“Sir,” came a soft but loud whisper. Hurried footsteps followed. “Sir,” it sounded again, weaker, further away. “He’s awake!”

I heard muttering and mumbling; more voices, more footsteps, louder and more frantic than before. I tried to speak but found my voice gone. My mouth was dry. It was as if my whole tongue was coated in sand.

Every part of my body felt equally terrible. My limbs refused to move, my stomach growled and churned, and my head felt like it’d burst at any moment. Taking a deep breath, I opened my eyelids, squinting at the sudden assault of lamplight.

I was in my room, in my bed — my torso covered in bandages and my right arm wrapped in a cast. I raised my head just in time to see two men entering through the door.

“Young Master, Aldrin,” the taller one said. He stood beside the bed and gave a small bow.

The second one drew closer. He grabbed a wooden chair and sat near. Putting on a pair of glasses and folding his sleeves, he placed his hand on my stomach and pressed. “Can you feel this?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Does it hurt?” He glanced at my face.

“No,” I said.

“Good. That means the anesthetic is working.” He withdrew his hand. “How does your head feel?”

“Awful,” was all I managed to say. The pressure had been getting worse and worse. 

“Yes, that’s to be expected.” He bent down and rummaged through his bag. “You shouldn’t be awake right now. You have a very severe concussion.” He took out a mortar and a pestle and started mindlessly grinding. “The dosage you’ve received should have kept you under for another day or two. You must have great tolerance.”

The taller man hummed in agreement.

He nodded, and after a few turns of his arm, he quietly said, “Water.”

The taller man loudly echoed his word, and a short while later, a worryingly thin girl arrived with a full jar.

The physician poured a cup, threw in whatever he had been pestling, and mixed. He held my neck and let it slowly fall. I could smell it before tasting it: it reeked – a revolting, bitter mixture. 

“Drink,” He ordered, his tone irritating me more than the sewage dribbling down my throat.

The cup empty; I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, waiting for the pounding to lessen. By the time I could open them up again, the physician was gone. The taller man, however, was still standing in the same spot.

It was odd. It took me too long to recognize him: Fidel, father’s ever loyal butler. He’d been with us long before I’d been born. His greyed hair bore witness to it. I saw him every day, yet he seemed a complete stranger.

“Master Healer, Ezar noted that confusion was warranted,” he spoke, nose raised in the air, tone sharp and assertive. Always the dignified one he was. “He also mentioned the possibility of short-term memory loss, though all should be well as long as you do not neglect your medication.”

I groaned. “Tell me what happened, Fidel.”

He flinched. “Very well.” Taking a deep breath, he straightened his back and paused. “You lost,” He said the words with such great finality one would think the world was about to end.

“Yes, I could tell.” I gestured to my body with my one functioning hand. “How did it happen? I had the kid pinned under my foot.”

Fidel blinked. His mouth opened in surprise, and he stared blankly at me. It was rare to see the man displaying anything but seriousness. Crossing his brows, he regained his aloof demeanor. “I… am not sure Young Master. It happened in an instant. One moment you were standing, and the next, you were on the ground, unconscious and bleeding furiously.” He shuffled his feet. “The healers said it was a miracle. Your heart had stopped, Young Master.”

I could see the turmoil in his eyes. He had something on the tip of his tongue – words weighing heavily on his chest. But nothing was said. With a bow, he turned and left. I did not see him again for seven days.

***

“Are you ready, Young Master?” Fidel stood by the bed.

“Yes.” I sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”

Fidel lent me his shoulder as I moved from sitting on a bed to sitting on a chair. Its legs were removed and replaced by two wooden wheels. My mind drifted as he walked, pushing me with him. We were out of the room and into the vast corridors of the mansion. It was a nice change of scenery. I had been staring at my ceiling for a week straight. Though, the free time gave me a chance to rearrange my thoughts.

And rearranging they needed. Something was out of place. I was… different. I spoke different. I saw different. I thought different. Something had changed. Something drastic. I wasn’t ‘confused’ because I hit my head. I knew things I had never known before. I noticed things I had never noticed before. My mind deduced – made connections I never thought possible.

Looking back at my life before made me frown. I was rash, childish. I acted without much thought and with little to no regard for the consequences. I had so much potential, yet I kept squandering it all. Coming to such... lucid realizations only affirmed my hypothesis. I had my body, I had my memories, yet I was not the same. How such a thing occurred, I had no clue.

“We’re here, Young Master.” Fidel brought me out of my head. We stood before a great wooden door. Sitting as I was, it towered over me. I held no fond memories here.

Wise old Fidel put his hands on my shoulders and squeezed tightly. “Master is not in a pleasant mood. You know his temper. Please, do not provoke him, Aldrin.”

I replied with a nod. Whether I provoked him or not did not matter. He couldn’t care less if I were crippled or bedridden. If he deemed I was to be punished, I’d be punished. And now, he certainly had a reason to do it.

Wordlessly, the door was opened, and I was wheeled inside. I sat at the center of the lavish office, facing a grand brown desk. I stared at the back of a man I held no love for.

Father was taller and wider than I was. He was always in a suit no matter the circumstances; his brown hair neatly cut, face clean-shaven – his image always impeccable. The definition of a nobleman. Unfortunate for him, I took after my mother: softer features and blonde hair. His disappointment accompanied me ever since I came out of her womb.

“How are your injuries?” He finally broke the silence.

“Better,” I replied.

He turned my way. His face was blank, but I could see the anger bubbling underneath. “You lost… to a commoner.”

“I–”

“You lost. To a commoner,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

He paused, staring me in the eyes. I wasn’t sure how much time had passed. A minute or two, most likely, but it felt much longer than that. I didn’t know what he was looking for nor if he found it or not. The next and final words he spoke were a surprisingly calm “Get out.”

Not a heartbeat after, Fidel was behind me, pushing my chair. Neither of us spoke on the way back. The quietness outside was a stark contrast to the turmoil inside my head. This was the worst outcome possible.

***

I was alone again, stuck in my bed. My mind was going over the meeting over and over again. The situation was unfavorable. I knew for certain: I was not forgiven. He’d never done it before, and he wasn’t going to start now. I dishonoured our family, and so I required ‘discipline’. The fact that I didn’t receive a beating, at the very least, was incredibly worrying. It meant that dear father had something more sinister in mind. 

A sigh escaped me as I leaned my back. I closed my eyes and was about to fall asleep when footsteps alerted my ears. I focused on the sound and picked up two light and soft taps. The door was knocked on thrice, then opened. Mica stepped in, holding a tray.

“Greetings, Y-Young Master.” She did a little bow: bending her knees and lowering her head. She placed down the tray and stood perfectly still with her head pointed at her feet.

She had been taking care of me for the last week. Longer than that even. She has been my one and only servant for months now. Probably was the one watching over me while I was unconscious as well. Honestly, if I were in her place, I’d have put a pillow over my head while I had the chance.

“How are you, Mica?” I turned sideways, dangling my legs off the side of the bed and sitting up straight.

She flinched. “I-I’m well, Young Master.” She picked up the tray, placed it on the bedside table, and stood as far as decorum allowed.

A bowl of porridge, a loaf of bread, and a full glass of… wine? Picking it up, I spoke, “Is it alright for me to drink this?”

“I-I’m not sure, Young Master.” Mica did not raise her head. “I only brought what I was handed.”

I nodded and placed my nose near the rim of the glass. Strong. I’ve been getting watered mead for the last week. The sudden switch did not sit right with me. He wouldn’t…

“Mica,” I called out, and she jumped in fright. “Have you been eating well? It seems to me you’ve been getting thinner and thinner.”

“Yes, Young Master,” she whispered.

“Look at me when you speak,” I commanded.

Her shoulders shook. Slowly, she inclined her head upwards and spoke in a raspy voice, “Y-yes, Youn–” 

“Do not lie to me, Mica,” I stated calmly.

She remained quiet, her eyes darting, refusing to meet mine. Mustering every bit of confidence she could find, Mica bit her lip and mumbled, “No.” Her head fell back down.

Her chest rose up and down far too rapidly. Huh. I scratched my head. I didn’t know she was this broken. Clearing my throat, I spoke as softly as I could, “Come here, Mica.”

In a frantic motion, she dove, sitting on her knees between my legs. Her hands rushed to my pants, pulling them down, trying to get this over quickly and leave.

I put my hands on her, and she froze like a statue. “That’s not necessary.” I patted her hair. “Come.” Holding her hand, I guided her toward the tray of food. “Eat.”

She did not move at first, blankly staring forward. Her head moved, almost mechanically, towards me. “What? N-no.. I can’t.. I’m sorry..” Tears streaked her face.

“Shhhh….” I cupped her face with my hands and wiped it off. “You’re too weak. You have to eat.” I smiled as she started sobbing and hiccuping. “I know I’ve been cruel to you, Mica. I see it now, and I’m truly sorry.” I put a hand behind her back and rubbed. “This is not a ploy, Mica. Come on, eat your till you're full.”

It took a few more minutes of convincing, but eventually, she approached the food. She was cautious at first, but after getting a taste, her wariness disappeared.

“You can have the wine too.” I continued rubbing her back as she ate. I couldn’t get the mistrust fully out of her gaze. It would take time, given what she’s been through. In a way, she was my greatest ally. She soaked up my anger after a ‘meeting’ with my father. 

Mica did not stop shivering until sleep took over her. I got her to grab some sheets and pillows and lay beside me on the ground. Moving forward, I wouldn’t need to be as harsh as was before. People worked best with rewards instead of punishment. I’d treat her better, that, if she survived till morning.