章 32: POV No. 2
Septimus Aethelred's POV
(MC's father)
As days passed, since the Lethifold incident, he had started to see the events affected his son too deeply.
Violetta, his wife, had told him, how his son wanted to learn and grow powerful. It is usually seen in victims of accidents, where they blame themselves for being too weak, but seeing as how even a powerful adult would have failed to react, when a werewolf wants to shred you, and a Lethifold wants to eat you, he decided to spoil his child, and let him grow past this phase. The two creatures were XXXXX in rating for a reason, and there is nothing you can truly do, expect apparate away, to save your life.
But it seems, the incident had hit his son harder than he initially expected. He had taken to magical studies with a flourish, and instead of asking for a wand, like a child his age, is expected to, he asked specifically to Not be given a wand till he was of age.
It seems, he had secretly been practising to use wandless spells, and he had often spied on his son, with his wife to marvel at the astounding pace at which their son was growing.
He seemed to have started small, which was actually good, but counterintuitive for children who would often attempt to do things out of their control, and end up collapsing from magical exhaustion.
But his son already had reserves equal to a NEWT student, and with each passing day, they seemed to grow bigger. He seemed to be practising some kind of mental exercise, where he would sit on a giant boulder, and expel magic from his body at various interval.
To an average wizard, it seemed random and wasteful, but when he asked his mother, she told him his son was actually practising something akin to the ancient Chinese art to open your pores, where the magic condenses, and this allows to channel magic faster through your body.
But one needs to understand their body truly, and concentrate on it to see the exact locations of those pores.
He then told his wife, and they both would often leave their tasks, and spy on their son who was getting interesting, each passing day. He had began with nail-sized pebbles, and after a few days, was now floating a few stones, the size of his palm with relative ease.
He seemed to have his childish phase as well, when instead of channeling magic outwards, he began to practise sucking magic inwards, through those pores, and ended up sticking a leaf to his forehead.
He began to laugh like a little cute ball of mania and innocence, as he began to dance "I am a ninja! I am a ninja!" But apart from his bouts of childish glee when noone was looking and his indignant squeaks when his wife surprised her son, with her bone-crushing hugs, noone sane of mind would call his son, a child.
He was relentless in his practises, spent hours upon hours reading up the material in their library, and tirelessly practised with the muggle combat instructors he managed to hire.
They had begun to work his muscles and train his endurance, but when he pretended to walk away, he and his wife spied on their son, when he spoke in his adult-like mature voice.
"My parents want to make me a prissy tot. They want to coddle me like a little runt. But I cannot grow strong if I am spoilt as a child. You are hired to make me grow strong, but you are going too easy. I know some of you are from military, and Special Forces have their hell week, to test the mental endurance and stress response of their recruits. I want you to be harsh on me, like the drill sergeant was on you, I want you drill me down and break my mind, body and spirit. I want you to be ruthless and the bane of my existence. And I want you to make me a worthy man, when everything is said and done. So will you make me wish, I died and didn't talk like a cunt to you, or will you swallow this disrespect and allow a little boy to win one over you?"
They all stood ramrod straight, and looked at their son with grudging respect, and shock. He was ready to save his son, and his wife had already drawn her wand out, but the oldest of those muggles shocked him and his wife when he laughed.
"You have balls, boy. The lads in my regiment would have been glad to have someone like you in our squad. You may very well wish you were dead by the time we are done with you, but you will have my respect, boy. Be here on the ground at five in the morning tomorrow. You may not be dead yet, but you're in hell now."
And the gruelling training of their son began. He was anxious, the muggles would be sabotaging their child, and called his parents to arrive quickly.
They had all spied on their son, and saw how he was talked down, dissed, worked to his bone and made to endure physical and mental burden, a child of five had no business to bear.
But his son, shone out even in this challenge, he himself chose to face. His father told him to watch the training, and he himself came to live with us, to watch his grandson walk back home tired and fatigued, and yet go into the study to read a book.
Often, he would pass out from the fatigue, and fall asleep on the couch in the library, where he curled up to read. Violetta would often advise her son, to take it slow, as even he could see how difficult it was for his wife, to see her son endure such harsh training.
We had magic, and our bodies were often more resilient than a muggle, but his son was so drained to the core, that his magic was seeping in his muscles and healing his body as he rested.
Soon, we knew it, the results of his hellish training were all too visible. He was faster, stronger, taller and more powerful. His magic had almost quadrupled, from before he began his combat training.
His combat instructors were proud of his growth, and did their very best to plan and chart his dietary needs and training to help him the best they knew how.
We would often spy on his hand-to-hand training, and he was showing his skills and potential there too. Often he would spar with them and grapple men twice his size, and fight ruthlessly like a lion would maul a deer.
And he learnt something about his son, too. He was relentless and had an indomitable will and spirit. He never yielded to his instructors, never gave up on his goals, never wavered from his way. And if anything, his son taught him, that legends are never born, they are forged and chiseled and hammered and shaped.
And he, Septimus Aethelred had the most distinct pleasure of seeing a legend in making, and being able to call him son!
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