Come and Cry at My Funeral - Chapter 71
Izar had always considered himself to be straightforward in his desires. Having seen the sordid and miserable states of his parents, he would be no better than an animal if he did not learn from their example.
Of course, he was well acquainted with the bawdy tales the knights shared amongst themselves, and the way they pleasured themselves at the barracks when there was no other choice. When those with vigorous energy gathered, it was a normal aspect of daily life.
Yet, Izar had never stepped beyond the immediate relief of urgent heat.
To him, relationships were merely acts for producing legitimate heirs to continue the lineage. Someday, he would physically unite with a wife, whose lineage was aligned with his, solely for that purpose.
Yes, that’s what he thought would happen…
“God damn it.”
Since that day, that ridiculously brazen shepherdess started to intrude into his dreams uninvited. If only she looked at him with those big eyes and left, he might have been able to endure it.
Though he hated to admit it, the truth was that her eyes in the light were beautiful.
But the shepherdess appeared in his dreams naked, writhing aimlessly beneath him, sobbing.
<Ah, wai— aah!>
Her small lips were bitten and reddened as if to suppress moans.
<Ah, hnn…!>
The faint voice sweetly piercing his eardrums left an enduring afterimage. Even the sound of her voice was enough to elicit curses for how atrocious it was.
‘And above all, those lips.’
In some dreams, he even allowed his fingers to be sucked by those lips. Even though it was a dream, the distant sensation of the woman gasping and licking his fingers made the hairs on his neck stand on end.
The sensation of the warm mucous membranes clinging was either his fantasy or could it also be true in reality?
And the moment he removed his finger from her lips, the shepherdess whispered in a sweeter, more mischievous voice.
<Lord Izar…>
So, this is how his name sounded when she called him. It felt as though one side of his head was softly melting away, like drinking excessively strong fruit wine.
Stupidly, in the dream, he thought this and, even more foolishly, was lured by that voice to lean down.
To kiss the shepherdess, to mingle tongues.
Her tiny, cramped mouth was overwhelmed, and every attempt to stir just a bit more made her emit agonizing moans through the gaps of her lips.
<Hhnn… nnngh—>
It was all a dream.
He knew it all too well, and how absurd it was. He had never heard the woman make such sweet moans.
Yet, in this hazy and disorderly dream, he was equally mad.
‘A little more.’
When she was having a nightmare and sobbing, causing him to hold her, he mindlessly stroked the soft curves felt through the thin fabric.
Why had he casually given her his cloak to pull out of the lake that time long ago, the thin shoulders that the tunic shirt clung to?
The heat rising under his touch from the shepherdess’s body, and her voice calling his name as if it were the only lifeline, was dizzyingly intoxicating.
Had he ever felt such desperation before?
<A little more.>
Ultimately, even in the dream, he couldn’t hold back and urged roughly.
<Open your mouth a little more.>
The naked waist that touched felt as real as the reality, and the sound of moist contact when the hidden flesh met was something he dared not imagine in reality.
And when he finally buried himself deep inside her barely opened entrance, he whispered as if out of his mind.
<Take me in more, here too.>
<Uh… Ah, hnngh…>
<If you desire me as well.>
And then, the woman, agonizing with heat, opened her eyes. He had hoped to see the eyes that softly shone when she declared her love for him.
Facing those eyes, he wanted to lose all reason and become wildly entangled with her in the dream.
But before the ambiguous line between reality and dream crumbled, the shepherdess whispered while caressing his cheek.
Her cheeks were ripe red with lust, but the expression escaping through her fingers felt emptily hollow.
<That cannot happen.>
He wanted to urgently ask while holding her cheeks.
‘Why? Didn’t you yourself say you love me?’
What followed was her boldly declared statement in reality.
<Even though I love you, Duke, I don’t want to be embraced by you without being loved in return.>
<…!>
<Because I do not wish to die like a pitiful woman, abandoned and driven mad.>
The shepherdess then looked at him squarely, as if understanding everything.
Her eyes, like summer grass, swirled with reproach, resentment, resignation, and sorrow.
<…I’m just a bastard after all.>
The stain you do not wish for, the one you disdain and consider dirty, an existence erased so as not to sully the noble lineage.
After her words ended, Izar awoke feeling as if plunged into an icy lake, a chilling sense of self-loathing washing over him.
Unlike his physical response, his mind was… yes, there was no other way to describe this absurd situation but foolishness.
‘So, why.’
Why was he feeling this longing and guilt now? As if he was the one who had feelings for the shepherdess, and not the other way around?
Was it because, for the first time, he became aware of his physical desires through the shepherdess?
Just that?
Yet why… Why was it that, when the shepherdess resignedly spoke in the dream, he tried to cling to her with unrealistic excuses…
