Chapter Fifty-Three

A fist met Ambrose’s jaw with the force of a hammer blow on an anvil. Ten-year-old Ambrose Severen was sent spinning away as the muscles of his face screamed in aching agony. His vision blurred, throbbing red light and tears blotching out anything else.

Ambrose rolled as he knew the kick to his side would be coming. He bounded upward, shaking his head, trying to clear his eyes. Pay attention. Know your surroundings. Embrace the pain. His father would not show him mercy; Ambrose had learned it long ago.

Raylen Severen had nothing in his eyes for his only son. No love, no pride, no remorse. Just ice. Unrelenting, unforgiving, coldness. His eleven-year-old body was lighter and faster than his father's. He couldn’t block any of his Dad’s blows but could dodge them. Or, at least, he could try.

He ducked, moved, and slithered around blows his father rained down on him in a torrential pouring of physical prowess. Raylen was never mad at his son; he never struck out in fury and in a way that made it worse. But if Ambrose wanted to eat, he needed to put up a good showing.

Forever and a half later, they were done. Ambrose’s whole body quivered like an overtightened guitar string. He refused to collapse to the ground because Raylen would punish his weakness if he did. Raylen regarded him, arms crossed.

“You didn’t move quick enough to dodge my initial blow that earned you the fist to the face, boy. The rest of the fight was…adequate. You can eat tonight and sleep in your bed. Dismissed.”

Ambrose walked, stiff as a board, to his room.

Where he collapsed into his bed, groaning.

“You had no love in your childhood. Just cruelty and violence.”

Vivienne stood next to the present version of Ambrose regarding his groaning, younger self.

Ambrose waved a hand,

“I’m over it. I’m still not sure how this helps train my spirit. What good does it do to dwell on the past?”

Vivienne tapped her chin with a finger, cocking her head.

“Are you perhaps defective?”

Ambrose glared at her,

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I have already explained it to you, dear Knight. I understand that human understanding is limited, but I believe I did not use big words.”

Ambrose growled,

“I understand the words, but telling me that I have to ‘know myself’ isn’t exactly an explanation.”

Ambrose gestured at his younger self.

“You think I don’t know my childhood was shit? Of course, I know. I know everything that happened to me.”

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Vivienne stared at him.

“Then tell me why you didn’t stop it.”

Ambrose’s brow furrowed, mouth frowning,

“What do you mean?”

Vivienne spoke slowly as if trying to understand the words,

“The Tree informs me of your culture, of your world. While I struggle to grasp much of it, I know human law enforcement is within your world. Organizations also exist to assist children such as you. Why not tell anyone else?”

Ambrose stared at her. His face had gone slack.

Vivienne gave him a knowing smile,

“You see, knowing your spirit isn’t just knowing your past. It's understanding how your past shaped you and how those experiences informed your choices. Accepting the pain that forged you into the person you are now.”

Why hadn’t I told anyone? Ambrose raked fingers through his beard. He had more than enough opportunities at school and other places. When he had gotten older and grown into his strength, he could have killed his father if he had wanted to, while he slept, if nothing else.

Except he hadn’t.

The room folded in on itself, unfolding into a different memory.

Ambrose was eighteen years old. His father was on his deathbed, hooked up to beeping machines. Ambrose’s face was a neutral mask as he stared at his sickly father. Raylen’s skin was devoid of color, pale and slick with moisture.

Raylen coughed, the sound of it rough and wet.

“No need to stare, boy. I know you don’t care that I’m dying.”

Ambrose said nothing.

Raylen directed his eyes to the ceiling.

“I always knew the price of my actions, boy. Hatred, scorn, for me. I paid for it. Gladly. Now, at least, you have a chance.”

“A chance for what, father?”

Raylen’s eyes rolled to him,

“For survival, son.”

“You never found out what he meant by these words, did you.” Not a question from Vivienne.

Ambrose shook his head.

“I didn’t, no.”

“Mmm. Tell me, Knight, did you ever know your mother?”

Ambrose arched a brow at her.

“No. Raylen said she died giving birth to me. It’s part of why I always thought he hated me.”

Vivienne’s eyes glittered,

“I think not.”

Ambrose whirled towards her; hands balled into fists.

“What do you know?”

Vivienne held up a hand,

“Peace, Knight. Let us return to that night and review it together.”

Once more, the memory folded, twisting, and unfolded to reveal a nighttime scene. The moon, luminous and full, hung in the sky, its light highlighting a house. The house was older, painted white and yellow. A small picket fence lined the yard.

Ambrose found himself walking with Vivienne into the house. A conversation could be heard from a room down the hall. Ambrose didn’t recognize anything he saw.

“You’re leaving?”

“I must.”

“Why? Why not stay? We need you.”

Ambrose and Vivienne stood in the doorway, looking into a nursery. An infant lay sleeping in a wide, polished wooden crib. A distinctly female form was in a far corner of the room, shrouded in pitch-black shadow, while a much younger Raylen could be clearly seen in the light of the moon that flooded through the windows.

Vivienne frowned, eyes boring into the shadows surrounding the woman.

“I know you do. But if I stay, it will be worse. He’ll find me. If he does, you two will be in greater danger than your need for me.”

Raylen’s eyes flicked to the infant Ambrose in his crib. His eyes became haunted,

“Where will you go?”

“Nowhere in this universe. I thought I could hide here and start anew. I thought it would be several lifetimes before the System finally integrated this world. I was wrong. Prepare him, Raylen.”

Raylen looked away, his throat bobbing up and down.

“He’ll despise me.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know if I can do it.”

“You have to, dear heart. I wouldn’t ask this of you if it wasn’t necessary.”

Raylen gestured, the motion revealing his helplessness.

“Can’t you help him somehow?”

The shadow shook her head,

“No. He’s not old enough for that.”

Raylen ran a hand through his hair, shoulders slumped.

“It is nearly time. Promise me, Raylen. Promise you will prepare him.”

Raylen closed his eyes, swallowing, nails digging into his palms.

“Lord above, help me. I will. I’ll train him. I’ll pull no punches, either.”

The shadow nodded, compassion thick in her voice,

“Thank you. You’re a good man, Raylen Severen.”

Raylen looked away,

“After what I put that boy through? I’ll be a broken one.”

The memory folded away, returning Ambrose and Vivienne to a room beneath the tree, where the roots were thickest.

“My Mother is alive,” Ambrose whispered.