“Young master, the master is dead. It is safe to say that the late-sheriff is now being transported from Inglovia to Haganolopolis.”

“What did you say? Old man is dead? You’re jesting me around, aren’t ‘ya Quexajo?”

Three days earlier, I found the hearsays were true. Not from a fatal death or whatsoever. I do not know the whole information about how he died. It leaves me cold feet when hearing those sentiments. I was perplexed when I was in the pen doing some equestry exercises. Circling around within the fences of the pen. Idling. Doing indolent stuff, whereas I did believe to be deserving a day off. Quexajo, my attendant, was panting to share this unlucky news for me and it showed on his face a crestfallen look casting genuinity. I wish to know pertaining to his departure from this world. I’m sorry, old man, for bad mouthing about you. I really do.

“I can’t believe the late-master left us now under tumultuous circumstances, milord.” Quexajo is bawling, his tears seeping down from his eyes.

I tap his shoulder to beckon some comfort to him, I praise: “Lord Rayl, really do enjoy his life in this world. Well, before leisure and pleasure, he made himself a workhorse hoisting up the name of Hagan leaving vestige from ‘Plane One’ up to here and beyond 'Plane Seven'. I am proud of how he did it.” despite there’s some negligence on his part to the extent of disdaining my father instead.

“Here, milord.” Quexajo presents me a missive.

“What is it?” I ask, as there are some concerns and skeptics behind the letter offering to me.

Later I receive the mail from Quexajo's hand, I open it up and according to what it says:

> Geoff,

>

> My time has come for me to leave this world. By the time that you’re reading this letter - I might be gone and you will be receiving the news of my demise. Don’t you worry about me, perishing out of your sight. I am very aware that you are not too keen on having a penchant for me… I’m sorry. Well, my son, at least please accept the gift of ten treasure boxes. It might aid your ventures. I beseech you take care of your siblings too. Especially your mother - Allydia. Your scummy father will be watching you over the heavens. I’ll always be.

>

> - Yours truly,

>

> Lord (Sheriff) Rayl

Plain and laconic, indeed. Even after death, my old man practices brevity in words.

“Idiot.” I mutter.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Milord, with all due respect, you’re far too disrespectful about your father! Well, forget about him being your father, Lord Geoff! At least, pay homage to the dead!” Quexajo raises his voice against me.

“What do you know about me and the old man?!? What do you know?!? You’re just an adopted one!” I overshoot. Oh crap, damn it! The words just slip out of my mouth.

“I never- - … no, I’m sorry. Brother - -...” as I realize.

“No, milord! Don’t call me a ‘brother’ and in the first place, like you have said: ‘I’m just a surrogate one.’” Quexajo leaves, where he cuts me off mid-sentence as I’m trying to repair what occurred. God damn it! There is nothing I can do. It is how it is. The damage is done. CRAP!

I am just staring quite blankly outside. I am stomping every stump I see. And out of anger, I nearly injure myself - tweaking my ankle in the process. I am disappointed in myself, not Quexajo. Because in the beginning, it’s me who should be blaming myself. I went overboard. I should have not said those punitive words to him. It’s my fault, I’m sorry. I proceed to the woods to exude some of the fumes I have in me. To do some sports besides horse riding, I am going to hunt elk or whatever flashes before my eyes.

“Damn it!” I sigh, where after a while managing to catch nothing. I never thought how quick they are when they are running. Or am I just too slow to react, hmmm?

I suppose, going in the wild is a good sweat after all. I couldn’t hunt a single animal on me, though, only just a quiver on my left hand and a bow on the other. I breathe: “I’m not really fit for this…” labeling the occurrence transpires, as I fail to even catch a rabbit right around the open. I decide to go back and rest for a second since the evening is starting to show up. At the men’s public basement shower, that’s when I see Quexajo once again. He is picking something in his personal compartment and then I confront him in a slow fashion.

I meet him sideways, uttering: “I’m sorry about earlier.” I can’t see him straight in the eyes.

“What’s up, milord? How’s today’s activities?” he then brushes it off, and still his words are not representing a welcome or a warmth in his voice.

“It’s just fine, I suppose.” I answer Quexajo’s askance monotonously.

Meanwhile, after we dabble ourselves into a cold bath; we then head towards the public spa room, steaming with lukewarm air and mild fumes. He becomes more distant with me. I know because we are at an arm-length when we are about to submerge. Each minute has passed, the gap between us is relatively becoming more apparent. He does not take glances at me, he is eyeing on somewhere, outside the window panel.

“Hey.” I call for Quexajo’s attention, heeding for just this once.

“Yes, milord?” a cold reply, he is still not taking interest in what I am about to say - I presume.

I confer him the note that my old man is telling me - the message of it. I beckon Quexajo to flip the letter backward and it states:

> P.S.: Your presence at my funeral is of necessity. Even though when I am gone, at least I will detect you while I am in eternal slumber.

“The old man says in final will that I am needed in Haganolopolis. And the answer to his invitation is: Yes. Yes, I will go.” I calmly say it, where Quexajo is tilting his head to me “Do you want to usher me back? To home, brother?” as I am undertaking to invite him to be my chaperon during the voyage.

“Absolutely, milord. The pleasure is all mine!”