WILLOCK 19

A new day Ha, let me laugh a little bit. It was not the same morning, and it was not the same of the night. I slept—not slept, but rather I tossed and turned, no sleep, not even the little of it. Yes, I was in the Viscount. After my leaving with Henry, I came right and direct to this place, a place I was told I once called home. "Come in." I stated this as fast as I could when I heard the knock that had altered my thoughts. "The Viscount wants to have a word with you." After the statement, I felt the ache in my heart, a little tremor, and a little smell of worry, but I just nodded, showing I had heard. I was not sure of what the Vikings wanted, but sure enough, or rather, I felt it had something to do with my acts last night. I wore the long cardigan that I had removed for a nice rest, then left the door immediately. Downstairs, the rest of the Viscount's family were busy eating breakfast except for the Viscount's seat, which was of course empty, in his office. I knew. With that, I just echoed my legs steadily towards the door, ignoring the vicious and suspicious looks that every human in the living room gave me. The door was opened by one of the guards for my entry, and in front, the Viscount sat with a random piece of paper at hand. It was a random paper, as I stated; it was a newspaper. He wore his spectacles, which lay on the tips of his nose, and busied himself as if carefully analyzing the piece of work done by the vicious and hardworking journalists. "Have a sit." He stated this in his rather rough, moderate tone. I sat through his statement and waited for his judgment, or rather, lecture, for my talks yesterday. Henry had given me a very rough lecture last night about everything I had done, and I knew today wouldn't be any different. "Read that!" He stated. It was not rough nor moderate. It was a command. I knew commanding tones, but I had never, not with even father, ever been commanded to "read that." But either way, I did not mind; it was my mess to clean. I took the newspaper that had been thrashed onto me and started flipping the brown pages.

***'THE LONDON TIMES

A STORY OF A VIKINGS'****

Were the headline story of this piece. I knew the London Times so well. The people who waited for every societal rumor in order to publish their spectacular and, most especially, exposing rumors. And, I knew, this was no good. The truth hurts; sure, this truth will hurt.

***Vikings, a father of three, two sons and a daughter The famous and well-known Duke of Bravdon. (The piece started) The Duke was known for his earlier grants and wins in Tigris, his famous wrestling club, his famous change of rules, and most especially, his authoritative, knowledgeable wisdom and his not thrilling looks, but well, he was a man who could be said to "know it all'. The London Times is well found today, to have received the most interesting of news, not quite interesting as the King's major secrets, but quite interesting as it somehow indulges our very own his highness. The Duke, as stated, was a man who knew it all, or wasn't he? His thrilling or not thrilling looks—we will get back to this.

But the most beautiful story of all was the engaging and unbreakable bond between him and our very own, the Viscount, Lord Hirlvington.'***

The story was getting interesting, I felt. It did not start in presumptuousness, hitting the nail head, but it started with a little turn on, a little foreplay, some little pleasure for any reader, to smile to the delicacies of the sweet word, hurtful? Yes, it was.

***'….Lord Hirlvington, well, let's speak about our Viscount. A family man, blessed with his two children and one, with whom none knows well, A little reminder: a boy who was always homeschooled while his fellow siblings went to school. Okay, maybe that is not the hit; how about that lady, solemnly forsaken, for his indulgence with the King? A queen to be, no! No! The King forsook her, 'being to have a baby before engagement.' Well, that scandal quite made a drift, remember? Maybe not, or are names allowed? No, an article's pride is to keep you guessing...

Well…, A sister is one of the prides of any man alive. A sister—not just a sister, but a younger sister. Vulnerable, hurtled, and innocent—that was all the Viscount wanted from a sister. A listening sister, a not-controlling sister, one that respected herself in all respectable manners, one that accorded to the rules of society. Just a good sister was all he wailed for. And yes, he somehow was blessed with the above expertise of sisters, but his favorite seemed to have other favorite characters: a character of want, a character of character, and a hurting and indulgent attitude that left the Viscount with no choice but to toss her to the Lake of Tigris for burial. Yes, ha… quite amazing… indeed'***

The paper talked a lot. Talked a lot, I mean. It was not something about me anymore. It pointed out the Viscount with all the demeaning words. It was not just about the Viscount; it was all about her sisters. Ending there? No, the whole paper talked about them in a two-page essay-like manner; it talked about the Viscount in the most hurtful manner, in words that I would never state in this paper; it spoke of him as an animal that dictated people around, and for the first time, I felt the paper misjudge this man, who was seated scratching his now-old graying hair. He had already taken off his spectacles and just gazed at nothing. I always heard of the London's Times, but thinking of it as a lie, or rather, spreading the most thrilling rumors, dictated a lot. But was this a lie? Was he this bad, or has he just changed now he's grown old?

***'….The viscount's chrcter, can be dictated as good, for a family man, but well… a story of another day. Do you know our very own.., his highness? or is he to be forgotten? As society states, a gentleman is offered the most, or rather given the free will, of having the most affairs as possible, isn't it? Well, our King never forgot to have the most of, or rather, practice the most of, this rule. Already known are his biological two children off his beautiful, maybe beautiful is quite an extravagant word, maybe boring matrimony. Well, judging is rather bad; apologies, dear King; we all know this to be true. But, yesterday, the greatest of all news reached out, not only for us but astonished even the lady with whom courtship was the meant acts by the subject. However, indulging her in this will not be best, for this does not involve her, so she rests. But the question, dear reader, is... Who is Lord Willock? Is he a Viking? What is it about his talk of being among the dynasties? Is he one of the king's bastards? Well, these questions leave us with one person as an answer: the lady. Where did the child go? Lady Isla's? Where did Lady Isla's son leave, or rather, flee to?'***

The paper stated nothing but words, words about my past, that seemed to expose first those around me; maybe this is how the rumor was supposed to spread, a little lullaby, a little stutter, to the extent that everyone will be eagerly waiting for the next purchase to hear of the news. I knew that these were not the best of the news, but I was somehow glad that these were the news today, since they did not expose much of me. The little I have showcased here is what engraved my heart. It was what I think made the Viscount speak to me in the most ranging tone he had ever done to me. Of course I caught the part where the editor talked of my mother having the most outrageous, or rather, character of all characters; I knew, I read, and I had nothing to say about it. "Have you finished?" The Viscount asked this time, with his voice calm and normal again. I nodded in acceptance and placed the paper right on top of the table that separated his seat from mine. "What do you think about the paper?" I did not have anything to say about it, for my heart knew that this paper was already meant damages on me, not only in my place but via all corners that utmost kept me secure and intimately disclosed my existence, or rather, my identity, to the rest of the world. I expected not much less but more than this paper had stated, but I still felt the range of the Viscount, for he and the King were the main agendas, or rather protagonists, of the paper. The king, as the man who never respected his marital status, and the viscount's allegiance to his sister I knew this would be more than a blow. Not for me, but for the Viscount, his family, and especially his wife, who always eyed me with the most envious eyes, as if I had taken something from them. He had asked what I thought about the paper, and looking at the way he eyed me, I am pretty sure that he was still waiting for the best of answers from me. I had none. "You should leave." He stated, and as if rethinking his statement, continued, "...before..." I understood his statement. Before his family suffers the greatest scandal and humiliation. Before his family becomes the face of the dustbin that accumulates my pasts. I understood. I never knew the Viscount. Never did. How would I know him? As I always said, London was a city that carried the most different classified humans, but one thing made even the roaring human put his tail between his legs. A scandal. A scandal.