The cold light of a failing sun caught the gleam of steel, a stark, brutal glint against the bruised sky. Two figures, shrouded in shadow and the dust of their conflict, stood poised on a bluff overlooking a ravaged valley. One held a longsword, its edge chipped and worn from a hundred clashes, while the other gripped a heavy, twin-headed axe.
The man with the sword moved first, a blur of motion. He didn't just fight; he danced, each parry and thrust a fluid extension of his will. The air sang with the hiss of metal on metal as he drove his opponent back, a storm of precise, focused strikes. But the man with the axe was a wall, an unyielding force of raw power.
He met every blow with a shuddering crash, his movements less art and more unyielding, primal force. With each thunderous swing, he sought to end the duel with a single, crushing blow, forcing the swordsman to spend his energy on defense.
The battle raged for what felt like an eternity. The earth beneath their feet was scored and broken, a testament to their destructive power. The swordsman, for all his grace, was starting to tire. The relentless power of the axe-wielder was a storm he couldn't outlast.
In a moment of desperation, he feinted a lunge, drawing the axe-wielder's guard to the right, and then pivoted, his sword a flash of light aimed at his opponent's leg. It was a perfect strike, a move that should have ended the fight.
But the axe-wielder was ready. He shifted his stance, his axe-head a brutal counter-weight that knocked the sword away. With a feral roar, he brought the butt-end of his axe down in a swift, brutal strike that shattered the swordsman's kneecap.
A sickening crack echoed across the silent battlefield as the swordsman crumpled to the ground, his leg twisted at an unnatural angle. He tried to rise, but the pain was a fire that consumed him, leaving him immobile and helpless.
The axe-wielder stood over him, breathing heavily. He didn't offer a final, merciful blow. Instead, he simply looked at the defeated man, then turned his back and walked away, leaving him to his fate.
Hours passed. The sun disappeared, and the valley was cloaked in the cold, indifferent darkness of night. The defeated warrior lay there, his sword just out of reach, his body trembling with pain and the bitter sting of defeat.
It wasn't the wound that killed him, not in the end. It was the humiliation, the memory of his foe's careless, dismissive departure. The shame of being left to rot, as if he were nothing more than a broken tool, was a poison that seeped into his very soul. He had lived by the blade, and now he was dying by its absence. And in the silent, unforgiving cold, the last breath left his body.
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4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging(London), England
In a cramped space that was more a glorified closet than a room, its only defining feature a thin, lumpy mattress that lay on the floor. It was a space meant for forgotten things—old coats, dusty boxes of Christmas decorations, a broken vacuum cleaner—not a living, breathing boy. The boy lay there, his small body barely disturbing the surrounding.
The air was heavy and stale, thick with the scent of old wood and the must of disuse. A single, bare bulb hung precariously from the ceiling, casting a sickly yellow light that only made the shadows seem deeper. This was his world. This was home.
For what felt like an eternity, he lay there, his body a furnace against the cold concrete floor. The fever was a raging storm inside him, a maelstrom of fire and ice that had held him captive for days. He was in the room or more like a cramped space under the stairs.
Suddenly, a profound stillness settled over him. The fire in his veins began to recede, replaced by a cool, almost otherworldly clarity. The pain in his joints and muscles, which had been a constant companion, started to fade, leaving behind a dull ache. He took a deep, shuddering breath, the first in what felt like forever, and pushed himself up.
His head throbbed with a dull, insistent ache, but it was a familiar pain, one he knew well from his past life. He was no longer the frail, feverish boy. He was a warrior reborn.
As he opened his eyes, the world seemed sharper, more vivid. The patterns in the wood grain of the stairs above him, the faint scent of old dust and mildew—it all registered with a new, almost overwhelming clarity.
He was the man who had died on a battlefield of broken honor. The memory of the duel—the dance of steel, the thunderous power of the axe, the final, humiliating defeat—flashed through his mind.
He could still feel the phantom ache in his shattered knee, the bitter taste of shame on his tongue. The grief and humiliation that had ended his previous life were the embers of a new fire now, a cold, burning resolve to never again be so helpless.
The throbbing in Alister's head began to subside, replaced by a torrent of disjointed images and sensations. The memories were not his own, yet they were. They rushed through him like a dam breaking, a decade of a life he had forgotten, a life as a boy named Alistair.
He saw it all in flashes: the taunts of his cousin Dudley, a hulking boy whose favorite pastime was hunting him through the garden. The sneers of his aunt Petunia, her thin lips twisted into a perpetual scowl. The lazy cruelty of his uncle Vernon, a man who saw him as an inconvenience at best and an abomination at worst.
He remembered the endless list of chores, the cupboard under the stairs, and the gnawing hunger that was a constant companion. He saw the broken toys, the cast-off clothes, the loneliness. And then, there was another face, a small, timid face with wide, fearful eyes. His little sister, Astra (Harry).
The memories of her were a bright, aching contrast to the misery that surrounded them. He remembered holding her hand on the rare occasion they were allowed out. He saw himself sneaking her a piece of toast or a discarded cookie, a small act of defiance against the Dursleys' cruelty.
He remembered the small smiles she'd give him, the way her tiny hand would squeeze his in the dark. She was his one anchor in a sea of neglect, a shared secret between two children who had no one else.
The memory of his past life was a cold, hard resolve. The love for his sister was a fire, fierce and protective. The warrior's pride that had died on the battlefield has now added a new purpose beside Power: to keep his sister safe. The two lives were now one, the swordsman's iron will and the boy's loving heart forged together in the crucible of his rebirth.
Alister looked down at his small hands. They were not the calloused, scarred hands of a warrior, but the soft, pale hands of a child. He balled them into fists. He may be weak now, but that would change.
A knock on the door broke through his thoughts. "Boy, get up! There are chores to be done, and your freakishness isn't going to do itself!" Uncle Vernon's voice, a growl of impatient rage, came from the other side.
Alister's gaze went to the door. "Coming, Uncle Vernon," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. The words were automatic, a response ingrained from a decade of subservience. But this time, they were spoken with a quiet, steely resolve that was all his own.
"Boy, get your lazy ass out here! Now!" Vernon Dursley's voice was a booming, impatient thunder, a sound Alistair had heard a thousand times but now registered with the cold, calculating mind of a strategist. He pushed himself off the thin mattress and crawled out of the cupboard, his small body feeling foreign and fragile.
The Dursleys were in the kitchen. Aunt Petunia was at the sink, her movements sharp and agitated, while Dudley was stuffing his face with a piece of cake. Astra stood near the table, her small hands wringing a tea towel, her eyes wide and fearful.
Alister began his chores, his movements fluid and efficient despite the strange new body. His hands, once so familiar with the weight of a sword, now busied themselves with washing dishes. As he worked, he watched the Dursleys.
They were not people to him anymore, but obstacles. Obstacles to his peace, obstacles to his sister's safety. The rage that had been a constant companion in his past life simmered just below the surface, a familiar, welcome heat.
The clatter of a plate shattering on the linoleum floor made everyone jump. Astra had been trying to put a clean plate on the rack, but her small, trembling hands had lost their grip. The plate, an ugly piece of ceramic with a chipped flower pattern, was now in a dozen sharp pieces.
Alister's head snapped up.
"Astra! You clumsy, useless girl!" Petunia screeched, her face a mask of furious indignation. "Do you think we have money to waste on your carelessness? Go to your room! Now!"
Astra's eyes filled with tears as she cowered, her shoulders hunched. The sight of her fear ignited something primal in Alistair. The warrior in him surfaced, his senses sharpening, his body tensing, ready for a fight. His past as a warrior who had taken countless lives came flooding back, and his gaze, fixed on the Dursleys, was filled with a chilling, murderous intent.
Vernon, halfway through a mouthful of cake, froze. Petunia, mid-rant, stopped speaking entirely. They both felt it, a cold, predatory aura emanating from the small boy in the kitchen. It was an impossible feeling, a primal dread that a human being should never inspire, especially not a small, skinny child. It was the gaze of a killer.
Alister's eyes, normally a gentle green, were now a cold, piercing emerald, devoid of any warmth. He stepped forward, his feet making no sound on the floor. The Dursleys, flustered and confused, could only stare back, their faces pale.
"She's sick," Alister said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "And she's tired. We're going to our room."
Petunia opened her mouth to argue, but the words died in her throat. The sheer weight of his stare was too much. It felt like she was looking into the eyes of a monster. Vernon just stared, cake crumbs forgotten. Alistair didn't wait for a response. He walked to Astra, gently took her hand, and led her out of the kitchen, their silence a stark contrast to the Dursleys' flustered terror.
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Alister led Astra back to the cupboard under the stairs. Once they were inside, he knelt and looked at her. Her body was still trembling, and a single tear traced a path down her dusty cheek. He gently wiped it away with his thumb.
"It's okay now," he said, his voice now soft and gentle, the dangerous edge completely gone. "I'm here."
Astra sniffled and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his shirt. Alister hugged her back, his arms, for the first time in this life, feeling strong and purposeful. The small, frail body in his arms felt more precious than any treasure. He had failed himself in his past life, but he would not fail her.
"You're not clumsy," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her hair. "You just need a little more sleep. I'll take care of you."
Astra just clung to him, and Alister held her tightly, the warmth of her small body chasing away the cold memory of his death.
Alister held Astra for a long time, rocking her gently in his arms. Her breathing became slow and even, her body growing lax against his. He carefully laid her back on the mattress, pulling a thin, scratchy blanket up to her chin. He smoothed her hair back from her forehead, his touch as gentle as a whisper.
With the firm resolve to protect astra in his mind, he closed his eyes and drifted into a sleep more peaceful than any he had known in this life or the last.