Night of Eden 87

 Chapter 87

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Sponsored by LC. Thank you ❤️ (½)

***

From spring to winter and back to spring again, the seasons turned twice without a care, and a little more time passed before the beautiful autumn leaves began to change color.

In the meantime, Belvida had undergone many changes.

Less than a month after that still-recounted event, the Count of Hastings died.

His son, Edwin, immediately inherited the title, and his daughter, Liana, married Duke Beryl of Fitz the following year. Despite the fifteen-year age gap, she seemed very happy. Beryl, in turn, treasured his young and beautiful wife like a treasure chest.

Some mocked that it must have looked like a real treasure chest, not a figurative one. It was an open secret in social circles that Liana's dowry was enormous, and that it all came from her ex-fiancé's pocket.

The Hastings were also able to extract quite a bit from their opponents, the first of which was a monopoly on the salt supply of the Duchy of Fitz.

Edwin's business acumen, honed in the Pemburg salt fields, began to shine through.

With his brother-in-law's political backing and business acumen, the Hastings family began to soar again.

Belvida was perfectly positioned as his business base and entertaining party house.

In the nearby Ponoa Square, ground was being broken for a train station and a large hotel that would bear the Hastings name.

The new Count of Hastings worked enthusiastically, and the number of people using the Belvida doubled.

And today, the polo grounds were finally open again. Exactly 34 months after everything that happened.

Not for a practice or a friendly match, but for the Continental Cup final, featuring the Crown Prince.

Dozens of journalists, officials, and spectators gathered like clouds, the most special guests of all being, of course, the royal couple, who had come to watch their son play.

Edwin had done quite a bit of preparation for this day. He had sent butlers and maids to the palace to familiarize them with imperial protocol and hired additional landscapers to maintain the stadium's lawns. He's also completely changed the stables and training team.

With their skills as hosts fully realized, the event went off without a hitch.

Under clear skies, the competition began with the orchestra playing, just as it had three years earlier. Three flags fluttered in the center of the field, but the Hastings’ was missing.

Edwin had stopped playing polo and all his other hobbies after that incident.

Beep.

Eight horses galloped madly. The cheers from the hundreds of spectators were thunderous and overwhelming.

The Emperor and Empress sat on one side of the grandstand, the Duke and Duchess of Macmilan on the other, the first time in six years that they had sat side by side in the stands.

Player No. 3 in the black jacket drove the ball up and down the field and sprinted toward the goal. His speed and ball-handling skills were unparalleled for the crown prince who had won the last tournament.

The Empress pulled her rosy cheeks into a tight line and glanced over at Isabella, her one-time handmaiden and longtime friend. There was a hint of compassion in her stern glare.

Her skin, once fine and smooth beyond her years, was hollow and haggard, and the lines around her eyes were countless.

And what about Anton, the Duke of Macmilan, at her side?

Even in middle age, he was considered one of the most handsome men in the empire. But lately, his face resembled nothing more than that of a grizzled old man.

It was said that farming children was something he couldn't do no matter how hard he tried.

The empress shook her head in pity and turned her attention back to her son.

The crown prince was on the verge of scoring a goal, his strong shoulders pulling the mallet back hard to deliver the decisive blow, when something happened that shook the empress's otherwise relaxed smile.

A dark brown horse broke into a fierce gallop and rode right alongside him.

"Whoa!"

A thunderous roar erupted from the stands. Another rider, No. 3 in an ultramarine blue jacket, was in hot pursuit, tumbling back and forth with the crown prince.

The crowd went wild at the arrival of the socialite of the past three years.

Isabella was the most nervous of all. Her husband, Anton, was clutching her hand tightly, unable to take his eyes off his son.

At first glance, the couple seemed overjoyed. Thank God their son was alive and well and back on his horse. Given what Theodore Macmilan had done over the past three years, it would seem natural.

But in reality, it was anything but.

Neither man had any interest in winning. Even when Theodore defeated the crown prince and won the championship, he didn't take any pleasure in it.

Despite his determination, Theodore managed to intercept the ball in the perfect fashion that had once thrilled the crowd. Then he turned his horse around and galloped away.

"Teddy!"

Andrea called out.

Theodore passed the ball and it landed squarely in front of Andrea. Straight shot, goal.

The bleachers erupted.

Everyone loves a story of a man who has fallen to the bottom and risen to the top.

The crown prince, stripped of the ball, shot Theodore a puzzled look.

He's only been back for three months, how?

The reaction among the observing journalists was also surprising: they were cautious and aloof, unlike the enthusiastic crowd.

Theodore's team had never beaten the crown prince's team before.

In fact, they hadn't even made it out of the first round in the last tournament. The world also knew what Theodore Macmilan had been up to.

Of course, it didn't hurt that he was making a comeback. Peron's social circle was always happy to have a rival.

"They say a lot of things about master Macmilan, but he’s got talent.”

"Yes, I'm at a loss for words."

"I'm glad he’s come to his senses."

"I can't imagine what the Duke and the Duchess must have been going through, I feel so sorry for them every time I see them."

Could she be influenced by her son, who had spent the last three years living with the rumors and not caring in the slightest?

Isabella didn't even seem to mind that they were saying such things in front of her; all her attention was on her son. Anton stared off into the distance, confused.

Despite his son's jaw-dropping skill, his anxiety was not diminished in the slightest.

Theodore was always a beat ahead of their worries.

What they thought would be a couple years of searching and stopping had turned into two years and was now approaching three. They were glad he didn't fall into drugs, but they found opium in his room the other day.

All those years of trusting and waiting were for nothing.

His son had been burning himself for the past three years. Anton wished that he would rather deteriorate, that he would use up his last ounce of strength.

When he falls down and can't get up, they can hold him, and then they can pick him up and put him back on his feet.

But even that was a ridiculous expectation.

With each passing day, Theodore sank deeper and deeper into the mire, until three months ago, when they saw him like this.

***

The final whistle blew. The players and spectators were speechless at the unbelievable result.

6 to 11

Throughout the seven chukkers, Theodore had been as dominant as the God of War, and the victory was well deserved.

The next thing they knew, Theodore Mcmilan was back in the gym, shaking off the booze, cigarettes, and opium.

It had only been three months since he'd been back in training.

No one expected him to be this good.

And then he won a championship.

The apathetic reporters were busy coming up with new headlines.

"Derailed heir gets back on track?”

“Macmilan's heir to the Macmillan fortunes revived.”

Standing at the podium to accept his trophy, Theodore removed his helmet and wiped the sweat from his temples with his shoulder.

Those who hadn't seen him in years were quite surprised.

Contrary to the rumors that abounded, he hadn't changed a bit. The glare that stared down everyone was the same, the cold, expressionless gaze.

***

"We are one, one is us!"

"You and I, forward, forward, forward, forward!"

This was what a wild party meant.

From champagne poured over the trophy, to whiskey and wine, to "Heron," the liquor of the century, all kinds of alcohol were consumed.

Men even carried bottles of liquor around with them, smoking cigarettes and reveling in their indulgence.

The culmination of the ripe atmosphere was a game of plate breaking called yemark. It was so simple it's almost laughable to call it a game.

Whether it was smashing them to the floor or throwing them against the wall, the idea was to shatter expensive porcelain dishes in some way.

Marcus, Emil, and Andrea laughed and screamed like maniacs, smashing dozens of plates in no time at all.

"Glory be to Archibald Theodore Macmilan, the resurrected hero of Heredon!"

Another champagne cap popped, accompanied by a firecracker. Champagne gushed out like a fountain, cascading down the stacked glasses like a staircase.

Theodore stared wordlessly at his friends. Nordstrom felt his heart pounding with every glimpse of those clear eyes beneath those slow-blinking eyelids.

***

The party that had rocked the Heredon mansion had died down by dawn.

The men, staggering from poker, liquor, and tobacco, sprawled on chairs, sofas, and rugs, drunken as hell.

The maids in the anteroom picked up or carried their masters and led them to the guest rooms. After the last one, Emil, had been safely returned, Theodore slowly pushed himself to his feet.

Nordstrom followed wordlessly.

It was like the curtain had fallen on a play. In that brief walk down the hall, the Master had gone from yang to yin.

The 'pretense of normalcy' that the Duke and Duchess of Macmilan had lamented was over.

“I don't know what to do. Teddy is really acting strange... I don't know what to do anymore.”

"I thought we’ve done everything I could, but do we really need to lock him up in Cheton Hospital?”

Nordstrom was devastated as he watched the Duchess talk about the asylum.

Frantically following behind, he realized that Theodore was heading out of the mansion, not to his room.

"I'm going to Kreutz."

Ah, here we go again.

Nordstrom had to swallow hard.

***

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