Please Forget Me - Chapter 270

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

I was content to have been born a boy, but my parents were not. Unable to give up hope, my mother changed her goal, she’d make me the closest friend of the future Marquis Mansfield.

That ambition wasn’t entirely for her own sake, but for mine as well. You already know what kind of future awaits a younger son who’s not an heir. She believed that if I became inseparable friends with the future Marquis, life would be much easier for me.

Rupert and I were born just six months apart. As our mothers wished, we grew up together—cousins, but practically like brothers.

But don’t mistake that for us getting along.

Our mothers were twins, and both Rupert and I inherited their features. It was only natural that we looked like brothers. But our faces had different expressions, so no one ever confused us. Everything else about us was different.

I was good at things boys were supposed to be good at—hunting, shooting, polo—but I never really enjoyed them. Rupert, on the other hand, enjoyed them, even if he wasn’t as skilled.

The only thing we both truly enjoyed was reading, but even then, our tastes couldn’t have been more different. I preferred lyrical, reflective literature; Rupert was obsessed with action-packed war stories, especially tales of heroes.

“Killian, I think I was born in the wrong era.”

The boy wanted to be a hero but was born the heir of a Marquis in an age of peace and abundance. He never knew hardship, never left his paradise, so he couldn’t understand hell.

“I wish I’d been born in the days when people fought over territory!”

“If you had, you’d have died of plague before you even learned to walk.”

“Ha, don’t be ridiculous. That’d only happen to weaklings like you.”

I was only stating a historical fact, but he always took my words as an insult.

It was always like that. Rupert had a deep inferiority complex toward me. Because I excelled at things he couldn’t do, but never wanted what he wanted. He’d put me down with no real reason, and you once told me you sensed that, too, so I know it wasn’t just in my head.

“I’d die gloriously in battle and be remembered forever! I have Godwin’s blood in me, after all.”

Godwin was Rupert’s distant ancestor. He was a hero who died defending the land from what are now called the Highlanders, centuries before gunpowder, when men fought with swords, spears, and catapults.

He and his wife Philomena died for their country. Yes, that’s the Philomena you remember, Rupert must have told you about her.

The legend of Godwin and Philomena, who gave their lives for their homeland, has always been a point of pride for the Mansfield family. That’s probably why Rupert became so enamored with tales of heroes.

“I want to die gloriously!”

The only heir to a Marquisate talking about dying young. His mother, who bore four daughters before finally having an heir, would have fainted dead away if she’d heard him. He was so precious, he got everything he wanted—except for that.

“Anywhere is fine, as long as there’s a war. Before I turn thirty…”

He even had conditions for his glorious death: it had to happen while he was still young and beautiful.

“My last battle will be immortalized in a painting for future generations, but what if I’m old and wrinkled in it? That’s horrifying!”

I remember thinking he really didn’t need to worry about gray hair at fifteen. His father and grandfather both started going bald in their mid-thirties. Rupert would probably face the same fate twenty years down the line.

To want to die young just to avoid baldness, it’s ridiculous, isn’t it?

If I didn’t respond, he’d just try harder to persuade me.

“Killian, for a man, reputation is life. The body is temporary. When you die, your flesh rots away and is forgotten, but honor lives on. If your reputation endures, you’re immortal. Don’t you think so?”

Maybe he just wanted to hear me say he was right. I always wanted to pick apart the holes in his logic, but what’s the point?

“Look at this fishing hook.”

“Boring as ever.”

“I’d rather live a dull life than wish for war out of boredom.”

I always held back from calling him a fish-headed fool to his face. Even when I filtered what I said, I wasn’t exactly kind.

“Should I start praying for you? Dear God, please let Rupert Mansfield be reborn in an age of constant war. May he inherit his title at five after his father dies in battle, only to be poisoned by jealous relatives. It would be a life I’m sure this poor lamb would find thrilling.”