A smell of alcohol permeated the environment, so much so that there was no way to escape the stench except to cover one's nose; fortunately, there was no one there to be bothered by it, except for the drunk himself.
CRACK!
A glass bottle shattered all at once. Vodka spilled, mixing with blood, making the smell even more disgusting, which might as well have been similar to that of a rotting corpse. The space was not very large, at most 20 square meters.
Soon, within a few seconds, the glass shards felt as if they were slowly piercing his scalp, like worms. Likewise, the blood and alcohol burned his eyes and chapped lips—despite the bloody smile on his face.
He was about to die of starvation, plus alcoholism. And all he had with him were his body—he was naked—and a letter, which hung from his hand, intact and sealed with green wax. The door in front of him opened. The figure, which, due to his blurred vision, was difficult to recognize, took a step back and crouched down, saying something all too clearly to the man.
"Don't worry, the letter will reach its recipient. Bon voyage, mon ami!" Before he could say anything more, the drunk passed out. The mysterious man took the letter from the pale hand.
The drunken man could then die; in peace, somehow.
=== Some Time Earlier - Thatcher Manor ===
"Trigger? What do you think... about us going for a little ride?!"
"Master, you wish to see the young lady again?"
"It's just th-"
"Don't even think about making jokes about non-talking horses... I'm not one of those; period."
"Whatever... shall we?"
"Get on..."
Forly mounted the horse—bareback—and left the large stable at Thatcher Manor at a trot; he passed through the garden, a fine breeze tossing his hair up, and rode through the gate, heading left up the road.
"I'm going to sleep, Trigger... wake me when we get there... please?"
"I'm not promising anything."
"..."
"WAKE UP, YOU HALF-WIT!"
"HUH?! AH! I asked you to wake me a little before, not halfway there!"
"You should be more grateful, Master." With great emphasis on the word Master. His voice was deep, powerful, neither thick nor thin, but something that resembled that of a Bōc Sēggera.
"Who's the ungrateful one here? Huh?!"
"Undoubtedly you... Master."
Forly rolled his eyes and fell silent, deeply offended. 'Stuck-up horse.'
The pure-blooded gray horse, its coat brushed and shiny, came at a fast, rhythmic trot, passing through a long stone street, and on both sides, there were tall stalls filled with the most diverse products, with vendors shouting in French and Old English.
There was also a large crowd there, the vast majority of whom wore green shirts and coats, and other adornments like brass necklaces and earrings—some even wore gold, but they lied, as any prudent person, if asked, would say the same thing as everyone else: Royal-Brass.
Forly stopped with Trigger at the end of the street and dismounted to buy alcoholic beverages; it was clear he was driven by the constant desire to appear as a dangerous young man—Forwin, not Forly—and unscrupulous, first, to attract the attention of those around him—rich or not—and second, to impress the (un)adventurous daughter of the richest blacksmith in Muntcynigas.
The young woman, with blonde hair, fair and white skin, neither thin nor fat, but in a perfect middle ground between the two; everything proportionally correct.
Or at least that's what Forly said, because, to others, she was just one among many. Some ladies said the girl was fat—clearly an undue exaggeration—others said she was as thin as a skeleton—hyperbole has always been common—but the fact was that the girl caught Forwin's attention, and while others worried about these hundreds of details, Forwin only saw beauty, delicacy, like a calm stream, flowing without a single interruption of its course.
The second option was the appropriate one for that moment.
He grabbed the drinks and ran off with two bottles in his hands, while Trigger was discussing horse matters with a wiþer-cynn.
...
Forwin returned down the street and turned onto the corner of 24 Middle Street C, then continued, passing B, and A, finally turning onto Breconi Street, a street dominated by the Klemora clan, and where, on the right side, was one of Eleanor's family's rest homes.
He walked, giving a "good day" accompanied by a somewhat strained smile to anyone who passed, like the baker, who knew about his escapades with Eleanor; sometimes, he even helped him hide from their families (both the Thatchers and the Klemoras).
"Good day, Mr. Thatcher!"
"A beautiful day, Mr. Durward."
"Here. Take this."
He handed him a brown, slightly damp cloth. Forwin felt the raised shape in his hand and grew excited.
"Rain lily?!"
"You liked it, didn't you? Take it to the young lady... go on..."
"..."
"Go on, boy! And don't get her pregnant..."
Young Forly hurried off with two bottles and three lilies in his hand. He stopped in front of the door, looked both ways, and slipped unnoticed through the unlocked door.
He entered, placed the bottles and the flower on the table near the entrance, and closed the door behind him.
The next second, he was greeted by white, slender, and delicate hands, followed by a short kiss on the lips.
"You came... and you brought flowers. I love you." And she kissed him on the cheek.
A bright smile dominated Forly's young, thin face.
'This girl is WOW!'
It was the best moment of the week. Now, you must be wondering why he didn't return the "I love you."
If one day they needed to pretend not to love each other—a task they found to be practically impossible, according to Eleanor—they wouldn't be able to lie well, so they practiced frequently in various ways.
'Ah, I love you! Yes! You... Ah! I have matters to attend to now. Focus!'
"Smíþ, I have some kind of news... I think..."
They sat on the bed. Eleanor looked, noticing a kind of disturbance on Forwin's face. His eyes were slightly darkened, and he seemed more weathered by time than he should.
"Hunig, you're troubled..."
He lay down. She lay down next. They were lying down, their eyes fixed on each other.
Eleanor gave Forwin a kiss on the nose.
"Hunig, talk..."
Forly was hesitant.
"I don't... look, I found a letter from my parents."
"And..."
"And... so far, so good, but, you see, this letter was written perfectly in black ink, drawn in every detail in a... strange language... or maybe... dialect. Do you know it?"
"No... Did you talk to Alfred?"
"I did... but he acted very strangely. I played dumb and left the room. Then I heard him muttering from behind the door."
He sighed, and his expression became even more downcast; a wooden creak, which seemed to come from the bed, resounded.
"I understood little, except for the mention of the name Wiccan... does that mean anything to you?"
Before he could finish what he was saying, the door of the house burst open violently.
There appeared the figure of a man in his early fifties, with a protruding belly, a full and poorly trimmed beard, a few tufts of hair covering his baldness, and wearing a black leather apron with gray edges, full of small remnants of white dust, and several scratches on the fabric.
"Forwin!"
Eleanor shot up at once.
"Father!?"
"Listen, you two need to get out of here. Hide. — As he spoke, he paced back and forth. — Look. I heard you talking about Evileth, and you need to know little, except that whoever holds the power of this tongue can summon an evil system of powers, and those who meddle with it enter a chess game with the devil. The danger has doubled. I bring trouble to you as well."
"FATHER?! How cou—"
"NO TIME, my daughter. I already knew about your involvement with a Thatcher; Mr. Durward always told me everything. I never had a problem with it. Now, this moment; I think the royal guards are following me, and you have nothing to do with this... there's no time to explain why."
Forly and Eleanor went straight to the back door as the blacksmith pushed them.
"Go, go. To the forest! Climb up through the roof."
"..."
"NOW!"
They hurried. The door closed in front of the poor blacksmith.
The next second, they pounded on the front door. Before opening it, he went to the drawer in the table—while they pounded relentlessly on the door, shouting, "open up!"—next to the door, and took a letter sealed in green wax with the Klemora symbol, and stuck it in his mouth. The door flew open at once.
...
"Give me your hand, Hunig."
Eleanor stretched out her arm and helped Forly climb up by stepping on the doorframe. When he reached the top, Eleanor turned her face.
"Hunig, did you hear that?"
Forly's face hardened.
"I heard."
Eleanor helped him pull his whole body up, and finally, they crept across the roof. There, in the wood, almost near the center, was a small cracked opening that gave a view of the door.
The blacksmith was unconscious on the floor, with two intact bottles—labeled with the name Bloody Monary—on his lap.
Two tall men in brown robes, and with apparently immense strength, then began to throw the furniture everywhere, and especially at the poor man, seeming to be looking for something.
Eleanor, exasperated, and seemingly in despair, from the depths of her lungs, let out an uncontrollable reaction of fear from her mouth; she screamed.
"Father!"