The day arrived. Loris, a man of firm demeanor stood in the manicured garden behind their home, his left hand clasped behind his back. Before him, a small-barely three year old-faced him, holding a wooden sword. Another rested in Loris's hand ready to begin the boy's first lesson.
"Rooooaaaarr," Seth roared charging forward. As he neared Loris his small feet planted hard in the grass and with all his might, he swung his wooden sword upward.
With a casual twist of his wrist Loris deflected the blow. Seth not breaking the momentum brought the sword down in a quick arc toward Loris's legs. But before the strike could land, Loris delivered a swift straight strike. The wooden blade connected squarely with Seth's chest flinging the boy through the air and knocking him unconscious.
A cry tore through Flora's throat. She rushed to Seth's side scooping his limp body from the grass. In her arms,he felt too small too fragile. Her fingers brushed against his cheek, and her heart sank. Beneath his eyes were bruises, fresh and sickeningly dark against his pale skin.
"Loris," Flora's voice was sharp, a whip-crack in the afternoon air. "What are you doing? He's only a child! Can't you go easy on him?"
"Huh. It's fine. He should be able to handle that." Loris said his voice a little too quick, a little too defensive. But as he looked at his son's small, still form in Flora's arms, a flicker of doubt crossed his face. His brow furrowed.
Peehaps, I should have been easier on him. He's just a child, after all. He can't even speak properly.
A sharp intake of breath escaped Seth's lips. His eyes fluttered open finding himself enveloped in his mother's arms. He tapped her hand gently, a silent request for space. As if understanding Flora loosened her grip and Seth slid to the ground, collapsing into the grass. He took a few deep, gasping breaths his small chest heaving from the day's strain.
But the moment his breath returned, he was back on his feet, his wooden sword raised, ready for the next round.
Loris watched, a flicker of appreciation warming his stern face. His son's bravery and persistence was undeniable.
"That's enough for today, Seth. We have been at this for hours." Loris knelt bringing himself to his son's level and locking eyes with him.
For a moment the world fell away. Loris saw not just a boy but an intense, ancient agony in his eyes, a frustration that was far too deep for a child. He felt as if a silent conversation passed between them a shared understanding without a single word being spoken. He was looking at his son but a separate part of him was communicating with something much older.
He shook the feeling away standing up and placing a hand on Seth's shoulder. Seth flinched,a small involuntary reaction but he didn't pull away. After all these years he was used to his parents touch.
"Seth," Loris said softly, his gaze fixed on his son's." We still have a lot of time. You don't have to rush things. We have seven years until the ACADEMY entrance. I know you can reach level three in swordsmanship. It won't be easy. It will be hard but you don't have to push yourself this far."
The words felt strange as he said them as if they were not his own. The moment Seth lifted his gaze from the ground to meet his, a flood of emotion washed over Loris. It was a wave of sadness so deep it took his breath away, a pain that was not his but felt entirely real. He felt memories that weren't his, a lifetime of loss and displacement. He felt the cold shock of finding a home, only to have it rippled away by humans. He felt the crushing sorrow of seeing his own people, the dragons, dead bodies scattered across the clan. This was not a vision he saw, but a grief he experienced, a searing memory of revenge that had consumed another soul.
The sound of aproaching footsteps snapped him from his daze. and the feeling vanished as quickly as it had come. He turned to leave his last words hanging in the air. " We love you, Seth. Your mother and I are here with you."
Loris walked away leaving Seth standing there, dazed and lost in thought. Seth's mind was a whirlwind of questions. What did his father mean by 'rushing things?' . What did he mean by " I'm not alone?" He thought about these things as he swung his wooden sword side to side, practicing the basics his father taught him. The wooden blade was a blur in his hands, but his movements were clumsy, his mind elsewhere.
After an hour he sank to his knees, not from exhaustion, but from a sudden, overwhelming memory. He saw himself as a dragon-a time of peace of soaring through the clouds. Then came the humans hunting them one by one. The regret was a crushing weight in his chest: the regret of not letting his people fight back, of always hoping the humans would change. He saw it all: the gradual disappearance of the Elves, the rising fear that his own race would be next. He led his people to a safe haven, a place they could finally live in peace. But when he returned from a journey to the outside world he found a scene of carnage. Dragons collapsed, their blood spilled, a viscious massacre.
"Argghhh," he groaned, pushing himself up, "I don't have permission to rest." he said to himself, each word a punch to a gut." I will have my revenge." He was puffing and huffing, not from physical exertion, but from the raw, overwhelming agony coursing through him. He got to his feet, grabbing his sword and swinging it with a renewed, desperate might. He practiced each basic technique: left, right,dodge. He focused on how to grip the hilt, how to strike at certain times and in certain situations, and how to counter an attack.
Hours bled into a haze of motion. He didn't notice the sun was already gone, the whole day consumed by training fueled by the fire of revenge.
"Where is Seth?" Flora mumbled to herself, preparing the food. Once the table was set Loris came down the stairs, his expression like that of a hungry lion. But his eyes immediately fell on the empty seat.
"Wait, is he still training?" Loris muttered to himself, a flicker of concern on his face. He went to the back door, opening it and stepping out onto the open field. He and Flora could see their son among the trees, a child barely enough to wield a toy sword, now in his knees, huffing and gasping for air, completely drained from his relentless training.
"Seth. Why do you push yourself so hard?" Flora said, her voice soft with worry as she reached out to him.
"Hey, young man." Loris said, his voice softer, a half smile on his lips." Why don't you rest now?"
With a nod, Seth got to his feet and followed them inside.
***********
A few days passed, blending into a predictable rhythm of training. Loris and Seth spent the mornings in the garden, the clang of wooden swords a familiar sound. Loris saw a row and fierce potential in his son's swordsmanship and he began teaching him more advanced movements beyond simple basics.
What Loris didn't know was that for Seth, the training was more than just a lesson-it had become a ritual of exhaustion. Everyday he would push himself until he was completely drained, collapsing onto the grass, the physical pain a dull mirror to his internal grief.
Time passed in this way, each week a cycle. Loris, following the king's orders, would leave to defend the kingdom, returning once a week. Each time he returned, he would teach his son a few new techniques before leaving once more.
Six years passed.
Seth, a young boy of nine, was training on a new field, high on the top of a hill. His chest heaved, a steady rhythm of "huh-huh" and "huf-huf" as he practiced the rhythms his father had taught him. The wooden sword was no longer a toy, but a part of him, an extension of his will.
Suddenly a woman emerged over the crest of the hill. It was his mother, Flora, her face a mask of grief. Her beautiful long black hair was a mess, strandes clinging to her tear-streaked cheeks. Dark deep bags hung under her eyes, a sign of sleeplessness. She wasn't just crying-she was a figure on the verge of collapsing under the weight of her sorrow.
Seth noticed her state immediately, and his sword froze mid-swing. The silence that followed was deafening.
"Seth," she cried, her voice a sharp, broken sound. Then softer," Seth.....your father. He's gone!"
As if a dam had broken, she erupted into a storm of sobs lowering her head as tears flowed freely wetting the grass beneath her.
*****
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