Guy the Wise 2: Number Two Dad (Patreon)

Waking up with a noose tied around the neck was usually a novel experience for most people. For the people that tied one, well… they usually don’t wake up. That was the whole point.

For someone like Luca, it was the second time.

The moment that he felt the harsh texture of the rope brushing against his neck and chin, he grasped at it and looked around in a panic, his breathing heavy and his mind alert. The place that he saw was a far stretch from the prison cell he’d been spending his days—wooden flooring, stone walls, a singular bed, a mirror, and a chest. He scrambled up, confused and on-edge. He looked around for anything he might use as a weapon until his eyes settled on the mirror.

Looking back at him was a pleasantly pale young man with quite delicate features. He had long silky white hair, white eyes, straight white teeth… the boy looked like a little cherub, and certainly not what he’d expected to see in the mirror. Luca pulled at the noose tied to his neck, revealing a harsh bruise. Strangely, the site of the bruise didn’t hurt at all.

This wasn’t him. But he could place a name, strangely. Guyard. Guyard of Fenrest.

The moment the name came to him, memories tore through like a storm—jagged, burning, unwelcome. Every image felt like a splinter forced behind the eyes, each name a foreign word scraped across raw nerves. Emotions surged with no warning: grief that strangled the heart, rage that narrowed his vision. It wasn’t like he was remembering—it was like he was being rewritten, and it hurt like hell.

When it passed, Luca turned his head back and looked up, his breathing heavy. There, one of the supports of the roof held a rope that had been snapped off at a point. He removed the noose around his neck, comparing the point at which the two separated. It was a pointless gesture—he knew they were the same. He remembered tying it around his neck. He remembered why he had.

Luca sat on the ground in front of the mirror, pondering himself. “…the fuck is this shit?” he muttered in total disbelief. Even his voice was wrong—melodious and soft.

Moments ago, Luca thought he’d had a repeat of a lesson taught to him earlier in life. One of the family’s associates had snuck into his house, tied a noose around his neck, then woke him up with a rather painful jerk. It had been a message—he’d been getting a little greedy, stepping outside his wheelhouse. He needed to be straightened out. It worked quite effectively.

As he thought, memories of last night came to him. The details came in fragments—disjointed, unreliable. A hallway he didn’t recognize. A door that shouldn’t have been open. The sudden grip of hands, something wrapping around his neck as he writhed, and the hollow sound of urgent commands echoing off cinderblock. He recalled his feet leaving the ground for a moment, and then… nothing. Just… adrift, floating, without breath.

Only… what the hell was this? He studied the face in the mirror, running through the name. Guyard of Fenrest. Certainly wasn’t his name. He was… he was…

“Both of them,” he said in disbelief, running slender, elegant fingers through his hair.

When he thought of himself, the name Guyard came up in equal measure alongside Luca Trapani. He could remember all of his past on Earth. He’d been doing work for the New York families—freelancing, largely, per his father’s recommendation. He knew how to swing a bat, he knew enough math to get by, and he was street smart. He had Luca’s lifetime packed away in his head, but no body to accompany it. Now, though…

Now, there was a new name with a new life packed inside his head: Guyard of Fenrest, a provincial noble from a swamp in the edge of the kingdom. Guyard had big dreams despite coming from such a place. He begged and begged and begged, and his father, a minor lord in an undeveloped backwater, had scrimped and saved to send Guyard here with all of his tuition paid. And where was here? The Imperial University of Ironmarch, where all of the talents of the next generation were trained in cutting edge techniques.

Guyard remembered writing a letter. He stood up, looking around the room until he found it. It had neat, pretty script. It wasn’t English, but rather Guyard’s native language called Sellenic which employed strange runes for writing. He could read it just fine.

Dearest Father,

I have failed—not only in my studies, but in strength, in composure, in everything you hoped I would be. I tried, truly, but the weight here was more than I could bear. Their words, their scorn… it has hollowed me. I cannot stand to stay here any longer. If I simply leave, the university will retain the tuition, and everything that you sacrificed to send me here will go to waste. The only way that the funds can be returned is in this fashion.

You may hear whispers. Let them whisper. I only care that you know this: I am sorry.

For wasting what you gave.
For not being stronger.

I hope you can find a better use for the funds tarnished on me. My last request is that you won’t waste them on my funeral.

Your son,
Guyard

Luca handled the letter that this person—that he—had written, his throat choking up a little. Once Guyard actually arrived here, he was ruthlessly harassed by the urban elite. It wasn’t just his background from a distant province—his family had deep ties with elven clans in the region, often intermarrying to keep the peace. The Empire of Ironmarch was at war with the elves, and thus tacitly encouraged discrimination of that sort.

The words brought back memories that Luca inherited. He saw flashes of his father Armand going without so that he could provide a better future for his son. He remembered their dinners, where Armand would dine on stale bread while Guyard himself ate chicken. Guyard knew what his father had sacrificed to send him here. And so, he emulated that example in the worst fashion possible.

“Stupid kid…” he muttered, sniffing once. “You think your dad would prefer this over a little bit of money?”

Luca tore up the letter, choosing to get angry rather than wallow in sadness. That was the influence of the him from the other world. His head was a mess, like two ocean currents clashing. One of them was a gentle, fragile, but ambitious boy from the hicks, and the other a wannabe tough guy. They seemed totally incompatible, but right now they were trapped in the same head, the experiences of each coming together to form something new.

After what felt like an eternity, Luca sat on the bed, staring into the mirror. He had a rather simple revelation… and a rather dramatic shift in mindset.

Guyard was still alive. He was still alive. The boy had made a mistake, but he’d come out a lucky boy.

Right now, he—Guyard—couldn’t really make sense of the situation. Existential questions like why and how it always been very far beyond his pay grade, but he was already deeply tied to this new life of his. With the new influx of mentalities and experiences, he felt like there was much to do to correct the course. This boy didn’t need to give up the chance but has been given to him. Rather, he could rise above, and Guyard intended to help him—them—do that.

“You were a good kid,” he spoke to the mirror, feeling loopy and delusional as his mind grappled with this impossible situation. “Didn’t do a damn thing wrong. Didn’t hurt nobody but yourself. And maybe that’s the fucking problem.” Guyard ground his teeth together. “Maybe I can show you how. These little silk-socked pricks up at that university… bury ‘em in the fucking swamps, show ‘em what it’s like down in the muck as the worms eat their…” he trailed off, fuming.

The good-hearted, disciplined nature of the boy tugged at Guyard’s heartstrings. The boy that wanted to make his father proud, the boy that wanted to bring success and glory to his house as payment for all that had been given to him. He’d been ready to storm out of here right now and do something stupid as Luca often did, but the boy’s nature brought him pause.

Not enough to reconsider, mind. But enough to be smart about it.

Guyard did some breathing exercises that he picked up from the boy, taming his vengeful thoughts and putting them in the direction of something more productive. His mind was still a mess. He was sorting through fragments of memory that surfaced in his mind whenever he saw something that inspired recollection. But he already knew what tomorrow would look like.

Tomorrow, Guyard would go back to the Imperial University of Ironmarch with his head held high. He’d make sure this kid lived the life that he always wanted. If he’d learned anything from Luca’s existence, it was that if the world wasn’t willing to let him make his own way, he had to carve his own path.

But today… he needed to get his head in order. Perhaps he needed to get his body in order. His aether—the fundamental energy that differentiated this world from earth—was disturbed, chaotic. He needed to meditate to tame the restless aether within, and adapt it to work alongside Lucky Boy’s new mind.  

***

Guyard adjusted the satchel slung over his shoulder as he climbed the flawless stone steps of the Imperial University of Ironmarch. In the end, his mind had been too disturbed to even begin tackling the matter of his chaotic aether, but he was beginning to accept this new reality. The academy’s high walls of dark stone loomed ahead, harsh and unornamented. He once again donned the uniform of the university. As he was a student of the Lower Ward, the outfit was a sleek gray with bronze trimming. It was a bit loose, as Guyard hadn’t been eating right.

The wind tugged at his clothes as he moved higher up. Around him, some students moved briskly with heads down, while others walked slowly and chatted leisurely. Countless that he saw had wronged him in some way, either perpetuating rumors or participating in the harassment. It was expected of them. It was a sign of obedience—an important factor in a kingdom. The naïve boy Guyard hadn’t been able to see the power politics at work, but Lucky Boy knew them.

Guyard surveyed the splendor of the university as he approached. The Lower Ward was level, its buildings cold and practical. There, unproven students were lumped, each in competition to reach the higher levels. The Upper Ward was further up the mountain. Elevated, expansive, expensive—it was fitting for the highest talents of the empire. And on a floating island above them both was the Laureate’s Wing, where only the best students rose. All the resources of the empire were lavished upon those who made it that high.

I’ll make it there, Guyard promised in his head. As another thought came to mind, he smiled. Even if I have to send that island crashing down to the ground.

Guyard glanced at the capital city at the base of the mountain, where the urban sprawl stretched for what might’ve been miles. Then, he turned to the gate, walking forth. He recognized the gate guard—it was one of the few that didn’t harass him. Lucky Boy, indeed.

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