Day 81, 10:30 AM
“HUMAN BEINGS MAKE LIFE SO INTERESTING. DO YOU KNOW, THAT IN A UNIVERSE SO FULL OF WONDERS, THEY HAVE MANAGED TO INVENT BOREDOM.”
― Terry Pratchett
I enjoy breakfast in bed, brought to me by Martha, an elderly maid. Unlike on normal, busy days, it came almost two full hours after sunrise. Manny chatted with me for a short while, explaining our current situation in as many words as time permitted. Unfortunately, she’s a duchess; her schedule is full, and she left long before the food arrived. But she had the presence of mind to send me a literal cart of food.
She already knows me so well. I smile and take a bite out of solsus’s mythical ribs drowned in a honey sauce free of pain and ninety percent alcohol. My eyes still water though, the ribs are that damn good!
Half an hour passes. I’m well sated and freshly aware of just how starved I was after fasting for a day and a half while recovering from a grievous wound.
My thinking feels much too slow, so I open the BSD, but my stats are normal. The Injured Limb status apparently comes with penalties outside BSD’s immediate purview, but the detailed description mentions limited dexterity and other, unnamed physical penalties.
I sigh and fall into the mound of fluffy feathered pillows ready to sleep, when a thought strikes me.
The assassin!
My gut roils as I leave the bed and immediately face new problems.
I’m naked, my bandaged arm is thicker than my thigh, and my left hand is useless.
I’ll manage pants somehow, but how the hell do I put on a shirt without removing the bandage? The answer is simple, I don’t. Five minutes later, after lightly cursing the inconvenience of donning pants with one hand, I leave the room shirtless.
“General,” a pair of guards stationed by my door yelp as I pass them.
“Loren, Toby,” I dig out their names from my hindbrain, “thanks for ensuring nobody steals me in my sleep. Where is our Noble Lady?”
Several emotions spin on their face, and the wheel stops on the embarrassed confusion. Meanwhile, a part of me is surprised I’m not panicking more about the assassin potentially out to get Manny.
Maybe I want to die and redo this part? Being stuck with a useless limb for weeks or months is an ugly prospect.
I consider the thought while the armored duo struggles to come up with an answer, and I conclude I’m not trying to find a reason for redo. Rather, I think I’ve grown too used to having an assassin out to get us.
Scary thought, really.
“General, Duchess said we are to ensure you remain undisturbed and rest properly.” Toby finds a polite description of their babysitting mission first.
“Wonderful,” I smile, not skipping a beat thinking what to say. Got to love these mental stats. “Worrying about our Noble Lady’s safety disturbs my rest greatly. I will go see how she’s doing. You can follow me.”
They gape as I stride past them, and two seconds later I hear them hustling until they stop in front of me.
“General, Sir,” Toby whines, both of them staring at me with puppy eyes.
Their pleading faces tell me everything. Their balls are on the block.
“Boys,” I say, my voice still friendly, my wolf-like grin telling them not to stop me, “are you a part of the army?”
They exchange looks and nod.
“And who is in charge of the army?”
“You are, Sir.”
“And I look after my people, especially if they take risks doing what I tell them to do. Now, follow me.”
Their faces twist in confusion, but I keep walking, and they follow in silence. I use the time to check my condition. My head feels more or less fine, no funky dancing spots, no dizzy spells. I’m hot, but that’s because I’m shirtless. The few people we meet in corridors stare at me and my figure, which looks like it walked out of the Greek pantheon.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Finally, I reach the throne-room, its line much longer and more solemn than it was last time. People stare and I grin at them before walking into the spacious audience chamber, my bare feet barely making a sound when touching the paved floor.
A pair of panicked guards glare death behind my back, probably sentencing Loren and Toby to this world’s blanket party equivalent.
I’ll have to make sure that doesn’t happen.
“Behave,” I whisper. “They are under orders.”
The guards stiffen, and I glance at Manny, who’s still fully focused on the man kneeling before her.
“Tell your lord I accept his gifts and pledge of loyalty. I look forward to seeing him at the wedding. I wish you a safe journey.” She looks towards the door and sees me, shirtless, shoeless, tiptoeing inside. I must look like I stepped out of a loony toon.
To Manny’s credit, her mouth opens for a brief second before closing. In a blink, rage replaces the moment’s confusion.
“Close the door, I shall hear out other petitioners soon.”
I look back, and all four guards almost sprint out, closing the door with a tad too much zeal as soon as the messenger leaves.
“What are you doing here? Why are you not in bed?” Manny shouts, and I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen her angry enough to lash out. “Do I really need to bind you in your sleep? Are you a child?”
“Manny, I am concerned for your safety, and even as I am right now, I’m still the strongest man in the castle, maybe even in the entire kingdom.” I am calm, as is my voice. She’s worried about me, she’s pregnant, and even though I have a good reason, I am acting against her wishes and doctor Thunderwax’s orders.
She opens her mouth, but I keep speaking, my voice firmer. “I will remain by your side as much as reasonably possible.”
Manny pauses, then shakes her head. “You can’t stand around for hours.”
I shrug, standing. “You can shorten your audiences, we could take breaks…”
There are two seats there, and you’re clearly sitting in your mother’s, rather than your father’s.
I naturally don’t point out the tactless thought. Not even Blunt does. I kept a close watch on my mouth, but it didn’t even try to seize control.
Manny, however, looks at her father’s seat. The conflict is so visible in her eyes, she might as well be having a verbal argument with herself.
“You can sit here,” finally her love for me wins over whatever tradition or other impractical, irrational reason was holding her back, but I shake my head, fully aware of the political implications of her suggestion.
“That is your seat. I am your man and general, not the duke.” I almost slipped and said, ‘Duke Eagleeye.’
Manny bites her lip, looking at her father’s seat, but eventually nods and changes seats. Five minutes later, she’s once more admitting petitioners and messengers. They are all jittery, keeping their heads low, and pointedly not looking in my direction, which results in them speaking to Manny’s shoes. The third one even stutters and shakes. At first it’s amusing, and I’m certain my presence paralyzes everyone, but it quickly grows dull.
They all offer similar excuses; misunderstandings, Manny’s messenger not reaching anyone important, punished scapegoats…
“Well, that was fun!” My voice filled with obviously fake cheeriness, and Manny shoots me a look.
“Master Thuderwax insisted you should rest and refrain from strenuous activities until you make full recovery.”
“Yeah, I’m gonna take it slow. Sitting here, sitting there, lying here, lying there. I have to ask him when I can start exercising with my right alone…” Whether you straddling me counts as resting or not.
Turns out, I can’t exercise until further notice, Manny on top is fine as long as my arm is braced. As for everything else… I sit for meals, like always. I sit in dry, pointless meetings, which really should have been an email. I sit in the consort’s throne, struggling not to yawn while irrelevant, obnoxious people parade before me. I observe the troops train by sitting in a chair, which my personal nannies are carrying around for me.
I sit… I sit… Sit…SIT!
I sit so much, I think I’m turning into a giant ass. On the plus side, my godly back doesn’t hurt.
Days pass without permission to do Any Single Thing. One would think being treated like a duke consort who has nothing to do is a great experience, full of pleasures to explore. In reality, in a world without internet, without novels, with most books written in dry, old testament style, and with my wife mostly handling official state audiences, there is nothing to do, save to sleep, eat, drink, and listen to those official meetings drag on and on.
I wake up with the sunrise, a full week after returning, to the barely audible rustle of bedsheets. Manny’s trying to sneak out of the bed. Again.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Her back turns stiff.
“You know that washing you in the morning is literally the only thing I have to look forward to in my day?”
“I am positive that is not the only thing you look forward to.”
“The other one comes after sunset, so this really is the only thing I enjoy during my day.”
She sighs and throws off the blanket, letting me bask in her divinity. “I still cannot believe this is a ritual in your world, and the way you are doing it is not the proper way of washing a person.”
She glances at me, her look dripping with skepticism.
“I swear on my god’s honor it is. If I’m lying to you, may my god be dragged to hell and made to suffer his just punishment.”
The bastard deserves it.
Manny lets out a fake despondent sigh. “I must speak with Master Thunderwax and talk him into letting you get some exercise to vent all this excess energy you are brimming with.”
“Thank you!” I say with sincere gratitude, however, I don’t lose sight of what’s important right now. “Now, please, fetch the basin and the oils. Your breasts and belly will soon start to grow, and they need lots of oily massages to keep the skin supple.”