Grandpa sat, seemingly stunned by my unexpected outburst.

Oops.

Okay I maybe could have been a little more diplomatic in how I phrased that. It was entirely possible that being a Watcher was something of a family tradition. While tradition wasn't a great reason to carry something on without reservation, it was also important to at least not turn your nose up at.

People tended to get irate when their deeply held beliefs were dismissed out of hand.

“Excuse me?” Grandfather replied sternly with a heavy frown. “Young man, being a Watcher is a sacred responsib-”

“Right! But they also learn loads of useless junk that I don't-” I interrupted, not letting him build up steam. Okay, I'd miss-stepped right out of the gate and now needed to explain myself clearly. Just needed to get a word in-

“YOUNG MAN! You will-”

“OLD MAN! You ain't-”

“CHILD, WATCH YOUR-”

“FOGEY, NO, YOU WATCH YOU-”

We talked over each other, progressively getting louder and more outraged. Geezer, I'm trying to talk here. Stop interrupting me! Honestly, some people can be so rude. What was society coming too?

Father just kept chuckling louder and louder before he broke into outright laughter, his body erupting into great quakes. Tears of mirth fell from his eyes and he removed his glasses to wipe away at the tracks, his mouth twisted in a smile.

“Is something funny? Does the uncouth nature of your own child amuse you-” The stubborn old goat cut himself off from responding to my reasonable interjections to address his progeny, unamused.

Right there with you.

“Dad are you cracked?” I shouted over him, seeing my own Dad taking enjoyment out of this was beyond ridiculous. Why did we come here if this was the welcome we got? It turned out my father's father was a man-child who'd never learnt his manners. How did dad turn out so... stodgy?!

Grandma truly must have been an angel.

We just glared at Dad as he looked at us, breaking out into even greater heaps of laughter, his entire body shaking as he covered his mouth, both hands on rubbing his face.

What the hell is that about?

“We don't speak for five years, and this is how you act? I can see that not even accepting your duties and the trials of fatherhood can completely shake the rot out of your behaviour.” Grandpa stated, shaking his head in disappointment.

Oi.

“You're so rude, bitch!” I turned on him in outrage. “Dad's great, how can you say that to him? To your own child?”

I shook my head in disgust.

Our eyes met and I glared at the disrespectful old fart, receiving the same in response.

Dad laughed harder.

The next few minutes were incredibly awkward, the air tense and unfriendly. Dad eventually managed to pull himself from the pit of insanity that had consumed him and strangely enough began to play peacemaker.

Whatever issues he had with the old bastard- and I could definitely see who's fault those where!- were apparently lesser to ensuring that this meeting between grandparent and grandchild continued on, on at least not entirely hostile terms.

Still.

Rupert Giles was a great father. I'd had several children of my own in my past life and I'd tried. I know I had tried to be the best father I could be.

I was pretty sure Rupert had me beat by a country mile. Work-Life balances were terribly complicated things to maintain, draining away at you despite having the best of intentions, time working to chip away each spare moment over long years.

A surge of longing filled my chest at memories of-

No.

I clamped down on those terrifying thoughts with an iron willed determination. Nothing good could come from dwelling on my past life and all I'd left behind. What was lost was lost and had been for many years. There was no possibility of regaining those brilliant things that made a life worth living, not in this life.

Why remain locked onto distant memories of what can never be again and torture myself endlessly?

It was pointless. Move on and look back as fondly as possible, at appropriate times.

“Perhaps Will, you can explain to your grandfather why you don't want to be a Watcher?” Dad spoke gently as the air filled with an uneasy silence, leading the conversation into known directions.

We'd had this conversation between us, several times, as details of what being a Watcher truly meant had been revealed.

“Sure.” I grumbled, munching on a bland biscuit and washing it down with some cooling tea. Annoyingly the flavours mixed and became pretty great, complimenting each other perfectly. “So... I want to be a warlock. Like, an actual full time warlock who can create magic items! Which... Dad said that Watchers spend most of their time in the field or doing research for people who need information right away, or else reading up on boring stuff.”

It turns out that one of a Watchers main duties is to know as much about everything that they possibly could. It wasn't just enough to know- they had to understand what they didn't know. When something unique or completely outside of what a Watcher knew appeared, they had to know enough to find someone who DID understand.

Dad said years of schooling was required just to construct a framework for how this worked in practice. How to identify anything, a piece of magic, an artefact of great power but unknown providence, when you'd never even seen or heard of it before.

Watchers were in effect, the ultimate masters of shallow but wide learning. A good watcher could speak and read a dozen languages and could identify a hundred more from just a glance. They could summon up identifying information from thousands of spells, even if they couldn't actually cast the magic themselves.

All this and more was the barest of scholastic knowledge that was required. Theoretical knowledge of multiple combat styles, armed and unarmed. In depth cultural and biological understanding of hundreds if not thousands of distinct demonic species.

Whatever the multitude of demonic incursions that stepped onto Earth produced, a Watcher was expected to understand it at a glance, and if not, they were bestowed with the skills and training to find that oh so precious understanding as soon as possible.

If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

Watchers where scholars of such breadth it was astonishing and I wanted no part of it, thank you very much. It sounded like absolute hell. A purgatory of miscellaneous facts, the worst habits of bored internet users codified into an actual profession with nightmarish expectations.

I liked a good book as much as the next guy but Dad had shown me his current office and let me peek at the titles. 'Syntax of the Ulivator Demon genus and their Prophetic Underpinning' did not a good read make, in my not so humble opinion. Pardon my French, but the slightly magical language of a demonic species that hadn't been seen in three hundred years was boring as fuck.

“So, you want to be an alchemist?” Grandfather asked, leaning back and frowning in slight disappointment.

I scoffed. “No! I want to make magic, proper magic. Not yucky potions and stuff.”

Dad coughed delicately, looking amused. “'Alchemist' is what the council calls it's magical staff that focuses on creating objects of magical significance.”

“That's stupid.” I tell him seriously. Why would you do that? There was a clear difference between a badass magic staff that shot lightning and a foul smelling tincture that was gone in a single use.

Don't get me wrong, magic potions sounded cool and I was excited to learn how to make them... but I'd much rather learn how to make a magical bracelet or something that had the same effect but lasted for ages and multiple uses.

The time and resource investment that went into potions, even just in my imagination, offended me on a deep and personal level.

Time was a precious, precious thing. It should be spent on works that last, not vanish into the ether.

“Alchemists are magical practitioners who consume vast quantity of magical reagents.” Grandfather responded with a aggrieved sigh. “The particular output of their labours doesn't matter as much as the sheer resource requirement the alchemists require to remain useful. Expensive boon-dongles is what they are.”

“Father, must you?” Dad said, glancing at me briefly.

“You'd be changing your tune if you saw the quarterly expense reports.” Grandfather snorts, shaking his head in dismay. “If you truly know how much of the Council's budget was spend keeping that department running...”

“Hehe.” I couldn't resist chuckling. “People don't like spending lots of money unless they need too.”

“That they don't.” Dad agreed with a proud little smile in my direction.

“Maybe.” Grandfather agreed after a moment before letting out a loud sigh. “So, he's set on this then? Or is he one of those children who changes their aspirations every week after seeing some inane thing on the telly?”

“He can speak for himself.” I mumbled around a mouthful of biscuit. Shame the tea's gone cold...

Oh, magical teacups to always keep your beverage warm! Instant best seller, I'm sure. I should writer that down...

Dad smiled indulgently, resting a large hand on my head and ruffling my hair, completely messing it up.

Rude.

I leaned into his hand anyway.

“William is rather stubborn, in fact.” Dad informed his father with a somewhat bemused expression. “I've never known him to change his mind on... anything, really. Not without discussing it with me first, at least. The conversations can be... rather pride inducing, given his age.”

That's because I'm older than you, old man.

“So the rumours I've been hearing?”

“Completely true.”

Silence descended as they shared a long, tense look. They seemed to be talking without a word, eyes unwavering.

Grandfather looked away first. “Alright then. We'd better get started.”

If you'd asked me what the preparatory phase for learning magic in a safe manner is, I'd have guessed wrong. Then I'd have been mad at myself for being such a smooth-brain.

It was language. Specifically, lots of really old and almost forgotten languages because of course things can never be easy. Why is so much of the known magical lore locked behind ancient tomes and dodgy translations?

Because magic can easily backfire, resulting in death or mutilation. Or, according to dark looks shared between Dad and Grandfather, worse. Experimentation then, is the realm of the truly skilled, the truly stupid or the truly desperate. As such, new magical learnings were released into the general community at a glacial pace.

And that was how I spent my seventh and eighth years in this new life, bouncing between the house I shared with Dad and my Grandfather Nigel's home. My furious pace of home-schooling, wherein I pretended to study but mostly used the time as I refresher to half forgotten minutia was soon accompanied with language lessons.

A lot of language lessons.

It's true that I'd always been rather ahead academically, but I'd never once in my old life ever been mistaken for a genius. Here, I was (incorrectly) recognised as being significantly gifted. As such, the workload provided by my family was suitably horrific if presented to any normal child.

Needless to say I struggled heavily, to the bemusement of my family.

Dad had taken these days when I grinded away furiously at his father's estate to begin taking longer missions for the Watchers Council. The adults had talked around it and declined to go deep into detail, but between their private and hushed conversations... it wasn't without danger.

It was oh so tempting to ditch this truly unwavering deluge of work, maybe beg off some of the work to a later date. However, the shining promise of actual magic lay at the end of this road. The power to warp reality, the literal force of imagination so many children dreams about. An impossible fantasy of my previous life, found only in books and films.

Real.

Attainable.

The unreal was about to become my reality if I just pushed that little bit further.

Much to my shock, the scheduled and mandatory exercise activities planned by first my father and then grandfather became an actual lifeline. A period to leave the eternally dusty old office that became my study and just... live.

I think I began to cling to the football games and random other sporting events with an almost unhealthy attachment. There was nothing quite like spending most of the day cooped up in the musty and brain frying conditions I subjected myself too and then... running free, working my body to the bone so it was just as melted as my brain.

It was around this time that I began to notice magical texts, often bearing titles like 'Magic made Easy: an introductory guide' laying around seemingly randomly. When I went for a snack, the books would be placed innocently... nearby.

Constantly.

I cannot describe the sheer amount of 'want' that coursed through me at the sight of them, but I also wasn't a complete moron. Books, especially such basic works, don't just magically- huh- wander around by themselves. Neither Dad or Grandfather were likely to be reading such fundamental texts.

As tests go it was rather basic although perhaps understandable. Tell a child there's something they cannot yet have that they desperately want, then place it in front of them with nobody else around. Is there a more basic test of character?

It was simple and illuminating.

Naturally I ignored them after a glance, making a conscious decision to stay away from the thick tomes.

After several months the books stopped appearing and nobody else said a word on the matter.

I was now nine and it was the year of our lord 1989. I'd badgered the oldest man to take me to the see the newest Indy flick as a reward for outstanding brilliance. Well, I called it that, Gramps said it was to stop my infernal hounding.

I don't know what he was talking about honestly, I was the perfect picture of a dutiful and dignified young man.

No, I didn't egg his overly dogmatic neighbour who'd made a crack after my father visited with Olivia. Could have been anyone.

The 80's where a different world it felt like. To tell the truth I'd not been entirely comfortable with the state of things in my old life, but neither was I truly at ease here. It felt like I fit somewhere comfortably in the middle.

Was everyone truly a product of their own time, the formative years having such a strong hold on your mind well into adulthood? How would that effect me, who had now experienced two childhoods where the brain-meat was nice and malleable, who'd experienced a childhoods separated by a decade and change?

I was a scary thought, one I decided to ignore.

I couldn't change my circumstances.

I could only adapt to the new world I'd found myself in. In my previous existence religion has always been something that happened to someone else. I'd been aware and quietly respectful of other peoples various faiths but it had never quite clicked for me. I'd kept my thoughts to myself.

In this new world, where minor gods were apparently real, where actual faith could extend through religious icons to have a tangible effect on the world?

My previous position had faced some rather profound challenges- blatant evidence, even if the precise and truthful state of things was somewhat obscured- and some theological adjustments to my life had to be made.

Namely, they now played a small but still noticeable part where previously they had not.

Modern problems required ancient solutions it seemed.

This year was shaping up to be actual hell though and may even necessitate dropping some obligations. I planned on blasting through two years of college and gaining access to university next year.

It was rather ambitious and to achieve it I'd have to fire on all cylinders.

But then...

Everything I'd wanted since learning the truth of this new world would be within my grasp.

Was it somewhat ironic that I was working to hard to rapidly gain admission into a university I held little actual interest in?

Yes.

Did my Dad insist that I actually attend and gain at least a bachelor's? Yes he did. Did my Grandfather insist that I immediately follow it up with a Master's? Yes he did.

My own thoughts?

Holy hells I wanted to take a break and just study magic!

I didn't think I would get what I wanted.

Besides, both of them only had my best interests at heart and spent literal years crafting a flexible and sensible guide for learning the magical arts. I wasn't allowed to see it yet, but over the years a locked room had been slowly filling up with new and rather thick tomes dedicated to specific branches of magic.

My new family was truly the best, even the hoary old goat.

“Aren't you a little old to be watching this film?” Grandpa grumbled, shovelling a mouthful of popcorn as the cinema thundered with an early 90's opening, which resembled something akin to the death screech of a dying cat.

“Nope. Turtles are cool. This is a certified hood classic.” I informed him, lying through my teeth. Listen, I needed a break. At this point I'd accept even this torture as blissful change in daily routine.

Didn't hurt that I made the old man endure this movie either!

“What in the name of good taste are you blathering on about?” Was the immediate reply, disgust colouring his every word.

“This film is going to be remembered for a generation, mark my words. Two at least!” I insisted, using a handful of popcorn to hide the malicious smile.

Salted popcorn of course- I wasn't a savage!

The argument of what sweets to get had taken half an hour and a staff member coming over to have a quiet word to settle. I had my salt, the old goat had his sweet.

Truly, some basic foundations of civilisation were wildly incompatible with the others.

Twenty minutes later I swapped the boxes when the old man was reluctantly getting drawn into the shitty movie.

His spluttering was truly music to my ears.

Movie nights with the Grandpa were always a good time.