Lloyd Ferrum, Arch Duke's heir, let out a sigh. Not just any sigh, mind you. This was a sigh that carried the weight of roughly 105 years of existence crammed rather uncomfortably into the body of a 19-year-old. It was his tenth such sigh since waking up on this ridiculously plush, yet undeniably not-a-bed, sofa.
Okay, Lloyd, deep breaths, he thought, mimicking the calming techniques he'd learned during a brief, regrettable yoga phase in his eighties on Earth. In... and out. Just like Mrs. Henderson taught before she tried to sell me that 'miracle' kale powder.
He pushed himself up slightly, the unfamiliar (yet horribly familiar) tautness of youthful muscles protesting mildly. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the bedroom, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, indifferent fairies. This was his room. His room in the Ferrum Estate, in the capital city of the Arch Duchy, on the planet Riverio.
A planet he had died on at the tender age of twenty-five.
Right, his internal monologue continued, picking up speed like a runaway minecart. So, recap: Born Lloyd Ferrum. Lived 25 years. Died. Cause? Still fuzzy, probably something embarrassing or pointlessly heroic. Reborn on Earth. Lived a full, technologically advanced, magically devoid 80 years. Had coffee, discovered sarcasm, learned about taxes, even had grandkids who thought I was ancient history. Died peacefully in my sleep, surrounded by… well, mostly medical equipment, but the sentiment was there.
He paused his mental rambling. And now…
He glanced around the opulent room again. The heavy velvet curtains, the polished dark wood furniture, the faint scent of expensive potpourri.
…Now I'm back. Nineteen years old. On the sofa.
He risked a peek over the armrest. There, cocooned in a mountain of silken sheets and blankets on the enormous four-poster bed, was the reason for his current seating arrangement. Rosa Siddik. His wife.
Newlywed wife, he corrected himself mentally with another, slightly more pained sigh. Married for precisely one week.
One week. And seven nights spent contemplating the intricate patterns on the ceiling from this very sofa.
The memory of their wedding night resurfaced, unbidden and unwelcome, like a tax audit. He'd been nervous, sure. It was an arranged marriage, a political joining of the powerful Ferrum family and the respectable, if less influential, Viscount Siddik's family. He hadn't expected storybook romance, but maybe… politeness? A shared awkward giggle?
Instead, he'd entered the room, heart thumping a nervous rhythm against his ribs, probably looking like a startled goose.
(Flashback - Wedding Night)
"Rosa…?" he'd ventured, his voice cracking slightly. Nineteen-year-old Lloyd had not been the suave operator his eighty-year-old Earth self occasionally imagined he was.
She was already in bed, sitting bolt upright, clutching the covers like a shield. Her eyes, wide and surprisingly fierce for a seventeen-year-old girl who looked like she might break if the wind blew too hard, fixed on him.
"Don't!" The word was sharp, cutting through the heavy silence of the room. Her voice trembled, but not, he suspected, entirely from fear. There was anger there too. "Don't come near me."
Lloyd froze, halfway between the door and the bed. "But… it's… you know." He gestured vaguely, feeling heat creep up his neck. "Our wedding night." Smooth. Real smooth.
"I know perfectly well what night it is!" she snapped, pulling the covers higher. "Just… stay over there. Please." The 'please' sounded forced, like a last-minute addition taught by a protocol tutor. "The bed is mine."
He blinked. "Mine? But it's… our bed?"
"It's my side," she clarified, gesturing emphatically to the entire mattress. "You… find somewhere else." Her gaze flickered towards the sofa against the far wall. "There."
Nineteen-year-old Lloyd, bless his cotton socks, had been completely flummoxed. Faced with a determined, if slightly teary-eyed, teenage bride barricaded in bed, his repertoire of responses had apparently been limited to stunned silence and retreat.
"Oh," he'd managed. "Right. The sofa. Good idea. Very… spacious." He'd backed away slowly, feeling utterly ridiculous.
(End Flashback)
Spacious, current Lloyd scoffed internally, rubbing a crick in his neck. And lumpy.
He remembered his past self's rationale: 'She's young, probably scared. Give her space. Be a gentleman.' He snorted softly. Right. A gentleman. Or maybe just a coward who didn't know what else to do. For three long years in that first timeline, until his untimely demise, the sofa had remained his primary domain within this room. The last three years of his life, however, were spent on the battlefield. He'd never pushed, never demanded. He'd just… coexisted awkwardly with the girl who shared his name but not his bed.
And look where that got me, he thought grimly. Dead at twenty-five. He didn't know the exact cause, the memories around his death were hazy, like a poorly tuned television screen. But he knew it hadn't been from old age or a peaceful surrender. It had been sudden, violent, and likely connected to the turbulent politics and power struggles inherent in this world. Struggles his timidity had left him woefully unprepared for.
He sighed again. That made eleven. A new record.