Ripple In Time - Chapter 9 Man On Fire

My father’s idea of “play” was a sparring match with wooden swords. He had led me to the second floor gallery, where the large open space would allow for us to move freely. Then he had tossed me the wooden sword and told me to prepare myself.

Now, I’ll be honest with you. I have no reservations about claiming to be the greatest mage in existence. It’s a fact. But what is also a fact is that I am by far the worst swordsman in existence. I have absolutely no talent in swordsmanship, nor have I ever had a desire to learn. After all, with an unlimited number of spells at my disposal, why on earth would I dirty my hands swinging around what was basically a fancy stick.

Still, I do not refuse the opportunity. If I can knock my father down a peg or two, it will go a long way towards quelling the roiling hatred in my heart. And so I lift the wooden sword with both hands, and take what I think is the proper stance. My footing is awkward however, and the sword is much too big for me, leaving me definitively off balance.

My father sees this as well, and he quickly lunges towards me, throwing a sideways slash in my direction. His sword moves across his chest, left to right, aiming for my exposed right flank. I see the strike coming and turn my body sideways in an attempt to avoid the blow. To my great surprise however, the wooden sword hits me anyways, right in the upper arm.

A loud smack! echoes through the gallery as the wooden sword makes contact. Its force, combined with my already turning motion, causes me to spin three sixty. I trip and fall face first to the floor. My wooden sword flies out of my hands, clattering against the wall some few feet away. As I try to picture the moment of impact, try to figure out how the sword had managed to reach me, I hear a laugh coming out from behind.

I struggle to my feet and see my father, hand on his face, laughing maniacally. He’s muttering to himself. “I’m the strongest. That’s right. Everyone’s just ganging up on me. They’re out to get me. But that’s just because they’re afraid. That look in their eyes. It’s fear. They’re afraid because I’m a von Steiner. Because I have glorious, noble blood running through my veins. That’s right. That’s the only explanation for the state of things. They’re all conspiring against me. That’s right. That’s right.”

My father stops mumbling and looks my way. He notices that I’ve stood up again, and he licks his lips, as one might before a delicious meal. Then he raises his dominant hand and twirls the sword to and fro. The motion is mesmerizing, and I’m suddenly reminded of my past childhood, of the days I had spent watching my father practice. It had been so long ago that I had forgotten how skilled he could be with a blade. Even in his current drunken stupor, he’s dangerous.

My father gestures for me to fetch my wooden sword, and I do so. Then I barely have time to set up a proper stance before he comes charging at me once more. His attacks are relentless and fly at me from every direction. I move my sword amateurishly, trying to parry his strikes. But even the ones I think I manage to block somehow make it through my defenses.

Blow after blow hits me, and I’m quickly covered in welts. All the while, my father is shouting at me. “Is this all?! Is this all you can do?!” A jab to the stomach. “You worthless piece of shit!” A smack to the thigh. “You’re a weakling! Just like your whore of a mother!” A blow to the head. “You’re an embarrassment to the von Steiner name! An embarrassment to me! There’s no way you’re my son! I would never give birth to such a worthless sack of shit!”

His final strike hits me with such force that I hear a bone snap. Instantly, the wooden sword drops from my hands, and I crumble to the ground, gripping my left arm in pain. I hear my father’s footsteps. He walks until he’s standing over me. Then I hear him start laughing. “What, are you going to start crying now? Just from that tiny blow. You really are a fucking useless weakling.” He looks down at me in disgust and spits, his saliva landing square on my cheek. Then he turns and begins walking away.

As I lay on the ground in agony, I retreat into myself for a moment. I think,

What am I doing? Just what the hell am I doing right now? Fighting my father with a wooden stick? For what? To beat him up? ‘To knock him down a peg or two’? Why even bother? Why even spend the fucking effort? When was the last time I even saw him, in the alt-past? I left home at thirteen, and I never looked back. I’ve never spoken to him since. So what am I doing right now? Why am I even here?

Suddenly, I start laughing. Not because I realize the answer to my own turmoil of emotions, but because I’ve realized something else. I know now why, even when it felt like I had dodged or parried my father’s strikes, I had still received the force of the blows.

That cheating bastard. He’s using magic.

I had been so blinded by my desire to beat him that I had failed to notice the obvious clusterings of elastic mana. Now that I’m looking for it though, I can see it in the air all around us. Suddenly, I think back to every strike, every swing of the sword, my father has made since the start of our duel. The attacks which would seem impossible, but yet would always find its mark. If I factor in elastic mana, it all makes sense.

He’s cheating. The saddest part of it all however, is that he didn’t even have to. He’s skilled enough that he could have easily won without using magic. And yet he was too afraid of the possibility that he might lose to a five-year-old child. Who’s the real weakling here?

I stand up slowly, my broken arm limp by my side. Then I turn to my father and sigh. “Well, this has all been one big farce.”

My father stops in his tracks and turns around to face me. “What’s that? What did you say? It sounds to me like you haven’t had enough of a beat-down yet.”

As I look into my father’s face, I begin to find that the very sight of him annoys me. But I can fix that. I lift up my good arm and point to him. “Kneel.”

Instantly, my father falls to his hands and knees, held down by the force of my gravitational magic. I take my time to walk over to him and find that he’s trembling, his muscles struggling to keep him from become flat as a pancake. When he sees me approach, he forces his head up and snarls at me. “What the hell is this? What did you do, you little fucker? You’re going to regret-”

Before he can finish, I wave my hand again and his head smashes into the ground, hard. I can see blood pooling around his face from his nose, which is obviously broken. Whoops. But even then, he doesn’t shut up. He keeps going on and on with his empty threats, describing in horrible detail all the torturous acts he’d perform on me once he got free.

I listen for a while, and I’m not sure why, but there is something amusing to me about the whole situation. My father groveling on the ground while I stand over him. But then, the feeling of amusement fades, the situation grows old, and I become bored. It’s time to take my leave.

With a snap of my fingers, I release the spell holding my father in place. He collapses to the ground in exhaustion, and I stare at him for a moment with an expression of pity. Then I make my way towards the stairs leading down to the entrance. As I walk away, I let out a wave with my good hand, without turning around. “Don’t worry. I won’t be coming back here anymore. You can keep your little kingdom on the hill.”

Suddenly, I hear a yell coming from behind me, and I glance back to see my father making a wild dash in my direction. In his hand is no longer the wooden sword, but a real, steel dagger. “I’ll kill you right now, you little cunt! I’ll slice your throat right open!”

I sigh, wanting nothing further to do with the man. “Far Flame.” Then I turn back calmly and continue to make my way towards the exit. Behind, I hear my father screaming in agony, the sound of a man on fire.