Waking up to someone’s crying is disorienting, to say the least. It leaves an emptiness in your chest that feels unfillable. The quiet sobbing filled with true and strong emotion brings tears to your own eyes and dries your mouth. Worse, the older, male voice broke every few breaths, like a child that was wronged beyond comprehension. 

 

Sitting up to see the voice, vertigo assaulted Caleb without warning. The world spun around him, becoming a blur. And to top it all off, a sense of confusion left him unable to make up from down. For all he knew he could have been kidnapped from his home in Michigan. He did make a few powerful enemies in the corporate world, whether intentionally or otherwise. 

 

But even in that state, the jumbled colors still left him with butterflies in his stomach. The soft brown walls of his small home were not the colors he was seeing. His poster of a Roman Legionary did not accent the surroundings. Instead, all he saw was a mismatch of blending greens, yellows, and blues like curtains.

 

Trying to speak up, all that came out of his mouth was an incoherent mess he would be too embarrassed to ever repeat sober. After trying a few times to talk, he gave up and resigned himself to pain-filled groaning and grumbling. 

 

He shook his head, trying to get the cobwebs out of his mind, but that only sent him spiraling back to the bed. Or at least that was until a firm hand grabbed his shoulder. 

 

The person, male, sniffed a few times before letting out a stream of foreign words Caleb couldn’t possibly understand. And as a survivalist and elite of the world, he responded in the best way he knew possible. 

 

“Wha?” 

 

And then returned to groaning. At the very least, his vision began to clear the longer he stayed conscious. That only made everything worse. You see, the use of large hanging banners was something that was not used, of course, unless you propped a flag on the outside of your home. Otherwise, their conventional uses are limited and far in between. 

 

Now, here he was staring at a few different flags, each with a solid background color and yellow borders around them. The first solid color was forest green that made the white eagle in its center pop out to the eyes. The second was a light sky blue with a crown on the head of an eastern dragon, its long serpentine body twisting in every direction imaginable. 

 

More than he wanted to admit, this left a horrible taste in his mouth. Why couldn’t he be kidnapped by normal psychopaths? Why not some of the run of the mill maniacs or hitmen that would put a bullet or two through his skull after relaying their assigned message. Now, he has to deal with some crazy medieval torture machines and other less savory devices. 

 

He tried to curse, but all he did was bite his tongue forcing him to flinch and wince in pain. 

 

As he held his chin in a futile attempt to heal the damage done, the voice spoke again. It was clearer this time and sounded very ancient. With all the elongated letters and pauses to boot. But, the unusual mishmash of sounds sounded more familiar. Like a language he had previously learned years ago but never again practiced. 

 

That was when a splitting headache struck without an ounce of mercy. Caleb felt his skull being split in two by an axe, carved into a bowl, then someone began punching his brain into mush as fast as possible. For three long seconds, it tore him up. He gripped his head, nails digging into his head, and almost bit off his tongue. 

 

He didn’t know what drug they stuffed him with, but this hurt more than anything he could have imagined. The pain was almost insanity producing. It flashed through him with each pulse of his heart, getting worse after every throb. 

 

The old man tried to help, but his every word sent shockwaves through Caleb’s entire body. 

 

He screamed, wishing with all his will that the suffering went away.

 

And then it was gone. Just like that. Without warning or even a hint of it having been there. 

 

Of course, other than the amalgamation of memories that now inhabited his mind, nothing of note took place. And even then, the images he so clearly remembered were so deeply ingrained into his psyche he wasn't sure he could differentiate between what was his and what was not. 

 

He tried to think about it, but every time a fog seemingly covered his mind. And it just felt wrong. He wasn't supposed to think about it. Or try to discover anything unusual within him. 

 

Everything was fine. 

 

Nothing unnatural happened here. 

 

He is Jonas IV Helen Hadin III. And Caleb was his imaginary identity, a dream he had. 

 

A recurring nightmare of materialism and corporate greed. One even this vagrantly degenerate and honorable...err…noble would be too ashamed to repeat in daylight. Everything was allowed, everything was fair and love in the world of money-making. 

 

A recurring nightmare indeed. 

 

And now, everything was fine. Much better than the backstabbing, drama-filled hunt for more power and money. 

 

...well not really. 

 

He was being disowned by his father, Duke Hadin. If anything, this was not fine. This was horrible! Unable to stop himself, a string of curses flowed out of his mouth. 

 

The old man gasped in horror. 

 

“Young Master! Rid yourself of such unpure words! Leave that filth to the lower born!”

 

Turning towards the voice, Caleb...no, Jonas, saw an old, wrinkled man with a long beard falling down to his chest. He wore a well-fitting robe of white and black, almost like an English Butler, but without the tuxedo. Even the twirly mustache and monocle. 

 

“Fezar,” Jonas whispered. 

 

The name brought with it an endless stream of memories. Each and every one of them had Fezar’s patient and kind figure keeping Jonas out of the worst of life's miseries. Like a father he never had. One that was actually present for his twentieth birthday. 

 

Jonas noticed the trails of tears that marked the wrinkles on Fezar’s face. His breath caught, that feeling of emptiness returned. “You were crying?” 

 

Wiping the tears away, Fezar smiled faintly. Jonas could see the sadness behind that veil. The eyes don’t lie. They never lie. 

 

“No, not at all. I just stubbed my toe on the dresser. It brought tears to my eyes, that's all.” Fezar tried to laugh, but it sounded hollow. 

 

“Fezar. I-I didn’t do it. I swear. I found it the way it was, I-I tried to help. You got to believe me.”

 

Doubt crossed the old butler’s face and the smile disappeared into a look of exhaustion. “Of course, Young Master. I believe you. You never had the stomach for that side of life.”

 

“You doubt my innocence, Frezar?” Jonas’s voice broke. 

 

The old butler tried to speak, but no words came out of his mouth. Instead, he looked away as tears began to run down his cheeks again. He bit his lips and grabbed his robe, clenching it until his hands became a pale white color. 

 

“Frezar…?” Jonas whispered.

 

After a moment, Frezar’s shoulders slumped. He let out a wavering breath. “I should have never let you stay with those philistines! Th-those criminals! They changed who you were, Young Master. They took away the kindness your heart held so long ago.”

 

“I didn’t do it,”

 

“We found you with your hands covered with her blood. Your favored knife was found in her throat. You were the only person at the scene, nobody else was even close to where you stood. No windows were open for someone to come and leave through. Only you, Young Master, and no one else.”

 

Frezar returned to his seat, for the first time in a long while he actually looked his age. He let his body drop onto the ornate chair, relying on the cushion to make his drop easy. With a hand covering his eyes, he tried to cover the tears, but they dropped onto his robe instead.

 

“I won’t leave you. I’ve sworn to serve you ever since you were born. I was there every day, seeing you grow up with so much potential and talent. All those difficult lessons and training sessions until dusk, I wanted you to enjoy life a bit, to have fun and make connections with friends for the future. I thought it would help!

 

Oh, how wrong I was! I did this! I let it continue when I should have stopped it from its onset! It's all my fault…”

 

Jonas couldn’t stop the slow trickle of tears. No matter how hard he tried to bottle the emotions up, some of it just escaped unreserved. He lost everything because of him! Everything he cherished was crumbling before him all for the greed of another. 

 

At least the nightmares of his false identity, Caleb, tried to secretly redeem himself by founding an orphanage and school in his home city. And worse was that it was a betrayal of the only family member he thought he had any connection too. 

 

His cursed younger brother.