"I-I-I n-nee-d—"
He couldn't complete the sentence. He collapsed under the fine rain that painted the courtyard silver—though it would be imperceptible to an outside observer, he was foaming at the mouth, and the veins in his eyes were redder than usual.
A silence fell, and all that could be heard was the sweet, melodious sound of the rain. Thunder resonated, painting the sky with light.
BANG!
The characteristic, powerful slam of a door echoed through the rainy environment. Hurried footsteps, making a sound like high heels, approached the young man sprawled on the ground.
A old man—tall, with long features, a thin nose, and lips slightly parted; wearing a white buttonless wool-woven shirt, beige trousers, black leather shoes with a slightly high wooden heel, and a strange, scarf-like adornment around his neck—stopped in front of the young man who was sprawled lifelessly in the rain, holding an umbrella. He bent slightly, lifting the poor youth's legs to drag him.
And why drag him? Well, he was nearly as lifeless as the boy, just slightly more recovered. If he tried to carry him, he would certainly die alongside him. Despite this, he maintained his stately demeanor.
The moment he lifted the boy's legs, he spoke calmly in the rain. "Master?" The young man's eye fluttered semi-open. "Oh! Heavens! Master Forwin, please, take the umbrella, and allow yourself not to get wet, if you would be so kind... Actually, let me hold it for you," he said gently, in the pause between one breath and the next.
He could only hear one last puff of words, drenched in rainwater.
"Th-ank y-ou, Al..."
=== 13 days earlier ===
Year 958 — Muntcyningas, The Western Wildlands, Thatcher Manor — Day Siex, of Geþuxian.
It didn't take long for him to accept the situation he was in. For a while, he thought about giving up on everything when he understood the reality of this crazy character, which was all an appearance; a persona he had been living for a few days now. He began to play the part. In fact, in the first few moments of The Ordeal, he realized that false memories of a life he had never lived had been placed in his head.
'I have a house, a butler, even a horse, and a crush! Just like I dreamed! I have... parents! And I need to meet them... what if they're li—'
'No! No! They can't be...'
Despite such thoughts, deep down, Forly wished to meet them, or so he thought...
'Perhaps the best irony of all is that my name is actually Forwin!'
He laughed to himself with a relish he hadn't felt in a long time.
'Is this an ordeal or a midsummer night's dream?'
Finally, he decided to get up. He had slept well and recovered energy he didn't even know he had. He then noticed a notebook with strange lettering lying on the floor.
"Huh!?"
"Afred! Alfred!"
...
"Tsk! Hey! Alfred!"
From a distance, a muffled voice came, accompanied by the scratching sound of feet on old wood, approaching Alfred's room.
"Man! You aren't—" He threw the door open at once. "..."
He entered a small room with polished stone walls, an open window, a neatly made single bed with white silk sheets, and an L-shaped mahogany wardrobe in the right corner; a man in his 50s was diligently arranging his hair, looking at the mirror on the headboard near the door. His butler, who diligently called him Master and Sir.
Calmly, he turned to the eager—and not so unusual—young man observing him.
In front of Alfred stood a young man with tan skin, a thin and curly beard and mustache, long red hair tied in a bun, wearing gray trousers, a sash over the trousers almost at his waist that resembled a skirt (and it was the beginnings of one, in the Scottish style), and a beige two-button shirt, half-unbuttoned at the top, showing his slightly bulky chest—due to his training over the last year despite unfavorable genetics—and a few small strands of hair.
"Master Forwin. Tell me. What troubles you?"
Forly scratched the back of his neck, somewhat disconcerted by his own exaggerated excitement. In his hands rested a small leather notebook, its wire binding slightly rusted, its corners worn, and its pages yellowed with age.
"It's just that... I found a message from my parents on the stairs, in this language I don't know..."
"Yes," Alfred replied neutrally.
Still unaccustomed to it, Forly frowned, still trying to ignore his tone.
"Yeah, but... on second thought... this isn't even their handwriting..."
'I don't even know what their handwriting looks like...'
"Let me see, Master."
Forly approached him and handed over the notebook, somewhat hesitantly. He then collapsed onto the bed with a huff.
"So, is it?
...
"Alfred! Hey!
...
"Hello!
...
"Is it or not?"
"Ah! I give up. Five minutes..." Forly scowled and buried himself under the covers.
Alfred was concentrating, running his finger over the page, smelling the ink and the paper. His fingers stopped. His pupils contracted, and he breathed unintelligible words into the air.
He closed the notebook and his expression shifted, like someone trying to hide something.
"Master, I need you to go to your room."
"Huh?!" He shot up, leaping from the bed. "What do you mean? What about the notebook?"
"Listen, it... it was meant to be a surprise... Your parents would not like to know of my carelessness..."
"What? Not like it? They'd probably coo over you to console you, since you're as pampered as I am!"
"Precisely, Master. Precisely. Go, and I will put the message in its proper place. Oh, my head... Where was I?"
"On your body, if you're really asking."
"Whatever... I'm going..." he continued, sighing. "I'll try to feign surprise when they get back; whatever it is they've done... Who knows, maybe they'll finally allow me to ask for the blacksmith's daughter's hand; the maiden of my dreams in marriage. Souhaite-moi bonne chance, Alfred."
He left, muttering under his breath that it wasn't his birthday, or that this smelled of academic surprises—which he wasn't interested in—and slammed the door again, humming a tune. Alfred waited for the lyrical voice to fade into the distance while, without realizing it, beads of sweat trickled down his temples.
'My Creator! Heavens! I think this... —His body began to tremble spasmodically, and he swallowed hard with each passing second.— This is the—'
"The Tongue of the Southern Wiccans from the walled parts of Ungesælig... A curse..."
He rubbed his hand over his face, now completely wet with sweat.
"I believe I cannot pronounce them aloud..." —he pronounced aloud.
"Now. Why would a family as upstanding as the Master's get involved with things like this?"
"After all. What fate has befallen you, my Lord and Lady Thatcher... What have you done!? And where are you?!"
...
Forly moved away from the door.