Cold came first, right after the knives stopped twisting and the world went quiet. Bone-deep cold, like the kind that seeps in when you're bleeding out on a prison floor, everything slowing to a crawl until your heart just... gives up.
But then it flipped. Warmth crept in, slow and thick, wrapping around me like I was sinking into a vat of honey. No body left to feel it with, no edges to grab onto—just floating, drifting, weightless. Couldn't move a muscle, couldn't pin down a single thought. It was all haze, like waking from a fever dream.
Flashes started popping in, bits and pieces that didn't belong to me. Felt like peeking into someone else's head, but damn if they didn't feel real. There I was—maybe—in a roaring factory, arms burning from hauling heavy steel, sweat stinging my eyes as I barked orders at a crew of roughnecks. Pouring concrete that hardened into whole damn buildings, shaking hands on deals that crushed the competition. Felt like my old man, the way he used to talk about starting from nothing. Or was it? The flash blurred out before I could be sure.
Another one slammed in—jungle thick and wet, vines slapping at my face, boots sucking into mud that wanted to swallow me whole. Rifle kicking against my shoulder, muzzle flashes lighting up the dark like fireworks gone wrong. Pinned down, screams everywhere, stepping over... God, what was left of a buddy, blown apart mid-joke, guts steaming in the rain. Dragged some kid by the collar through the chaos, yelling for artillery that finally boomed down. Fear tasted like metal and rot. Reminded me of Grandpa's war stories from Vietnam, the ones he'd mutter after a few beers.
The honey pulled me deeper, and the flashes got wilder, older maybe. Dogfights high over some bombed-out city—cockpit rattling, tracers zipping past like angry bees, banking hard to line up a shot on a plane spitting fire. Engine coughing smoke, spiraling down with the ground rushing up. Berlin? World War II ?
Then sand everywhere, blistering heat baking through heavy armor, a red cross flapping on my chest like a target. Charging on horseback across dunes, lance shattering against shields, sword swinging wild as blood sprayed hot and sticky. Hacking through the chaos, walls crumbling in the dust. Crusaders?
Back further—hiding in wet reeds by a road, spear gripped tight, heart pounding. Armored men marching past in lockstep, shields up. We burst out yelling, spears flying, shields cracking. Drove mine through a guy's mail, felt the give, heard the wet choke. Romans? Ambush on legionaries?
Everything smeared together after that, lives overlapping like bad dreams you can't shake. Then it all narrowed—smaller, helpless. Crying, lungs on fire, tiny fists flailing. Arms lifted me, a woman's face leaning in—curly golden hair wild from exhaustion, bright blue eyes shining through the tired. She looked beat down but smiled soft. "I shall call you Æthel," she murmured, "for you are my noble son."
From there, it was like watching a life unspool, but I was stuck inside, along for the ride. Couldn't twitch a finger, couldn't change a damn thing—just spectate. This kid Æthel grew up in a world of cold winds off the sea, wooden halls creaking against storms. Father—big guy named Wulfric, all beard and scars—taught him the ropes early. Hunting in the misty woods: reading deer tracks in the mud, drawing a bow till your arms screamed, skinning the kill clean without wasting a scrap. Fighting in the yard: wooden swords clacking, learning to dodge, to hit back harder. And the forge—iron glowing angry red, hammer ringing like thunder, secrets of folding the metal just right to make it bite deep. "Iron remembers the fire," Wulfric would grunt. "So must you."
Brothers popped up one after another—four rowdy little hellions, tumbling in the dirt, always underfoot. Then the last one: a girl a small thing. She and Mother kept the house humming—spinning wool by the hearth, tending the stew pot, making sure the longhall didn't fall to chaos while the men hammered iron or tended land.
They weren't scraping by. Wulfric's forge skills meant steady work—tools, blades, even some fancy bits for the chieftains. Barter mostly, since coin was rare out there. Wealth came from good earth and fat herds. All us boys—well, Æthel and his brothers—worked from dawn: hauling charcoal, pumping bellows, swinging hammers till blisters turned to calluses. But as the oldest, Æthel drew the short straw often: out with the sheep, alone on the windy pastures.
Alone, except for West. Big brute of a dog—blocky head, short dark coat, built like a tank with jaws that could crush bone. Looked like some old ancestor to a Rottweiler or something, but who knows? Loyal as hell, always at heel, ears perked for trouble.
Tenth birthday rolled around. Æthel out herding the flock, wind salty off the ocean, sheep grazing lazy. West stiffened sudden-like, hackles up, then bolted barking to the far edge of the pasture. Æthel ran after, heart thumping.
There—a lean gray wolf, jaws clamped on a lamb, dragging it toward the brush. West lunged in, snapping and growling. Æthel nocked an arrow, but held—too close, might hit the dog. Kept eyes peeled for packmates.
Rustle behind. Spun quick. Another wolf, slinking low. Arrow flew—thwack—wolf yelped, staggered, blood blooming dark. But the first one shook free of West, charged. Teeth sank into Æthel's calf—fire ripped up his leg. He screamed, dropped the bow, fumbled for his seax knife.
West piled on the wolf, jaws locking around its neck. They rolled snarling. Æthel stabbed wild—once, twice, half a dozen times—blade sinking deep into fur and meat. The wolf thrashed, weakened, went limp.
He collapsed, blood pouring from the bite, soaking the grass. Pain blinded him—horrible, throbbing waves. Everything Æthel felt, I felt too, like it was my own leg torn open. West whined, licked his face gentle.
Tears streamed hot. "You were always a good boy, West," Æthel whispered, voice cracking thin. "Thank you for being there for me."
Black crept in again, final this time. Paul and Æthel faded together into nothing.
I woke up later—how much later, I couldn't say. The world came back in pieces: crackling fire, smoke curling up lazy toward the thatch hole, the low groan of wind outside the hall. I was sitting propped against a rolled sheepskin, close enough to the hearth that heat licked my face. My legs were stretched out in front of me, small and skinny under the blanket, toes wiggling when I told them to.
Wait a minute. It was me wiggling them.
I looked around—really looked—with eyes that answered back. The longhall was quiet except for the fire popping and the distant snuffle of livestock in the byre. Mother was over by the loom, humming soft as she worked the shuttle.
Water. My throat felt like sandpaper. "Water," I croaked. The word came out thin, boyish, but it was mine to say.
She turned quick, eyes widening like she'd seen a ghost come back polite. She crossed the dirt floor in three steps, knelt, held a wooden cup to my lips. Cool spring water slid down—clean, tasting faintly of stone. I drank slow, then deeper, feeling it settle in my gut.
Nine long years. Nine damn years of being trapped in the passenger seat of Æthel's life. Watching him fumble through days. Skipping practice with the wooden sword. Letting the sheep wander too far. Folly after folly—small ones that piled up—and me screaming inside, helpless. Couldn't lift a finger, couldn't yell, couldn't fix a single stupid choice.
Tears came then. Not from the leg still throbbing under fresh bandages, not from pain. Relief. Pure, bone-deep relief. Whatever god or fate or cosmic joke had stuck me here finally cut the strings.
I'm free.
I said it out loud, voice cracking on the word. "I'm free."
Mother's hand cupped my cheek gentle. "Of course you are, honey." She wiped the tears away with her thumb, smiling soft through her own wet eyes. "You're home. You're safe."
Paul and Æthel had always coexisted—two shadows sharing the same skin—but right then, in the firelight, the line between us dissolved. No more fight. No more watching. Just one person, sharper, harder, ready.
Recovery didn't take long. A week of broth and rest, then I was up—shaky at first, leg still stiff from the wolf bite, but moving. My body answered. My choices answered.
Second chance had arrived. Time to grip life by the balls and make it my bitch.
First thing I did: head into the woods.
Not just any walk. I needed wood—the right kind. Yew. English longbow yew, the heartwood red-brown and tough, sapwood pale and springy. Tech was centuries off—nobody here had even dreamed of the six-foot war bow that would wreck armies at Agincourt—but I remembered. Boy Scouts weekends, YouTube videos late at night, stripping staves, tillering by hand. I knew what to look for.
I slipped out early, before the hall stirred much. West padded at my heel, ears up, tail low and alert. The pasture was still misty, sheep huddled in clumps, breath fogging the air. I skirted the flock, headed for the thicker trees beyond the dunes—old oak and ash mostly, but I'd seen yew before, tucked in shady hollows where the wind didn't strip everything bare.
The path wound narrow between gorse and bracken, ground soft with pine needles and leaf mold. Sea wind followed me, carrying salt and the faint rot of seaweed.
First yew I found was small, twisted, growing low under an oak like it was hiding. I crouched, ran my fingers over the bark—rough, reddish, flaking in places. Sapwood pale underneath when I scraped a tiny spot with my thumbnail. Heartwood showed when I pressed harder: deep red, tight grain. Good. Not perfect, but good.
I pulled the seax—short, iron, razor-edged—from my belt. Cut a low branch first, tested the bend in my hands. Springy, but not snappy. Promising. I marked the trunk with a quick slash—X for later, when I came back with axe and rope to harvest a full stave.
Kept moving. West ranged ahead, nose low, sniffing trails I couldn't see. Another yew, taller this time, half-hidden by holly. Thicker trunk, straighter run for six feet up before it branched crooked. I circled it slow, checking for knots, cracks, any sign the heartwood had gone punky. Clean. I grinned—first real grin in years. This one would do for a rough billet. I scored the bark in a ring near the base, high enough to leave the tree living. No need to kill it for one bow.
Deeper in, the light dimmed under denser canopy. Ferns brushed my calves, wet with dew. I found a third—younger, straighter, almost perfect taper from root flare to tip. I knelt, pressed my palm to the trunk like I was feeling a pulse. Solid. Alive. I cut a small test branch, bent it between hands—snap-back strong, no give in the wrong places. Yeah. This was the one.
West woofed low, tail wagging once. He sensed it too—the shift in me. No more daydreaming kid.
I gathered what I could carry: a couple straight branches for practice staves, the test pieces, a few strips of bark I peeled careful for future use. Tied them in a bundle with a length of cord from my belt. The real stave would wait—I'd need Father's help to fell it clean, split it right, season it slow. But the hunt felt good. Purposeful.
Sun was climbing when I turned back. Smoke rose thin from the hall roof. West trotted ahead, tongue lolling. My leg ached, but it was a working ache, not a dying one.
I had a plan now. Start small—make a child's bow first, get the feel, prove I knew what I was doing. Then bigger. Better. Longbows that could punch through mail at range. Knowledge from a future nobody here had seen yet.
My second life would not just be about survival, I was born again for a reason and I refuse to waste my life.
I stepped out of the trees, bundle over my shoulder, and headed home.