"MR. DUNWARD COOK! IT'S THE ROYAL GUARD!"
Dunward froze on the spot, dropped the carpets, and scrambled awkwardly up the stairs.
The moment he stepped out, he pretended to curse while holding the glue in his hand.
"This old junk! Nothing is made like it used to be—" he stopped, turning his head. "Ah! Hello boys, I hadn't seen you. My little grey cells! What is it you want, eh? Bread? I have some fine wines from the South of Earth-Greece, very hard to find! Hahaha. Come on, tell me... I know you came in when the sign said closed." He gave a curious emphasis to the last sentence as if sharing a secret.
Two guards, wearing common clothes underneath; on top, they wore a kind of chainmail arranged like a robe and fastened by three small brown belts—with a considerable distance between each.
The one on the right, Holger, had a short red beard, cream-colored skin, and a face with acne scars. He was very robust and clumsy, though short (almost at the counter's height)—some would even say he was a descendant of the ancient dwarves of the First Magical Era.
The other, Hulderic, was tall, with a small nose, small ears, a long head, tan skin, and thin lips, though with a mature muscular build, like someone who had been exercising his body for a long time—there was also a certain environmental 'presence' that he exuded wherever he went, imposing, if I may say so.
"Mr. Cook... are you well?" said Hulderic, in a very pleasant voice.
"Why, I'm very well, my boy. How are things with the Auchbergs and your family? I heard around that your father wanted to arrange a marriage with Brithevade."
"It's true... it's true... but I didn't come to talk about that," he continued, sighing. "And actually, not about bread either. Have you heard anything about the Thatchers recently?"
"How could I not? Everyone always hears about the heir."
"I mean, about the parents."
"I hear little about them..."
The two soldiers looked at each other, worried.
"That's what I was afraid of," said Holger. His voice, thick and overly deep, seemed forced. "Looks like the son got himself into trouble too, from what I know... The other platoons seem to be dealing with him. Doesn't matter to me. Let's go, Hulderic... we have nothing to do here."
"Wait, Holger... what's the glue for, Mr. Cook? Does bread need glue?" he asked, laughing strangely.
Dunward recoiled a little. The soldier's expression became hard to interpret.
"Ah! You know how it is." His voice was shaky, and imperceptibly, he shuffled his feet in his sandals; sweat was running down under his pants and shirt. "These old wooden things are always falling apart, hehe."
"I've worked with this sort of thing before. You know my father—" he smiled from ear to ear "—teaching me everything he knows. I can take a look, if you think it's necessary. Is it in the old basement?"
"No, no, no, my boy. You already work so much, and I enjoy fiddling with this."
"How can you say that, Mr. Cook?" he laughed with a slight intensity. "For you, I always have time!"
"There's... no need. I... I like doing it... and it's already late. Goodbye. An old man like me always sleeps early."
"Of course." The eyes of Auchberg's betrothed met his short companion's again, just for a fleeting glance, and then returned, with their usual neutrality. "Very well. Goodbye, Mr. Cook! Lock the door and the windows, please."
"Of course, my boys... and walk in the light."
"..."
Cling!
He waited a few seconds, ran, and locked the door and windows as fast as he could. Then he went down, grabbed the carpet, a knife, a chisel, and ran to the other room. Before starting, he turned off all the lights and lit only a small, low candle so that no one else could notice him through any crack.
He spent the entire night working on the carpet, with the utmost care and dedication possible. In the morning, he was asleep, sprawled on the floor, and had overslept. Someone was knocking on the door and seemed irritated.
Knock! Knock!
"Wait a moment! Oh heavens, where did I sleep."
He got up, stumbling, and ran, closing the door behind him, and as he passed through the half-door, he tore a piece of his shirt.
When he finally reached the door, the sunlight—and his wife—caught him off guard.
A woman in her 60s, short like him, with white and silver hair, wearing a pink cap with white edges, and a delicate dress—in the same color scheme—with flower-shaped sleeves.
"Dunward Cook! What is this sloppiness?! And that torn shirt?!"
=== The Shellstrop Rest Home ===
Three days had passed since Eleanor had escaped, and Forly was under a regime of daily torture. During these days, guards took turns torturing the two for information. First, it was food deprivation; though Eleanor's father refused the water he was offered.
But, of course, all this time was not wasted by our protagonist and his perhaps (future?) father-in-law.
They found a window of time that was suitable for their escape, in a way that not even the Royal Guard could reclaim them. And here we are, with the plan in motion at noon.
"Mr. Shellstrop. Forgive me."
"It's alright, boy. There is nothing to forgive. You protected my daughter. I couldn't ask for anything else. Here." In his bloodied hand was a letter with the green Klemora seal. "Keep it with you, son, and do not lose it. It will help you in your moment of greatest need. You are now the sender and the recipient. You must hide it in your house, where no one can find it."
Tears streamed down Forly's face. This was not what he had expected to happen. It was a kind of nightmare he could never have anticipated. Dealing with loss again.
And for a while, due to so many similarities with his own life, he began to wonder if his mind had some influence on this. He didn't even want to talk to his own conscience... only pain and suffering filled his soul.
He stood up. Rags of cloth were wrapped around his shoulder to stanch the wound.
"Are you sure, sir?" Forwin's voice was laced with sorrow. He could even taste the salt of his tears in his mouth. The taste was bitter, like everything around him.
"Take the bottle, son. It's time. Do not delay in anything I instructed you. You did that to your chest, right? It needs to be convincing..."
He nodded yes.
Forwin then took a deep breath and stood up; then, he picked up the bottle from the table. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. His heart beat in ever-faster rhythms. Dark circles highlighted his reddened eyes, and he felt excruciating pain in his chest, on his back full of whip slashes, his face with so many wounds that perhaps, even if they became invisible, they would never be healed in this life again.
In a swift impulse, he swung his arm with the bottle and shattered it over the poor blacksmith's head.
He froze for a moment, motionless, while a storm raged in his mind. Everything made sense now. Nothing could go back to normal. Forly understood that it had never been normal, nor special. In the end, it was all the result of a choice. HIS CHOICE.
...
Before stepping outside, he removed the cloth bandaging his shoulder and took off his shirt, revealing a shockingly hot, purple and red bloodstain with exposed flesh, and still-wet blood surrounding the hole—and cuts all over his back caked in dried blood. 'It hurts so much! It hurts so much!'
Holding the shirt in his hand, he stopped for a few seconds, staring at it, full of blood and tears. He would still need it. He looked at the blacksmith one last time and took the letter. 'Forgive me, Sir.' The man was already dead.
He walked out, staggering, into the middle of the street. At this hour, there was a good flow of people on the sidewalks and in the street—and of course, he startled a good portion (if not all) of those present.
"HELP!! HELP!!! THE BLACKSMITH SHELLSTROP WENT MAD AND TRIED TO KILL ME!!!! HE TORTURED ME!! NOW THAT HE'S DRUNK I MANAGED TO ESCAPE! HE SAID HE'S GOING TO KILL THE KING AND HUNT DOWN EVERY ONE OF THE THATCHERS! HEEEEEEEELLLLLP!!!!!" He screamed every word with such force, as if it were the last time he would ever speak.
And he fell unconscious on the ground—though, he hadn't planned on that last part.