The onlookers, villagers who had gathered to witness the confrontation, began exchanging hushed whispers, their voices blending into a low, buzzing hum that filled the tense air.
Andrew came to stand between Roger and the warriors.
"Andrew Moons?" Vanvi's inquiry cut through the tension, his tone commanding as he directed his attention to Andrew.
Andrew nodded nervously, his throat dry as he struggled to comprehend the unfolding situation.
"Sir, may I ask what you were doing to my uncle?" Andrew demanded trying to mask his fear with anger and concern while he kept his voice down before them.
"You do not need to worry about that," Vanvi stated firmly, his gaze cold and unyielding, dismissing Andrew's question without a second thought.
"Just answer my question: La Isabelle Demore has expressed interest in your painting, and as such, you have been given the opportunity to draw her portrait. This is a significant honor. Your presence has been requested at the manor. Are you coming?" Vanvi's words hung in the air, heavy with expectation.
"My lord, you mean all of this was happening because of that?" Andrew inquired, his voice tinged with disbelief. The idea that such a grand display of force was due to a mere portrait was almost absurd to him. "My bad, sir, but I may have to decline this golden opportunity," he declared, his tone firm. "Thank you for coming this far," he added.
Vanvi studied Andrew for a moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he nodded, a slight inclination of his head. "Very well, we will leave," he declared, his voice carrying a finality that signaled the end of the confrontation. He mounted his horse with a practiced ease, and his team followed him.
Andrew and Roger watched in silence as the warriors retreated, their figures growing smaller in the distance. The tension slowly ebbed away, replaced by a lingering unease. Andrew glanced at his uncle, whose face was pale with exhaustion.
Gently, Andrew moved to support Roger, his hand steady as he lifted his uncle by the shoulder, guiding him toward the house.
Once inside, the air felt cooler, safer, though the echoes of the encounter still lingered in their minds. Andrew guided Roger to a nearby chair, easing him into its comforting embrace.
Andrew offered a reassuring smile, trying to mask his own lingering fear. He moved to the door, and locked it securely.
Making his way into the kitchen, Andrew filled a glass with cool, refreshing water and returned to Roger's side. He offered it to his uncle.
Roger accepted the glass with a grateful nod, though his hand trembled slightly as he lifted it to his lips. The cool water soothed his parched throat, a small comfort after the tension of the day. After taking a long sip, he lowered the glass and looked at Andrew with a mix of pride and concern. "You made the wise choice," he murmured, his voice low but filled with approval.
"Declining them was the right and wise choice," Roger repeated, his tone more firm. He handed the empty glass back to his nephew, his gaze lingering on Andrew's face, searching for any sign of doubt.
As Roger continued, a note of skepticism crept into his voice, his brows furrowing in disbelief. "Warriors... here to escort my nephew?!" he scoffed, the words dripping with mockery.
"I've never heard of such a thing. We are poor people, living off dried meals and turned milk. And for my humble nephew, who isn't even famous... for him... warriors? Unbelievable, such an unbelievable lie." Roger's voice rose with each word, the disbelief evident in his tone.
"Isn't it?" he asked Andrew and he shook his head in response.
But suddenly, Roger's demeanor shifted. His expression grew grave as he reached out and grabbed Andrew's arm, which startled Andrew, and he felt his grip tightening around his arm with a desperate urgency.
"You made the right choice," Roger said again, but this time there was no pride in his voice, only fear. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But I wonder how they came all the way here."
"Andrew, not every rumor is a lie," Roger cautioned, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and forewarning. "Rumors of Isabelle being ruthless, cold, and cruel could be true. Warriors... they could be... so," he faltered, his words trailing off with uncertainty.
Andrew looked at his uncle, his heart aching at the sight of Roger's fear. "I did what was necessary, uncle," he replied, his voice steady.
"Yes... What you did was correct..." Roger confirmed, though his voice was tinged with resignation.
Andrew placed a comforting hand on Roger's hand, squeezing them gently. "Uncle, I'll go and bring something to help you with the pain."
Roger nodded, his expression weary but grateful. As Andrew rose from his seat, his steps were purposeful, though his mind raced with a thousand questions.
As Andrew disappeared into another room, Roger's voice carried a note of distress as he recounted, "Those warriors... started beating me up when I refused to send you with them," he shared.
After a moment, Roger called him, "Andrew.."
"Yes?" Roger received a low response.
"Do not think about of going with them."
"Yes.."
With a heavy sigh, Roger rose from the chair and made his way towards the bed, his frustration evident in his every movement. And Andrew made his way to the kitchen.
"My nephew has talent for painting, they said. Aaree, I know you are only using it as an excuse.." he continued, his voice tinged with pride and defiance.
"High class are full of evil people. And if they find something liking to their eye they take it whatever it is."
In the other room, Andrew listened quietly to his uncle's words, a tempest of emotions swirling within him. He couldn't quite tell what he was feeling, but a heaviness settled in his chest, weighing him down with a profound sense of sadness.
"Uncle..." Andrew's voice was low as he emerged from the kitchen, his gaze fixed on Roger as he started the subject tentatively, "What if we went with them?"
As soon as Roger heard Andrew's words, a wave of shock rippled through him. He turned sharply to face his nephew, his eyes wide with disbelief.
"Are you bewitched by them?" Roger demanded, his tone sharp and edged with panic.
"What nonsense are you speaking... Go with them?" He shook his head in disbelief.
Roger's hands trembled as he clenched them into fists. "Are you still a child, harboring such naive thoughts?" he continued, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper.
"Do you even know what these high-class people are capable of? Look at me?! Beating a weak old man up!"
"You don't know what will happen to you if you went with them," he muttered.
"Wait... Are you not thinking of truly going with them, are you?" he questioned, his voice tinged with urgency.
"Wait... Are you truly thinking of going with them?" he questioned, his voice filled with urgency and a desperation. He reached out, grabbing Andrew's arm as if to physically anchor him to the spot.
"Uncle, I..." Andrew began, his voice faltering as he tried to find the right words, but Roger cut him off, his grip tightening on Andrew's arm.
"Do not even think about it, Andrew," Roger pleaded, but it was more like he warned. "These people... they don't care about us. They see us as nothing more than tools, expendable. You don't know the world they come from, their promises are laced with poison."
"I'm not going anywhere," Andrew finally said, his voice soft but firm, the words a promise, a vow that he would not break. Roger's grip loosened slightly, and he let out a shaky breath.
"Thank you," Roger whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion.
Andrew's voice trembled as he spoke, the doubt and guilt that had been eating away at him finally surfacing. "However, I was thinking... what if... they were truly here for the paintings..?" His words were hesitant, each one pulled from him as if it weighed a ton.
Roger's face twisted with a mix of disbelief and betrayal. "You have lost your mind..." he said, the words sharp as daggers. "You were lying to me when you said that you will stay?" His voice grew louder, tinged with a raw, aching hurt. "Or that much our relation ever mattered to you?"
Andrew shook his head, his gaze fixed on the floor, unable to meet his uncle's accusing eyes. "No... I will stay," he whispered, the word barely audible.
"The thing is," he began. "I was the one who reached out to Lady Isabelle with my paintings. I sent her a letter pleading the lady to give a moment to my work."
"And the paintings might be the reason they were here? You mean?" he asked, and he further added, "You are finally revealing yourself.."
Roger quietly pulled himself away from him, the sound of his uncle footsteps walking away, seemed like a echo for Andrew. However, Andrew stood there, frozen, staring at the floor, his heart sinking as he felt the distance between them growing with each passing second.
But then, the footsteps stopped. Roger's feet appeared in Andrew's line of sight, and for a moment, hope flared in Andrew's chest. He slowly lifted his gaze, expecting, perhaps even hoping, for a moment of emotional bonding, for forgiveness, or at least a chance to explain. But instead, what he got was a flurry of papers hitting his face, the force of the action startling him as the papers scattered to the floor around him.
"I already knew about it," Roger said, his voice a mix of frustration, disappointment, and something else, something Andrew couldn't quite place.
The letters, now lying in a disordered pile at Andrew's feet, were from Lady Isabelle, more than just two or three. It was clear that Andrew had received multiple responses, to his multiple letters, but he had never seen them.
Andrew crouched down, his hands shaking as he began to pick up the scattered letters, his heart heavy with a sense of despair. "Why?" he asked, his voice barely audible, the single word filled with pain and confusion.
"I thought that the lady rejected my appeal..." Andrew's voice cracked as he spoke, his emotions threatening to spill over. Tears welled up in his eyes as he looked at the letters, unread, untouched, each one a missed opportunity, each one a symbol of how badly he had misunderstood the situation. He had believed that his appeal had been ignored, that Lady Isabelle had deemed him unworthy of her attention. But now, holding the evidence in his trembling hands, he realized just how wrong he had been.