WILLOCK 52

After Ezron left, I sat up on the gold-made table with some wooden legs for about ten minutes or so, contemplating everything as random thoughts rang in my mind. The main question was what to say upon my arrival home. I knew Father might have had an idea of where I was, given the things Ezron took part in behind my back – or, better said, things far away from my knowledge.

I thought about home speculatively now. I suddenly started to look for something special for each of my siblings and my mother, the Duke's wife. Of course, I call her mother, dear reader, for she was the guide, the light, and the first woman with whom I had an introspection and a soft spot. Yes, Father used to take me to my biological mother's stone every year to celebrate her anniversary, right after we would celebrate my birthday. But, I had never really created a bond with a woman like I did with the Duke's wife.

So, I was wondering what's best to give her, as she showed me everything, treated me like her own, and even punished me in times when I was wrong. It was never something of favoritism, unlike the Viscountess, who always looked at me as if I were a rival to her prideful son, William. I sometimes wonder how we are to be cousins. That's the reason I find myself troubled by the fact that it was Father who took me in, someone with no bloodline relationship with me, instead of the Viscount, who was, to be precise, my uncle. I'm sure there was something beneath that Father had never told me. He always just stated that my other home lays in London, and I had an uncle there whom I shall visit when I am of age. I never knew this uncle, and I never inquired much about him. I was satisfied by the visits we had, especially going to Mother's family.

Her mother, my grandmother, was a very darling woman. She always called me 'the Duke's charm' and stated that I was growing more handsome day by day. She would tell me stories of conquering the universe and how the Kings lived in the nation and all that. However, before I left for my education, she told me not to forget them. Despite not being their biological son and grandson, I was still a cherished person. I was more than blood would stick; I was a blood that was stolen from them. She put it that well.

After the lengthy thoughts about my roots and some things I had never really considered, I stood and went to check the suitcases that Amir had stated were already packed and placed in this room. I wanted to be sure that everything was in order and not a single thing was left behind. I hated leaving my things in other people's places; that's the privacy I always enjoyed about myself, I guess. I always wanted to carry all my things around, no matter how heavy they were. They were well-packed in my leather bag, the one Father had given me as a present to leave with when I was visiting the Viscount for the first time. It had everything well-placed: my Viscount clothes, as if you all remember, I did not carry many clothes; all my bag had was gold coins. They had added some clothes; I'm sure these were Amir's, maybe meant as a gift to me. I feel that he somehow felt guilty for everything he did. I was cool with everything except the fact that they were already betrothing me to someone I had little to no interest in. I really had no liking for that little girl; she felt more like my sister. I just could not be man enough to let myself see it. But if it were Jasmine, I would literally throw the dice. She just felt intimidating to me, and God knows, I liked these types of women—intimidating and those who seemed to have society at some cornerstone, a corner that meant they would visit society when they felt like it.

The clothes were well-placed. I checked the back part of the bag to see if the papers were there, but I found nothing. Maybe Amir was lying to me. This meant that I would have to sneak out of this nation again. It was not crazy; it was authentic, beautiful, and I really had a liking for its culture. I had learned a few Arabic words when I was working in this hotel. I found myself having compatible friends who understood the language, and so they taught me a few words. After checking the bag and seeing everything was fine, I removed my prince attire, set myself in the bathtub. The water was already warm; I guess I stayed talking for too long. I did my shower quickly and then wore my sleeping attire, which was provided by the hotel—some silk clothes with colors that embraced this nation's culture. They always had something with colors; everything of theirs must, or it always had colors. It was so cultural; even the food—it was a must, actually—that the local native food should embrace many colors, not just one or two. It was a mixture of many colors, bringing the food to have an interesting taste. I loved the food, although sometimes the spices held a lot. After trying it for a lengthy period, I got used to it.

Knocks were the first thing that woke me up. I don't know, I sometimes was used to sleeping without any goodnight, how did I sleep so easily. Anyway, the knock was thunderous, so I went and opened the door. It was Amir's guard; he always had a stern and upright face, the kind that anyone could be scared of.

"Good morning, Lord Willock. Prince Amir seeks a word with you," he stated, and without waiting for me to say another word, he left. How was I to know where that prince was? That was the question that literally rang in my mind.

Without further ado, I went right into my bag and took the Viscount trousers and boots that were left untouched by those goons whom I met when I wanted to look for Armstrong. On top, I wore the prince's shirt and then just left without even checking myself in the reflection that was set in the corner of the room. I knew, whether shaggy or not, I always looked good. It was never something I would lie about. I knew I did look good because each time, even at the Viscount's house, I would see the maids and house helps observing me as I left to find some soap or tell the Viscount that I needed some water to take a bath, or I needed someone who could trim my hair, or something like that.

My hair had grown at least, but I now wanted to trim it again. I had started growing fond of having short hair, not just short but really short with just an inch left of it. I suddenly started seeing it quite good; it made me seem more mature, I guess.

"I hear Prince Amir seeks a word. Do you happen to know where he is?" I asked one of the workers in the hotel. I knew him, but I never really had a close interaction with him to know his name.

"Highest room order, 2 or 3, not quite sure," he stated, and the thick Italian accent was heard. He was Italian, I noted. This hotel seemed to really bond well with Italians, as there were many workers with the same thick accent, not like the British English. I knew I had the accent, that accent that I would never have any refusal or any argument whatsoever when someone discerned my roots just by the checks of my accent. I knew it was there; I never really hated it. I just sometimes found it sexier when someone would have to figure out my descent not by the check of my accent. It felt easier.

Amir's room was guarded, of course, so I now had to speak again. It was never something I liked doing right after waking; I always wanted some time for myself to at least reflect on the previous day and then discern what I am to do on the current one.

"I hear Prince Amir seeks a word," I stated, and with that, they just opened the door, and I entered without them saying anything. There were two guards, to be precise, but the one who was sent to call me, or rather deliver the message, was not there. Amir was busy shaving his mustache and beard. I sometimes wondered when I would grow my beard. My mustache had already shown some thick hairs that could be felt when someone lightly let their hands run on my upper lip. They had not grown as Amir's. Amir had shown the lights of adolescence so early; it was maybe something about Arabs. For us English, it was maybe a few lucky teenagers, or rather young men. Father, my biological father the King, had a beard, lengthy brown beards with which he cut once in a while. So that at least gave me the idea that if he were truly my father, I shall someday have many beards. They just made someone seem man enough. I hated when I wouldn't feel any beards beneath me, except some eight to twenty countable hairs. It just felt more like being a woman.

"You asked for me," I stated.

"Yes," he answered as he continued to groom his beard, and so I knew I had to wait. Of course, he was the prince, a lucky boy, a really lucky boy… right? One who will always be waited for, one who does not know how it really feels to have someone's rejection, to be hated or...

"Yes," he stated again after some ten minutes of me just thinking about life as a prince. His perfect life, I guess. He came in with his white towel as he wiped off his now all-shaved chin and mustache. I wondered why he always shaved it all; he actually never let his beard grow any length. He may have hated it, and his hair was also always short; he may have liked everything short, I guess. Even his women. I never saw him flirt around with a woman his height or a little shorter. To eye length, he always wanted shorter women, really shorter, those who reached his chin or his shoulders; they really turned him on, I guess.

Look at me, thinking about him, when I was just like him. I never had a liking for taller women, but as long as a woman would look up into my eyes, I was okay. I never minded if it was eye length, chin length, or shoulder length, but I never had a liking for way shorter women. I knew I was tall, slightly taller than an average man, just slightly. We were almost the same height as Amir. I don't know how tall is tall, but I was tall, that I knew. I had surpassed even Father's height. I was the same height as the Viscount, I would say, but heights, I really did not know much of them. I just hoped women liked tall men. Maybe I would stand a chance with that.

"I wanted to give you these. Your papers," he stated as he handed me some sheets covered in a brown envelope. I opened it and saw each written well in all my three names. The Viking's word never left its ought; I loved that name Vikings, the due of Vikings, Father's name. But in reality, he ruled over Bavdon, a small town indeed, a town that embraces all my childhood memories. When I checked the papers, I knew now my destiny was set, it was really time to go home in amore mannered manner.., it was time.