(Fight this guy? Has he seen the size of his own hand?)
His father stood there in silence, arms crossed, as though he approved of this fight, making no move to defend his son. Alexander didn’t really understand what was happening, only that he stood frozen where he was, cold sweat breaking out despite the morning chill, while the golden-haired man approached slowly, winding up to throw a punch.
Alexander backed away two steps, gravel crunching softly beneath his feet, silently begging his father to put a stop to this farce with his magic.
"What’s wrong with you, boy? Turned into a coward now?"
Alexander was about to respond to the golden-haired man’s taunt, but instead found a punch flying toward him, cutting the air with a faint whistle. Drawing on his boxing instincts, he ducked and dodged it quickly, then a fast low punch came his way, which he also dodged and stepped back from, his breathing starting to quicken slightly.
Meanwhile the father simply stood there watching without intervening, a faint smile forming on his lips.
"You’ve improved, boy... usually a second punch was all it took to put you on the ground."
At those words, memories flooded back into Alexander’s mind, arriving in fragmented flashes.
This man had sparred with him almost every day, beating him every single time. He never even used magic — his fists alone had always been enough to defeat Alexander, after which he’d simply walk away.
(Alright, he’s terrible at boxing... but I know that fist will end me if it connects.)
Alexander began attempting counterattacks, his leg muscles working from a memory that wasn’t originally his, focusing on the openings this man left after every punch. He noticed in particular that his opponent barely used his left hand, which he figured might be a weakness — or maybe his opponent was simply underestimating him.
The golden-haired man was light on his feet, but slow with his punches. And soon enough he started taking hits from Alexander, the sound of impact echoing through the quiet morning air. Alexander’s punches weren’t powerful, but they were enough to leave a look of genuine surprise on his face.
"Did you just hit me?... You’ve really come along, boy."
Alexander smiled, a light sweat glistening on his brow, even though he knew this man wanted nothing more than to hurt him in those very minutes.
Then he heard William’s voice nearby, excited as a child watching his favorite game:
"Attack, Alexander, this is your chance..."
"Shut it, old man, no coaching allowed."
William stood there smiling. Alexander didn’t really understand that smile, but he began following his father’s advice anyway. He threw a punch toward the stomach, followed by a feint that opened a gap in his opponent’s defense on the left side, then followed with a hooking uppercut from the left, striking the golden-haired man square in the head with a dry crack of impact that sent him stumbling back several steps.
Alexander felt something explode in his chest — something he’d never known before. This wasn’t the first time in his life he’d landed a clean punch — but it was the first time a punch had ever felt like it meant something. No referee shouting his loss, no faces of bettors cursing him from the crowd, no permanent feeling that he was standing in the wrong ring, in a body that didn’t deserve to win.
This time, the pain belonged to the other man.
(This feeling... is this what real winners feel like? My whole life I’ve been on the receiving end, and now I’m the one landing the blow. I want more of this. I want to feel this again and again.)
The feeling receded quickly, replaced by a sudden self-conscious embarrassment — he hadn’t known he carried a hunger like this inside him, quiet and ravenous at once — but it lingered there still, like a small ember beneath the ash.
The father shouted loudly, joy filling his voice:
"You did it, boy! Did you see that, Rosalyn? Your son finally learned how to fight!"
The golden-haired man clutched his now-bleeding nose, red drops falling onto the dirt, and wiped the blood with the back of his hand, then looked at Alexander and stepped toward him, while Alexander braced himself defensively, his whole body tense.
The man said, a strange, reflective look crossing his face:
"Didn’t see that coming... brother."
(Damn it! Is he my brother?)
"You should have."
"You’re talking now."
William said that with a smile, unmistakable pride in his tone.
"Yeah, I am now... how about my grandson? Where is he?"
Daron, the golden-haired man, laughed loudly enough to fill the whole yard and said:
"Already born. He’s in the city with his mother."
"And why would you leave your son and his mother alone there?"
"The physician told me to leave... and no need to worry, you know Marta’s more dangerous than every man in that city put together."
"Yeah, I’m not worried about Marta. I’m worried about the men."
Laughter burst out between them, echoing off the wooden walls of the house, until even Alexander caught the joke and started laughing along.
Daron went straight to his mother and hugged her tightly, then lifted her into the air amid her laughter and his father’s shouts demanding he put her down.
"What brings you here at this hour, Daron?"
"You’re the one who told me Father and my brother were coming back... I wanted to be here to welcome them."
William replied:
"Well, that’s a thing only a man like you would say, son."
"Because I was raised by a man."
"Then tell me, what did you name him?"
Daron pulled up his pant leg, smiling, and said:
"Snow... figured a name like that suited him once I saw the color of his hair."
"What do you mean?"
"You’ll see him soon enough... he was born with hair as white as snow, almost like Grandfather’s, just like you always used to tell us."
The father’s face lit up at that, his eyes glistening with tears that never fell, and he stood up, saying:
"We need to go back to the city."
"Of course we will... but I’m exhausted right now. Let’s head out this afternoon."
Alexander thought it over and figured this was a chance to explore this whole area and learn more about it, so he wouldn’t end up looking like a clueless fool in this world again.
He noticed, in that moment, that his brother wore a glove on his left hand made from some kind of animal hide, gleaming strangely in the morning light. He guessed it was snakeskin, given how much it shone. He’d eaten plenty of snake back in China, so he had some knowledge of hides and leathers.
Daron raised his right hand and said:
"Illuminate."
A faint glow emanated from his palm, exactly like his father and brother, and a chair slid toward him with a soft wooden scrape, and he sat down.
Alexander noticed this and realized his brother had magic too — and used only one hand for it, unlike himself, who still needed both. Alexander felt a pang of disappointment, realizing that his brother hadn’t even used his real strength during that fight earlier, and that he hadn’t actually won with that punch the way he’d thought.
Alexander stood and looked around, but found no bathing area or even a toilet, so he asked quietly:
"Where can I wash up?"
His brother pointed behind the house and said:
"Go to the barn and wash up there, boy."
Alexander walked out the door, gathered some clothes that looked suitable, and went to bathe. The smell of pig droppings hung everywhere, sharp and pungent, but he did find a place to wash, with water that heated itself automatically the moment it sensed him undressing, and cooled back down automatically afterward.
One of the pigs watched him with eager eyes as he undressed.
Alexander pulled off his shirt, only to notice a bloodstain and a scar on his chest, a dark line cutting across his smooth skin. His hand paused on the scar for a moment, his earlier faint smile slowly fading. As he began to feel around it, those memories came flooding back into his mind again, cold and sharp as iron.
(No, I’m the one dying... no, he’s the one who died. He took an arrow straight to the heart... so I didn’t steal this body after all. I got a corpse.)
Alexander traced the scar slowly with his fingers, then noticed the muscles he now had. Despite being a boy of maybe sixteen, he had the build of a grown man. This boy, it seemed, had trained incredibly hard.
He began washing, the warm water running down his shoulders, trying to wash away the blood that had surrounded him — blood belonging to whoever had occupied this body before him.
Then he stepped out quickly and began dressing hastily, feeling the cold biting at his damp skin.
"Laugh all you want... you’re just food around here."
He walked out of the barn to find his brother lying on the ground outside the house, staring up at the sky with a smile on his face.
Alexander stood over him silently, and Daron, noticing his presence, said:
"Can’t believe I’m a father now... I feel like a completely different person today."
Daron suddenly rose to his knees, grabbed Alexander by the waist, and threw him to the ground laughing, the impact drawing a groan out of him.
"Don’t think you beat me... but that punch of yours was really something."
Alexander felt the strength of the hand gripping him — his right hand specifically, pressing down with a force that felt like it could crush his bones.
Daron said:
"You smell nice... didn’t know you were into bathing."
"Anyway, get up. We’re heading to Scarbi so you can meet your nephew... and maybe I’ll buy you some armor that actually fits you, now that you’ve been out there fighting in real battles."
(A new city, and a brother I still know nothing about. Maybe there’s something more dangerous here than his fists.)
Alexander felt that something about this family still hadn’t been said.