Oliver awoke with confusion and uncertainty, his mind a foggy haze. He tried to gather his bearings, but the unfamiliar surroundings overwhelmed him. As he lay there, attempting to make sense of the situation, a figure rushed towards him, enveloping him in a tight embrace. The touch was warm, almost desperate, and filled with relief. "Who is this?" Oliver thought, struggling to recall any details. He searched his mind, but no answers came.
"Lish, are you okay?" The figure, a woman, asked him cautiously, her voice trembling with concern. She examined him vigorously, her hands moving over his forehead, cheeks, and arms, searching for any signs of lingering illness. Satisfied that he was alright, she sighed with relief, the tension in her shoulders easing.
"Lish? Who is Lish?" Oliver pondered, the name foreign and strange to him. Despite the confusion, he remained remarkably calm, a sense of detachment settling over him. It felt as though he had just awoken from a long, disorienting dream, his mind still muddled and groggy. A hazy but crucial memory surfaced, telling him that this woman was his mother. The realization brought a strange comfort. He knew instinctively that he must not panic and must conceal his confusion until he figured out his situation.
"I'm fine, Mom," he said weakly, attempting a smile, though it came across as sad and fragile. His mother, noticing his effort, hugged him again, her embrace filled with warmth and love. She stroked his hair gently, her touch soothing.
"Don't worry, darling. You just recovered from a very serious fever, but you're alright now," she said, her voice soft and reassuring. "Get some rest. Just call the maid or me if you need anything. Don't think about anything else."
Oliver's mind latched onto the word "maid." He glanced around the room, his eyes widening at the opulence that surrounded him. The room was massive, far larger, and more luxurious than anything he had ever seen. The walls were adorned with rich, velvet drapes, and the furniture was intricately carved from dark, polished wood. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting a soft, warm light that filled the room. It was clear that this was not just a room, but part of a grand estate.
His gaze wandered to the large windows, draped with heavy curtains that barely let in the sunlight. Through the slight gap, he could see a glimpse of manicured gardens and a sprawling estate beyond. "This place is more like a mansion," he mused, marveling at the sheer scale and elegance of his surroundings.
As he lay back, trying to rest, Oliver's mind raced with questions. Who was Lish? How did he end up in this place? His mother's words and the lavish surroundings suggested wealth and status far beyond anything he had known in his previous life. He needed to piece together the fragments of his memory and understand his new reality.
For now, he decided to follow his mother's advice and rest. The bed he lay on was incredibly comfortable, with soft sheets and a thick, warm blanket that seemed to cocoon him in luxury. Despite his confusion, exhaustion soon took over, and he drifted off to sleep, hoping that his dreams might offer some clues about the life he now found himself in.
His sleep was fitful, filled with fragmented images and fleeting memories. He saw glimpses of grand halls, opulent parties, and faces that seemed familiar yet distant. There were moments of laughter, of joy, and also of sadness. A sense of duty, of expectation, loomed over everything. As he dreamed, bits and pieces of his new life began to fall into place, though many questions still remained unanswered.
Hours later, he awoke again, feeling slightly more rested but still disoriented. The room was quiet, the only sound was the faint rustle of the curtains as a gentle breeze blew in. He sat up slowly, his body feeling weak but his mind more alert. He needed to start finding answers. Calling for the maid his mother mentioned seemed like a good first step.
He reached for the bell on the nightstand, a beautifully crafted silver piece, and rang it gently. Moments later, a young woman in a crisp uniform entered the room, her demeanor respectful and attentive.
"Yes, Master Lish? How may I assist you?" she asked, her voice calm and professional.
Oliver hesitated, the name "Lish" still feeling foreign on his tongue. "Could you bring me some water, please?" he asked, deciding to start with something simple.
"Of course, right away," she replied, leaving the room swiftly. As he waited, Oliver took in more details of the room—the ornate paintings on the walls, the richly woven rugs, and the overall sense of opulence. He felt a mix of awe and intimidation, the weight of his new reality pressing down on him.
The maid returned quickly with a tray, a glass of water, and a small bowl of fruit. "Here you go, Master Lish. Is there anything else you need?"
"No, thank you," Oliver replied, taking the glass and sipping the water. It was cool and refreshing, helping to clear his mind a little more. "Actually," he added, "could you tell me a bit about this place? I've been feeling a bit... disoriented."
The maid looked at him with a hint of concern but nodded. "Of course, Master Lish. This is the Aurelius Estate, your family's ancestral home. You've been very ill for the past few weeks, but your mother and the doctors have been taking good care of you. You're in the East Wing, in one of the master bedrooms."
Aurelius. That name clicked something in his mind. One of the two great families that governed the Aurelia Empire, just below the king, had the same status as a Duke. It seemed like he was born into a pretty decent environment. According to the woman's concern, it seemed that he was well-loved as well. A wealthy family and a loving one, something that most people don't get.
From now on, I can get to know more of this body's memories by asking and observing around like this. My main concern is to not let people know that I am not the real Lish, for I am Oliver.
Oliver. He felt a bit weird about mentioning his original name. Maybe this was this body's natural rejection. Although he was not sure since this was the first time for him.
Lysander Aurelius.
That name echoed in the depths of his mind. As he heard that name, he automatically knew that this was this body's name. Lysander, huh, quite a grand name. He felt kind of comfortable murmuring that name even though it was his first time hearing it. If he wanted to survive here, he must first abandon Oliver and be reborn as Lysander Aurelius; this was his only choice.
The realization settled over him like a heavy cloak. The name "Lysander" felt both foreign and familiar, as if it had been a part of him all along. He repeated it silently, letting the syllables roll off his tongue, each time feeling a little more connected to it. This was his new identity, his new life. To navigate this strange world, he would have to fully embrace it.
He took another sip of water, feeling its coolness soothe his parched throat. The maid stood nearby, waiting attentively. "Thank you," he said again, his voice a little stronger. She nodded, her eyes filled with a mixture of respect and concern, before she quietly left the room.
Alone once more, Lysander—or Oliver, as he still thought of himself—let his gaze wander around the room. The grandeur of it all was almost overwhelming. He needed to understand this place, this life. He decided to start small, to observe and learn, piecing together the fragments of his new existence.
Over the next few days, he followed a routine of rest and quiet observation. Each morning, a maid would bring him breakfast, a sumptuous array of fruits, pastries, and eggs. The food was exquisite, a far cry from what he had been used to. He would eat slowly, savoring the flavors, while watching the comings and goings of the household from his window.
The staff moved with a quiet efficiency, their movements almost choreographed. He noted their interactions and the deference they showed to him and his mother. He listened to their conversations, picking up bits and pieces of information about the estate and its inhabitants.
His mother visited frequently, her concern never wavering. She would sit by his bedside, reading to him or simply talking about the estate's affairs. Her presence was comforting, a constant in his otherwise turbulent world. He found himself growing fond of her, appreciating her warmth and kindness.
One afternoon, as he was resting, he heard a soft knock on the door. "Come in," he called, expecting another visit from the maid or his mother. Instead, a tall man with a stern expression entered the room. He was dressed impeccably, his bearing regal.
"Lysander," the man said, his voice deep and commanding. "I am Dr. Hawthorne, your family's physician. How are you feeling today?"
Lysander—Oliver—took a deep breath. "I'm feeling much better, thank you," he replied, trying to project confidence. Dr. Hawthorne nodded, stepping closer to examine him. His touch was professional, his manner brisk.
"Your recovery has been remarkable," Dr. Hawthorne said, his tone approving. "You gave us quite a scare. It's good to see you looking so well."
"Thank you, Doctor," Lysander said, meeting his gaze. "I appreciate everything you've done for me."
His life is mostly mundane at this period of time.