EMPIRE REWRITTEN [Isekai ? Alt-History ? Strategy]

Chapter Two: The Weight of Two Worlds

Yet, acknowledging it was one thing—living it was another. Michael's gaze dropped to his hands braced on the windowsill. In the moonlight, he could see the calluses on the palms, the old half-healed scars crisscrossing the knuckles. These were the hands of a warrior, not a salesman. He turned them over slowly, marveling at the strength in the corded muscles of his forearms and the unfamiliar old wound—a pale slash of a scar—running from wrist to elbow. Constantine had earned that scar in battle, no doubt. The memory of how flickered at the edges of Michael's mind, just out of reach. Sometimes, fragments of Constantine's life drifted up unbidden—a burst of anger at the sight of a particular coat of arms or the vivid recollection of riding a horse through these very hills weeks ago. Michael shuddered; the mingling of memory and reality made him feel as if he were dissolving into this identity, piece by piece.

He gripped the stone tighter. How long can I keep this up? he wondered. How long before a slip of the tongue or a moment of confusion gave him away? Perhaps a forgotten name of a servant he should know, or a misstep in addressing a noble... The prospect of being discovered for what he truly was—a fraud, an imposter—terrified him. In this age, claims of possession or witchcraft could be deadly. If he failed to convince people he was Constantine, what fate would that earn him? A prison cell? The executioner's blade? He swallowed hard, throat dry. The irony wasn't lost on him: he had always felt somewhat invisible in his old life, an ordinary man trudging through middle age. Now the idea of truly being seen—and recognized as an imposter—was more frightening than anything he'd ever known.

Michael's thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the life he'd left behind—those details of another world that felt more like a fading dream with each passing hour. An ache bloomed in his chest as images of his family came rushing forward. What happened to my body back home? Did it lie comatose in a hospital bed, eyes closed to the world, while baffled doctors tried to determine what was wrong? Could his ex-wife, Ellen, and their two sons be gathered at his bedside this very moment, trading hopeful smiles and praying for him to wake? Or perhaps—his stomach twisted at the thought—perhaps he had simply vanished from his time, leaving behind only questions and heartbreak. Would they think he had abandoned them?

He braced his hands on the sill as a wave of longing and guilt washed over him. Jason... Nick... He could see them so clearly it hurt. Jason, his firstborn, was thirty now—independent and determined, always charging forward. Michael remembered the last phone call with him a few weeks before all this happened. "Dad, I'm just swamped right now," Jason had said, voice hurried. "I'll visit once things settle down, promise." Then a rushed goodbye and the line went dead. Michael had chuckled at the time, shaking his head at how busy his son was, figuring there would always be another day, another chance to talk at length. Now that casual dismissal felt like a knife of regret. Would there be another day? Jason had always been so eager to conquer the world; he seldom looked back... would he even notice that his father was gone? Would he regret those missed phone calls if Michael never returned?

Nick, his younger boy, was so different—gentle, introspective, an old soul at twenty-five. Michael's throat tightened as he remembered the sight of Nick curled up in the armchair by the living room window on rainy evenings, a thick novel in one hand and a mug of cocoa in the other. Sometimes Michael would join him, both of them quietly sharing the space, the only sound the soft patter of rain and the rustle of turning pages. Father and son, lost in their own worlds yet together in comfortable silence. Those moments were rare treasures, even if they hadn't seemed so then. Did I ever tell him how much I loved those times? Michael wondered, tears pricking at his eyes. He could almost smell the rich chocolate and hear the rain if he let himself drift in the memory. Had he taken it all for granted, assuming he'd have countless tomorrows to sit with Nick, to see him smile that shy smile as he talked about the latest book he'd read? A shuddering breath escaped Michael's lips. I may never get the chance now.