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  Summer 10 years after

  After my morning chores, I sit at the kitchen counter looking into my mug of coffee.

  This is the perfect time.

  I press my lips together into a line as I look into my reflection in the dark black brew. My face should look younger, they said that everyone who returned from that place looks like they all aged a decade in a month. My wife still thinks I look young, if her overwhelmingly positive opinion of me is to be trusted.

  He’s only eight.

  The thought sobers me up remembering the days in my youth with my own father. I was also eight when he started bringing me to work, heading me around like a prized animal. When I showed talent with the sword it just got worse. “Here is my heir, the jewel of my crown!” he would say when he paraded me around.

  I bite my lip, fingers tapping while I think of an answer, I need him to be strong still, but without the pain of missing childhood. Squeezing my hands together, I understand what I must do even if it isn’t ideal.

  Making my way to my son’s room, I crept open the door to find him softly asleep. He looks more like an angel than a boy, so at peace like this.

  I nudge his shoulder hesitantly, gently prodding him. He swats my hand away, stirring ever so slightly before turning over. Again I prod him, poking him in his upper back. Groggily, he turns to face me, eyes fluttering as he registers my face.

  “It’s time I teach you how to swing a sword.”

  It’s like those words are some kind of magic key in his brain, his eyes crack wide open and an over-eager grin blooms on his face. He jumps down from his bed and starts to speak.

  “Really? I can be just like you? Strong enough to do anything?” he says, speaking way too quickly.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The only response I can muster is to nod placatingly. I have a sword in my room for you, it might be a little heavy but you’ll grow into it.

  After a short amount of jammering, I follow my son into my room where he waits with his arms behind his back, the picture of restrained eagerness.

  Stepping into the room I smile at him as he stands in front of the small armory I have on my wall.It is rather spartan with it consisting of only three swords. First is a short wooden sword, a small craft I made in my free time. It’s still a little longer than the ideal size for my son to carry, but not too much bigger that he couldn’t overcome the difference. The only other swords are a three foot simple steel arming sword and a replica of the arming sword made out of wood.

  Leading him outside with the wooden arming sword in my belt beside The nightcaller I reprimand him to not swing the sword around in the house as we make it to the door. Before we make it, my son asks me, “why don’t you use the sword you already have?”

  I parse out a simple but vague answer, “ The sword on my hip is very dangerous, too sharp for what we’re doing, wood is just fine.”

  My son doesn't even bother to wear shoes, knowing we are only on the grass outside of the house, he stands in the tunic he was just sleeping while the wind blows it ever so gently. We make our way to the clearing of yellowish worn out grass, grass that has been damaged due to long hours dancing in the dark.

  “The key to being a good swordsman is balance and adaptation. You must be flexible and able to respond in any way the battle calls for. Show me a wide stance and hold your blade out in a guard.”

  My words stir the boy into motion, his feet planing wide from each other but directly horizontal from one another. After a quick correction telling him to bring one foot forward and one back, he presents me with a sloppy but workable stance.

  “Good, as your first exercise, I want to see you jump as high as you can until you can’t jump anymore. Stay in the stace because that’s how you will be fighting.”

  He squats to leap into the air, eying me with a raised eyebrow after doing the motion, an unsaid ‘How is this sword fighting’ is said.

  Inhaling before I explain, I say, “This is the basics of the Highlander style, what I used before I had the strength and dexterity to whip a blade around really fast. By the time you learn how to fight like this, you’ll be as strong as a mountain goat.”

  The words placate him, that is before the twenty eighth leap where he puts his hands on his knees to pant.

  “Take your break, I know it’s hard to jump around like that. After you catch your breath we will see how much of your play fighting you can use as real sword fighting.”

  (It wasn’t much)