Father would often disappear for long bouts of time. This is why I was so excited to join him for his training. It may have helped me figure out what exactly he done, and more generally what happened in this world outside the hut me and mother shared.

Father took several cautionary measures when we left our home. I heard the bustle of people and saw several huts and shelters to our north, where I imagined the people of their village lived, we skirted our household and went south. He carried me, not letting me walk at all, even when I cried. Lastly, and most worryingly, he muffled my screams, something he never allowed mother to even do to me.

So far, I found out the village was on a mountain forest. We hiked down to a nestle with high trees and the crashing flow of water nearby. As soon as we arrived Father smiled to himself, he was either proud of finding the area or fondly familiar with.

“Isn’t it lovely, son.”

"yaes." I babbled, my voice muscles still not trained enough to speak their language clearly.

When I talked I wouldn’t talk in full sentences yet. I tried that once with mother and she had looked more worried than proud. I’d use as few words as needed to convey what I wanted, whether a one year old should be able to say those words didn’t seem to matter to mother and father.

Father was, in the nicest way possible, a show off. Even though I was barely one he still saw it fit to showcase his flashier moves. He performed a series of tehm. Although flamboyant, his skill was undeniable, he would weave his sword, making it whip and curl and move and dance like it had no body, trying to convince you it could be anywhere at any time.

Father knew me as restless, he came prepared for that though. He made me a small, light wooden sword for me to play with as he trained.

“It’s probably a bit too heavy for you, Alo.” Father laughed. Father took to laughter easy, often warming the house with it.

He begun to resume a stance, readying to train some more.

I reached for the wooden sword curious. That was something new for me. Ever since I entered this world, I had become aggressively curious.

I had gained a lot of odd behaviours since becoming a child again. My theory was they were innate to children. The most noteworthy were my proclivity to extreme emotional reactions: I would yell if I was annoyed, I would cry if I was somewhat sad, I would sleep as soon as I was tired.

But even more amazing was my proclivity to interest. Everything was interesting. Things only got boring when I explored them to their end.

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I had always thought babies were just bored when they demanded to play with everything they could touch, they hadn’t developed skills and hobbies, all they could do was suck toys and complain about it. But that wasn’t it at all. Their brains were in such a state they could improve their thinking. I had this constant need to get new information and compare it with everything I had ever known before. For a baby this would be trivial- them knowing so little. But my mind wasn’t so young.

I’d realise I would get new perspectives on things as simple as rain; the machinic clamour of it on skin. The way the ground softly rumbled with my steps was musical, the shuffling of air in breath jarring. I would find myself meditating over everything, falling through slots of thinking until I reached quasi-truths. These quasi-truths always seemed to involve motion too.

I wasn’t a philosopher, I felt more like an artist trying to see the right word, or feel the right notes. These descents of thinking would make me feel I knew, in the truest sense of the word, whatever I pondered better.

The sword felt fine in my hand. I had never held a weapon before. Father had made the handle too wide for my palm and the wood had been smoothed so much the sword ransomed slipping out of my fingers.

I started playing in my mind fathers moves. I realised my child mind found it hard to hold so many things at once. The sequence of his steps was too complex to remember all at once. I decided to focus on the move that stuck out to me the most. It was not the most powerful, I had little interest in that.

Power was a competition, and I knew too much of that from trying to match Harry. Before I never got to appreciate the flowers, I’d almost perfectly bouquet my roses, but I was too busy looking at how perfectly arranged Harry’s were to enjoy them. Comparison is the thief of joy they say,  I experienced so many things before but never really enjoyed any of. I would live this life better, I would make sure to enjoy it fully and for now that meant fully appreciating what it meant to have parents that loved you.

I lifted my sword high above my head and done the twirling forward jab of father's. The movement felt familiar, borrowing some of the grace of ballet and rigour of capoeira. But there was something extra to it. It felt almost like there was another dimension to the move. Like the ignorance you felt as a beginner, but much more corporeal.

I was staring down at the sword deep in thought and father had been watching me intently. I looked to him but he kept a peculiar gaze on me.

Countless thoughts must have passed through his mind and I would have liked to have known any one of them.

“Do it again son.”

I felt no desire to, but father seemed serious, and although I saw no point in it, I listened. And I done it again, and again, and again.

Father made me repeat the movement, over and over. My arms grew tired and my palms swelled red. Every time I looked back to him, he looked to him, It was like he was waiting for a dragon egg to crack or a powerful sword to set. I was worried but it still felt like bonding. Father’s attention on me made the pain in my legs less.

I kept going, the more I done it, the less corporeal my ignorance felt. I felt like I was beginning to know the move. Like I was filling a hole with experience. I noticed after fifty hits there was more like an art to it. I became curious for the movement.

I saw father rush to me before I realised what happened. My muscles caved at the 52nd attempt. I collapsed.