His plots yielded the fattest, heaviest grains. His animals grew the healthiest and most fertile. "Aron is favored by the Field Goddess," they murmured, clapping his sun-browned back with rough respect. He became known as the finest harvester in Riverton. His worth in the village rose steadily.
Yet deep in his chest, fragments of his immortal challenge flickered like distant starlight. He yearned for a love that was pure, untouched by the shadow of carnal greed.
When Aron reached adulthood, he had grown tall and powerfully built, muscles honed by years of honest labor. His sun-bronzed skin glowed with vitality, and his eyes were deep and clear like quiet river pools. The village buzzed with talk of his marriage. Elder Thorne arranged a prestigious union with Eva, the most beautiful maiden in Riverton. She possessed hair like cascading golden wheat, eyes green as fresh spring leaves, and a smile that could light the darkest feast. Daughter of a lesser farmer, Eva was prized for her graceful dances during harvest festivals honoring the gods.
Aron fell in love the moment he saw her twirling under torchlight, skirts swirling like golden waves. After the sacred marriage ceremony, where elders chanted long hymns begging the gods to bless their union with passion and fertility, Aron took her hands and whispered with sincere fire; "I love you with all my heart and soul, Eva. A love that needs no base flames to burn eternal."
Eva blushed, her cheeks glowing like ripe fruit. "And I love you, Aron… forever."
Their home was a modest yet cozy mud-brick hut beside the waving fields, furnished with woven reed mats and carefully crafted clay pots. Aron cherished her deeply. He brought her wildflowers from the riverbank, shared quiet stories by the evening fire, and held her hand beneath the star-filled sky while they prayed together. He thanked the gods daily for this pure, soul-deep connection.
But he refused to cross into physical union.
Memories of his mother's suffering, combined with the faint echo of his immortal vow, held him back like invisible chains. Every night he would kiss Eva's forehead tenderly, whisper words of devotion, then turn away, leaving her lying beside him in confused, aching silence.