Evan walked behind Punay, his feet sinking into the damp earth, the midday heat pressing against his skin. Sweat pooled at the back of his neck, rolling down his spine, the same suffocating stickiness he had known all his life. Despite being in a different time, that sensation, at least, was still the same, sticky, familiar, and unmistakably home.
Punay walked ahead with effortless ease, her bare feet sure against the packed earth, posture straight, expression unreadable. "Oh, I guess I need to finish my mat, huh?" he muttered, glancing at the woven walls of the familiar hut they were approaching.
Punay didn't even look back. She just shrugged, the movement as casual as if that was the most obvious thing in the world.
The weaver's hut loomed ahead, its wide, open structure supported by sturdy wooden posts, allowing the breeze to pass through. Inside, the scent of dried palm leaves and woven fibers filled the air, mingling with the faint smoky aroma from a distant fire pit.
As they stepped inside, Evan saw the women already deep in their work, their hands moving with practiced ease. Outside, their children played under the morning sun, their laughter drifting in with the breeze.
Timbina, the one who had taken the most responsibility for him, stood and wordlessly handed him his pathetic excuse for a mat, a tangled mess of uneven strands and awkward gaps.
Evan sighed, settling into his usual spot as he took the mat from her.
Around him, the women resumed their gossip, their voices weaving together in a soft hum, punctuated by the rhythmic shuffle of fibers being pulled and threaded. He let the sound wash over him, half-listening, half-focused on trying to salvage the disaster in his hands.
The edges weren't even, some strands were too loose while others were pulled too tight, and there were clear gaps where his fingers had fumbled. It looked like something a drunk chicken had stomped on.
Still, he worked on it anyway. What else was he supposed to do?
As worked on completing his mat, Evan's attention was drawn to the open space where a group of children were playing. They dashed around, barefoot and wild, laughing as they chased each other in a rough-and-tumble version of tag. Others were huddled together, throwing small stones at a distant target, cheering whenever one of them hit the mark.
A smile tugged at Evan's lips as he watched them, their wild, unrestrained energy a mirror of his own childhood. He had been just like them, an energetic monster, always running, always chasing, never slowing down. He chuckled, glancing at his calves. Yeah, all that sprinting had to be the reason they were still so damn big.
Back in elementary school, his love for running had even landed him in soccer, though his interest had been more about the thrill of dashing across the field than any real dedication to the sport. Still, it was structure, an actual game with rules, something these kids didn't seem to have.
They were pure chaos. No teams, no clear objective, just chasing, shouting, and throwing things at random targets.
Do they not have any organized games? he wondered, watching as a kid pelted a coconut husk at another, missing by an inch. Not even a ball?
Finally, something useful from modern life. He could introduce them to something structured, something fun. Maybe even a ball game.
Wait. How do I even make a soccer ball?
Evan frowned, scanning the materials around him. Coconut husks? Too hard, kicking one of those would wreck a kid's toes, and it wouldn't even roll properly. Woven fibers? He ran a hand over the mat he was working on. Abaca felt closer to cloth than rubber, meaning it wouldn't bounce or move the way he needed.
Yeah, probably best to start with something simpler, something that didn't require trial and error just to make a basic ball.
Capture the Flag?
That could work. No equipment needed, just two bases, two teams, and a whole lot of running. From the looks of it, the kids were already playing something close to it, just without clear teams or objectives. He scratched his head, watching the kids tumble over each other in their rule-free mayhem.
Well, guess it was time to invent Capture the Flag.
He nudged Punay's elbow. "Hey, do they play anything with teams? Like a game where they try to stop each other from taking something?"
Punay squinted at him. "They play many games. Why?"
"Just thinking about something we used to play back home," he said. "Two teams, two bases. Each team has to protect their base while trying to steal something from the other side."
She shrugged. "If you want them to play, teach them. They like new games."
Evan hesitated, but before he could overthink it, he clapped his hands together and crouched near the group of kids.
"Alright, listen up! I want to show you a new game."
The children hesitated, their curiosity battling with caution. A few of the braver ones edged closer, eyes darting between Evan and the lines he was scratching into the dirt.
"These," he said, pointing with the stick, "are your bases. One for each team." He marked two circles in the dirt, about ten steps apart. "Your goal is to sneak past the other team, grab their flag, or, uh, whatever we use as a flag, and bring it back to your side."
The kids murmured among themselves, already intrigued.
"But," Evan continued, tapping the ground for emphasis, "if you get tagged while on enemy territory, you freeze in place until a teammate touches you. If you move before that, you're cheating." He shot a mock glare at one of the kids, who giggled. "Got it?"
A ripple of excitement ran through the group, their hesitation melting into eager whispers.
Evan grinned. Oh yeah. This was going to be fun.
Evan quickly divided them into two teams, making sure the numbers were even before stepping into one of the groups himself. He gestured for them to spread out, then crouched slightly, rolling his shoulders as he prepared to demonstrate.
"Alright, lets try it" he said.
The first trial round was a complete mess, kids sprinting in every direction, defenders clumping together instead of holding their ground. Pure instinct, no strategy, just wild running and chaotic shouting.
Evan had expected that.
Unlike them, he didn't waste energy darting around aimlessly. He stayed still, watching, waiting. When the defenders lunged too soon and got themselves frozen, that's when he moved. No sharp turns, no unnecessary sprints, just stepping through openings that were already there.
The kids hadn't figured it out yet. They burned themselves out, sprinting at every opportunity, while Evan waited. He let them tire themselves out, watched for openings, and walked right past defenders who had overextended and got themselves tagged, thereby 'freezing' them.
Of course, some of them tried to cheat.
A few, despite being clearly tagged, kept moving, creeping toward him like he wouldn't notice.
Evan stopped in his tracks, arms crossed. "Freeze means freeze," he said, his voice flat.
They hesitated.
When a couple still looked like they might push their luck, he gave them a pointed stare. Big, towering foreigner versus tiny kids? He didn't need to say anything else.
A beat of silence. Then, with exaggerated reluctance, the guilty players awkwardly shuffled back into place.
When Evan finally grabbed the rock from the center of their circle, his team erupted into cheers, jumping and whooping in victory.
But Evan didn't join them. Instead, he turned to the kids on the losing team, offering a small, reassuring smile. "Hey, it's alright. Just a trial game." Without thinking, he held out his hand for a high five, an old habit from dealing with young kids from his college volunteer days. A few of the kids just stared at it, confused, but one hesitantly tapped his palm. Close enough.
Evan crouched down, motioning for everyone to listen. "See what I did there?" he said, glancing between both teams. "You don't always have to run in a straight line. If some of you move left and bait the defenders, others can slip in from the right."
Some of the kids exchanged looks, their excitement quickly shifting to determined focus. They were catching on. The next round was going to be interesting.
They played two more rounds, and with each game, Evan introduced small but effective techniques, how to feint, how to bait a defender into committing too early, how to signal teammates without shouting.
Every now and then, he caught Punay staring at him, slack-jawed, her usual composed expression cracked with something close to disbelief. Probably not used to seeing a man his size running around with a bunch of kids.
Great. I hope she just thinks I'm weird and not… something worse.
A brief spike of paranoia hit him. Crap. Did I accidentally touch a kid in a weird way?
His movements stiffened slightly as he made a conscious effort to keep his hands to himself, careful to keep any gestures open and non-threatening. Relax, just don't be weird about it.
"Don't just run, time your move. If you see someone making a break for the flag, draw the defenders away first," he explained after one round.
Another time, he showed a kid how to position himself near the boundary without looking like a threat, only to burst forward the moment a defender was distracted.
The kids caught on fast. The game shifted from mindless running to actual teamwork, with players setting up distractions, cutting across the field in sync, and coordinating their attacks like a real strategy game.
Evan was grinning, caught up in the energy of it, until something made him pause.
Huh.
It should have been blazing hot right now. The kind that made the earth shimmer and turned shade into a precious luxury. He was still sweating, but it wasn't from the heat, it was from the pounding of his heart. The air around him was… cool.
Frowning, he glanced up. The sky had shifted, cloudy but not heavy, a soft gray veil stretching across the horizon, muting the sun's usual harsh glare. The wind had picked up, not with the force of an impending storm, but with a steady, cooling breeze that carried a calming sense of peace.
From the weaver's hut, one of the older weavers, Pilas, watched with an amused smirk.
"Be careful, Aso," she called out. "Play too much, and they might tie you up and keep you as their pet!"
Evan huffed a laugh but didn't stop. He was too caught up in the game, in the rush of movement, the thrill of friendly competition. For the first time in days, he didn't feel like an outsider.
He stepped away from the kids and felt the tug of reality settle back in. Slowly, he stepped away from the group, giving the kids an encouraging nod before heading back to the weaver's hut.
Timbina handed him his unfinished mat without a word, as if expecting his return.
With a sigh, Evan settled into his usual spot, fingers moving clumsily over the fibers.
The game was over. Back to reality.
Evan sat cross-legged on the hut's woven bamboo floor, the unfinished mat sprawled in his lap. His fingers worked through the fibers, clumsy but steady, as he followed the patterns the weavers had drilled into him over the past few days. Over-under, pull tight, don't snap it. His work was still ugly as hell, but at least it wasn't falling apart at the edges anymore. Progress.
Evan didn't understand half of what they were saying, but it didn't matter. The rise and fall of their voices, the way they teased and joked, the shared amusement at his struggles, it was oddly comforting.
His mat-making skills were still horrendous, and they made sure he knew it, but the usual sharpness of their remarks had softened. What had started as mockery of the foreigner fumbling with a craft he clearly wasn't made for had turned into something closer to friendly banter.
At some point, lunch was brought out, simple but hearty. Steamed rice, dried fish, a tangy dip of crushed fruit and salt. The weavers didn't pause their chatter as they ate, hands moving with the same efficiency they used to weave.
Evan joined them, his portion set before him on a banana leaf. He ate quietly at first, listening, picking up words here and there. Occasionally, they'd try to include him, throwing in an exaggerated comment about how his hands were better suited for lifting food than weaving mats.
"See? Now his hands work properly," Itang, one of the younger weavers joked, watching him scoop up a bite of rice.
"I have my priorities straight," Evan shot back, making the women snicker into their food.
It was... nice.
For the first time since being dragged into this era, Evan felt something like belonging.
After lunch, the women slept with their children. While Evan returned to work. Now slightly more confident in his weaving (but only slightly), focused on finishing one small section without ruining it.
He wasn't done yet, maybe three-fourths of the way there, but his fingers were starting to cramp, and honestly? It was looking decent enough by his standards. With a sigh, he set the mat down for a moment, stretching his hands.
Timbina, who was just shaking the sleep from her eyes, snatched it up before he could stop her. She held it up, turning it this way and that, inspecting the uneven weave, the awkward knots, the glaring gaps.
Evan could tell from her expression. It was a disaster.
One of the weavers, Bayoran, glanced over and smirked. "That looks like a nest for a very confused chicken."
The hut erupted into laughter.
Evan sighed dramatically, slumping forward. "Maybe I should quit weaving and start raising chickens instead."
Timbina didn't even hesitate. She set his mat down with a firm slap and said, "Even chickens have standards for their nests, Aso."
That was it. The women burst into laughter all over again, some covering their mouths, others laughing so hard they paused their weaving to wipe their eyes.
He couldn't help it. A snort escaped him before he could stop it, not quite a full laugh, but definitely a smile on his face. He let himself enjoy the moment, the warmth of the camaraderie settling in his chest.
He was terrible at this, completely out of his element. But right now, in this moment?
He wasn't the outsider being laughed at.
He was in on the joke.
And that felt good.
Mapulon
The rain fell in steady sheets outside, soft yet unrelenting, drumming against the thatched roof of the hut. Inside, the warm glow of a small fire flickered, casting long shadows across the woven walls.
Mapulon sat on the floor, his legs crossed, his spear propped against the far wall. His hands were occupied, not with a weapon, not with a blade to sharpen, but with something far smaller.
His son, Ulok.
The boy, who was usually quiet and sullen when it rained, now sat in front of his father, fidgeting with a carved wooden figure, his small hands tracing its rough edges. But tonight, the downpour did nothing to dampen his mood. His voice was lively, animated, his entire body brimming with energy as he spoke.
"…and then Aso tricked them! He made them run the wrong way, so the other team won! But then the next game, they did the same to him, and he laughed! He said it was 'fair play.'" The boy grinned, eyes wide, breathless from excitement. "It's a wonderful game, Father! And he runs, too! Not like a warrior, but… still very fast for someone so big."
The warrior grunted, tying a loose knot into the boy's wrist cord. "A man that big should fight. Not play with children."
The boy wasn't listening. He was too caught up in his excitement. "And when his team won, he didn't even cheer for himself! He went to the others, the ones who lost, and told them it was just a trial game! Like it didn't matter at all!"
He sat up straighter, eyes bright. "And then he even held out his hand like this" The boy stretched his palm out awkwardly, mimicking Aso's unfamiliar gesture. "At first, no one knew what he was doing, but then Bangkaw touched it, and Aso just laughed like it was the best thing ever!"
The boy grinned, shaking his head. "Even after losing, they didn't look sad anymore. They just wanted to play again! Like losing wasn't a bad thing at all."
He turned to his father, brows furrowed in thought. "Is that how warriors feel when they lose? Do they just… try again?"
The warrior's fingers tightened around the wooden figure in his hands.
Losing was not something warriors took lightly. It was not something to be comforted over. It was not something to be laughed about.
And yet, his son, his own son, sat there, speaking of the foreigner with a thrill he had never shown before. Not even when his father brought home the largest deer he had ever hunted had the boy's eyes shone like this.
The foreigner had no weapon, no battle scars, no slain crocodile to his name, yet somehow, it was him the boy admired. Granted, he was big, but what was size without strength?
And worst of all, he had seen Evan's face.
Not ashamed.
Not frustrated at being useless, weaponless, without a place among the warriors.
Not resenting his size, his lack of strength, his wasted potential.
No.
He looked happy.
"…Sleep," the warrior said at last, setting the figure down. "It is late."
The boy hesitated, just for a second, then curled up beside the fire.
The warrior watched the flames flicker, the sound of rain filling the silence.