A One-Armed Father

Before it was fully light, the sound of chopping wood came from the yard.

I sat up in bed and rubbed my eyes. The sky outside was gray, and the outline of the crooked-necked tree appeared and disappeared in the morning mist. The chopping sounded again, dull and clumsy.

I got dressed, went downstairs, and pushed open the back door.

Paul stood in front of the woodpile in the corner of the yard. He held an axe in his right hand, his stance a little awkward. He brought it down, but the log failed to split, and the blade stuck in the wood.

He gritted his teeth, pulled the axe free, and swung again. This time the log split, but into three crooked chunks.

Paul was chopping wood. Back when he used both hands, it took him one swing at most. It looked like he still wasn't used to having one arm. Should I help?

"Father."

He glanced back at me. "Oh, you're up early."

"Let me do it."

"No need." His answer was firm, and he raised the axe again. "I don't need your help with something this small."

The axe came down, and this time the log split. But his hand jerked, and he nearly lost his grip on the axe. He flexed his right hand, the veins on its back standing taut.

I stared at his right hand for a while. There was a fresh split in the web between his thumb and forefinger, the blood dried into a dark red scab. Beside it were two older marks that had already turned into brown scars.

How long had he been chopping? Those wounds hadn't formed in a day. Every morning, he got up before dawn to chop wood with one hand, rubbing it bloody, letting it scab over, then breaking it open again, over and over.

"You think losing an arm means I can't do it?" Paul tossed the split wood aside, a defiant smile at the corner of his mouth. "Back in the day, I could beat three drunks with one hand. Who do you think your old man is? It's just chopping wood."

"I didn't say you couldn't."

"Your eyes did." He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his right hand. "Go wash your face. Breakfast is almost ready."

I glanced at him, said nothing more, and turned back into the house.

After breakfast, Paul called Norn out into the yard.

He stacked the wood he had chopped yesterday against the base of the wall, clearing a small space. Then he dug two wooden sticks out of the pile of odds and ends, one long and one short. He kept the long one and handed the short one to Norn.

"Norn, haven't you wanted to learn swordsmanship for a long time? I'll start teaching you today."

Norn took the stick and gripped it tightly with both hands. The strand of hair sticking up from her head swayed in the morning breeze.

"Father, you only have one hand..."

"What's wrong with one hand?" Paul held the stick across his body in his right hand alone, taking a middle stance. His movements weren't quite right, and his weight was a little off-center, but the stance was still there. "When it comes to swordsmanship, having two hands is just a bonus. One hand is where the real skill lies. Watch closely."

He swung his sword. One-handed, he slashed diagonally from his right shoulder to his left hip, the air whistling sharply.

Norn watched intently. She copied Paul, raising her stick and swinging it, though her form was crooked and awkward.

"No, spread your feet apart, shoulder-width."

Paul walked over and pressed Norn's shoulders with his right hand, adjusting her stance. His movements were gentle and careful.

Norn was learning swordsmanship. I'd known for a long time that her talent wasn't exceptional. But she was swinging the stick earnestly, biting her lip with every swing as though she were competing with someone. I thought that no matter how little talent someone had, if they were willing to work hard, they might still surpass a genius.

I watched from the doorway for a while.

Paul taught her with great patience. Even more patience than he had shown when teaching me as a child. Perhaps it was because Norn wasn't like me. She didn't have all the assorted baggage from a past life; she was just an ordinary eight-year-old girl who knew nothing and had to learn everything from scratch. Come to think of it, a year had already passed without my noticing.

Paul had changed too. In the past, his enthusiasm for teaching swordsmanship would fade after a few minutes, and he'd run off for a drink after a couple of swings. Now he held the stick in one hand and corrected Norn's stance again and again, without growing impatient or grumbling.

At noon, Paul went into the kitchen.

I was sitting in the living room reading when I heard a spatula clanging against an iron pan, followed by oil sizzling as it splattered onto the stove. Then came a flurry of hurried footsteps. The pan rocked, and something spilled out.

"Ah!"

I got up and went to the kitchen doorway.

Paul held a spatula in his right hand, stirring the meat in the pan. The iron pan was heavy and difficult to hold with one hand. It tilted to one side, and the juices were about to spill over the rim. His forehead was covered in sweat, and the back of his shirt was soaked.

Lilia came over from the side.

Without a word, she reached out and steadied the other side of the pan. Her movements were natural; after all, she had done this many times before. The pan steadied, and the juices didn't spill.

"Master Paul, let me."

"No, I can do it."

"Hold the pan, and I'll stir."

Paul looked at her. Lilia had already picked up another spatula and was standing beside him. Her gaze behind her glasses was calm, without distress or pity. She was simply doing what needed to be done, calmly.

Paul put down his spatula.

"...Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Lilia took over the stirring. Paul held the pan's handle with his right hand, and the two worked together seamlessly. The spatula moved rhythmically through the pan. Every so often, Lilia passed the salt jar to Paul, who shook in some salt before she continued stirring.

There was something subtle between the two of them. It wasn't like what passed between husband and wife; it looked more like the understanding they had built up over years together. Lilia knew when to lend a hand and when to step back. Paul knew when to insist and when to let go. They didn't need to say anything. They just did what needed doing.

I leaned against the kitchen doorframe and watched for a while, without going in to disturb them.

After dinner, Paul called out to me.

"Rudeus, come with me."

I followed him into the study. It was small, with only a desk and a chair. Several magic tomes and the invitation from the Ranoa University of Magic lay piled on the desk. An old bookshelf stood in the corner, holding several of Paul's old swords, now covered in dust.

Paul sat down in the chair and looked at me.

"Could you let me see that prosthetic hand of yours?" It sounded like a request.

"Of course, Father. Why be so reserved with your own son?"

Maybe he still felt guilty. Didn't I already tell you, Paul? I stopped blaming you a long time ago.

I held out my left wrist. The prosthetic hand made of earth had a grayish-brown sheen in the lamplight. It was still rough and had no joints.

Paul turned the prosthetic hand over and back with his right hand. He felt its surface with the pad of his finger, pressed at the seam, and tried to bend it. The prosthetic hand didn't budge.

"Hmm..." He lowered the prosthetic hand and leaned back in his chair, thinking for a while. "How did you make this?"

"Earth magic. I poured mana into the end of the stump and controlled the earth to gather and take shape."

"Can it move?"

"No. It's just a fixed-shape mold. It has no joints, so it can't bend."

Paul fell silent for a while. His right hand rested on the desk, his fingers tapping it unconsciously.

"Could you make one for me too?"

I froze for a moment.

"Father, your amputated arm is different from mine. Your left arm was cut off below the elbow, so the remaining part is much longer than mine. If I made you an earth-magic prosthetic, I'd need much finer control over my mana, and..."

"I know." Paul cut me off. His voice was calm, but there was a light in his eyes that I knew well. It was the light that only appeared when he had made up his mind. "Make one and let's try it, whether it works or not."

I looked into his eyes. Green, exactly the same color as mine.

In the thirty-four years of my previous life, I'd never understood what it meant for a man to support his family. Back then, I thought the phrase was stupid, an outdated form of patriarchal self-congratulation. But Paul had chopped wood, taught swordsmanship, and cooked with one clumsy right hand, and now he sat here asking me to make him one too. He wasn't thinking about whether he could regain his fighting ability. He was thinking that with a prosthetic hand, he could hold Zenith in both arms.

"All right," I said. "We'll try tomorrow."

Paul nodded. He stood and patted me on the shoulder with his right hand. It wasn't hard, but it was solid.

"Don't stay up too late."

He walked out of the study.

I sat alone in the chair, looking at the invitation from the Ranoa University of Magic on the desk, lost in thought...

In the distance, the pale blue light atop the Ranoa University of Magic's tower flickered in the night sky.