Roger and his companions arrived in Messina by dusk on the third day of travel.
They stayed at an inn owned by a friend of the coachman. After settling in, Baron Rollo personally escorted Roger back to the castle.
There, Roger saw his mother, Lady Adelaide, again. Her face was weary and pale, and the sight of her pained him deeply.
Then he was taken to see his bedridden father.
Count Roger was almost unrecognizable. He looked like a different person altogether.
The once-imposing nobleman was now a withered figure of skin and bones. The authority he once radiated had all but vanished. His eyes were clouded and unfocused, and even when called by name, he gave no response.
Lady Adelaide told Roger, "He's lucid sometimes. If he wakes, go to him quickly."
So Roger sat quietly by the bedside, gently holding his father's hand—now as brittle and thin as a dead branch.
The room was deathly still, but inside Roger's mind, a whirlwind of thoughts raged. He thought about everything—and yet nothing clearly.
"Roger…"
The frail whisper floated from the old man's lips, so soft it wouldn't even startle a mouse beneath the bed.
But Roger heard it. Ever since entering the room, his sharp ears had remained fixed on his father's face.
He pulled himself closer in a rush, eyes wide with hope.
"Father, I'm here."
But Count Roger's gaze had already faded into confusion once more. Only the raspy sound of his breathing remained, thick with phlegm. That fleeting moment—was it just Roger's imagination?
No. He knew it wasn't.
He blamed himself for hesitating. For not reacting fast enough.
Tears welled in his eyes, spilled down his cheeks, dried—then welled up again. A cycle of grief, repeating endlessly.
He waited.
And waited.
And waited.
But nothing changed.
He remained by his father's side, unmoving. The court physician came and went. His mother entered and left. Roger stayed exactly where he was.
Still, nothing changed.
Not anymore.
---
The Bishop of Messina arrived. He entered solemnly, urging all present to pray to the Lord.
Approaching the bedside, the bishop paused. His face was stern, but as he gazed at the motionless Count—who now looked more like stone than man—he opened his mouth several times, yet no words came out.
Finally, skipping the usual rites of confession, he bent his head and, in a humble voice, declared that the Lord had forgiven all the Count's sins.
Without further hesitation, he placed a Eucharistic wafer—embossed with the image of Christ's Passion—at the head of the bed.
Those gathered joined hands in prayer.
The bishop anointed the Count's forehead, held a feather beneath his nose to test for breath, and then declared:
"By the protection of angels, the Count has entered Heaven."
The servants moved in to wash the body from head to toe and prepare him as a knight.
The barber came to shave him. The servants stuffed his nose, ears, and mouth with cotton, then laid his body in a posture of prayer.
No one wept aloud before the deathbed.
A single tear clung to the corner of Lady Adelaide's eye—no more, no less.
Roger too locked his sorrow deep inside. His face, like a mask, carried both grief and solemn dignity.
---
The bells of Messina rang through the city.
The bishop sprinkled holy water over the coffin three times. Then the gathered mourners began to chant the Psalms.
The Count's coffin was carried toward the church. Simon and Roger walked at either side, while Lady Adelaide followed at the very end of the funeral procession.
The golden light of dawn bathed them in a warm glow.
The people of Messina gathered silently along the streets to pay their respects to their "Great Count."
Once inside the church, a series of final rites began. Everything proceeded smoothly—like a well-rehearsed performance.
Roger let others move him as they pleased. He was like a walking shadow.
The procession then continued to the final resting place: the cemetery beside the Messina Cathedral.
The Requiem Mass would go on for days. Roger figured he'd hear it a million times.
Eventually, the mourners would return to their homes and resume their lives.
---
That night, Roger barely slept.
The castle felt cold. Too cold.
He just wanted to leave.
He'd rather sleep on the baron's scratchy straw mattress.
At the first glimmer of light, he got up.
But there was no menial work for him to do here.
He was no longer a page. In this place, he was the second son of the Count, a young lord to be respected.
So he made a decision.
He would feed the horses.
---
Roger knew exactly where to find the oats in the kitchen. He grabbed two raw eggs on the way out.
Someone in the kitchen stared at him, visibly uneasy—as if unsure whether to stop him.
Roger ignored them. He had no interest in correcting these new servants.
At the door, he ran into the head cook.
Surprised to see the young master up so early, the cook bowed immediately.
"Good morning, my lord."
"Mm." Roger nodded and stepped past.
---
In the courtyard, he came across the captain of the guard, fully armored.
The captain looked surprised, even nervous, and greeted him with a stiff voice:
"Good morning, my lord."
Before Roger could reply, the captain added quickly:
"Today is an important day. The Lady has summoned all the Count's vassals. The bishop will publicly read the will, and Master Simon will formally inherit the title."
Roger had known this would happen. He responded politely:
"Good morning. I understand. I'm just going to feed the horses."
"A day like today," the captain said, walking alongside him, "I have to ensure nothing goes wrong."
Roger didn't respond. He wasn't interested.
He just wanted it all to be over.
None of this has anything to do with me.
---
At the stables, he gently woke Gift.
The colt seemed surprised by the early breakfast.
But he never refused Roger—especially not when oats were mixed with raw egg. He happily dug in.
Roger had nothing else to do.
He wandered the grounds, aimlessly patrolling out of habit.
He saw the captain barking at every guard, keeping everyone alert.
The drawbridge had already been lowered, and people were beginning to arrive. Servants bustled about, preparing a feast.
There would be many guests today. The courtyard was being set with tables and benches—meant for the less important attendees.
---
As the morning brightened, Roger walked to the gate.
There, he noticed guards inspecting every visitor.
Only titled nobles were allowed to carry weapons. Even their squires were required to disarm. Servants were inspected more thoroughly—nothing with sharp points was allowed.
A few carts arrived, carrying open barrels.
Roger tried to peek inside, but he was too short. One of the guards leaned over and checked.
"Fish. Just fish." he said.
He considered poking the barrels with his spear, but hesitated—seemed unnecessary.
Roger swiftly climbed onto the cart and looked into the barrels himself.
They contained nothing but clean water and fish—some barrels held several, others only one. But there was clearly nothing suspicious.
Then the captain of the guard arrived and noticed the delay.
He barked:
"What are you all waiting for? Get these delivery men out. Have the kitchen staff take over. No outsiders allowed inside."
The deliverymen were dismissed and told to retrieve their carts tomorrow. Kitchen servants took over and wheeled the carts into the keep.
Roger, satisfied with how everything was handled, returned quietly to the castle.