Sorceress of the Second Sphere

20. The Count of Oakfort - Peyton

"I remember us having that elven sunbread, delicious stuff, sweet, yet savoury at the same time. Father spent a fortune importing that in from Fylandofirr. Do you remember the taste, how they melted in your mouth as you took that first bite, and then those fruits, like raisins, what are they called?"

"I think the elves call them dæyhēre" Peyton smiled despite the bastard sword pointing precariously toward him as he slowly lowered himself onto the creaking wooden floor.

"Yes! That's it," Sir Cedwyn chuckled almost unaware that he was the one menacingly pointing it at the Knight of Terriers.

Peyton attempted to smile with him, desperate to relieve the room from the intense darkened atmosphere that he had brought himself, unarmed, into.

The Count of Oakfort, Sir Cedwyn, was a shadow of his former self. Dejected and heartbroken, he sat up against the corner of the room beside a well-made bed, appearing as if all hope was lost. As he talked of sunbread, his voice appeared to bounce in excitement, yet the minimal light in the room made it difficult for Peyton to see what his face truly spoke.

"The last time I had it, that big-bosomed woman sang 'The mistress from Sainte-Esquedo', gods what was her name, she was such a beauty?" Cedwyn's slightly broken voice recalled, his sword slowly lowered as Peyton sat on the floor.

"Esmerelda Crueza, she was deliberately sailed in from Cerbero Muerte. An extremely gifted woman." Peyton smiled.

"Gifted indeed," Cedwyn's chuckle appeared more mischievous than normal. "That woman turned me into a man that evening, father would have been furious if he had found out. How are you able to remember her name so vividly?"

"I remember a vast number of details as if it were yesterday. It is a blessing and a curse."

"I wonder if you recall, then, that it was the last time I saw my father before you and he set off to the east for riches and glory?" Cedwyn's voice quickly switched from happiness to venom, "I wonder if you recall the favour that my father had always shown you during the eight winters that you slept within my castle? I wonder if you recall the various times he chastised me for failing to live up to his high expectations, unlike his page who seemed to continuously achieve them effortlessly?"

Peyton sighed, his frustration evident as the air escaped his mouth. Years of resentment, anger and hardship, all down to petty jealousy? It had always been an emotion that Peyton rarely understood. It was an irrational sentiment, and it continuously created strife where most times it was not required. As a man of Sir Cedwyn's stature, revered by the nobility and respected by peers, how could he understand what it was to be considered no more than a peasant?

Peyton needed to work twice as hard and twice as long to even be noticed by the other knights. He had the title of Sir, but were it not for his adventures in the east with the father of the man that despised him, Peyton would be a nobody, likely sent in the vanguard that devastated so many lives at the beginning of the war.

Pure exasperation took over Peyton's thoughts, as there was no way, as Sir Cedwyn was at his lowest, would Peyton allow himself to be treated as the focus of all of Cedwyn's failures.

"I remember everything. I remember how your father forced me to work double the hours of everyone else to be considered an equal of the other pages, I remember how your mother refused me to be in the same room as her due to my low standing, and I also recall how you and your brothers teased me and beat me at every opportunity as I was the ginger peasant, including one time breaking my arm so bad, the doctor was concerned I would not be able to use a sword with it ever again." frustration rose within Peyton's voice.

"Uh... I..." Cedwyn stuttered.

"I also recall how your father praised me for my work ethic, that he was surprised and encouraged how I stood up to the adversity of the castle and became a page that he considered proud to be his own. I recall how I wept for your father as if he was my own as the Manticore's tail pierced his armour like it was parchment, infecting and deforming him in ways I could never consider imaginable."