“Macbeth has murdered sleep! Innocent sleep!”
A voice, rough and cracked, bursts out.
“The sleep that perfectly unravels the tangled threads of worry.”
One step, then another.
“A daily death that washes away the pains of labor… solace for wounded hearts.”
My trembling arm reaches out toward the audience before me, then withdraws.
“Nature’s second course, the finest nourishment in this grand feast of life.”
Bloodshot eyes.
Resentment seeps out, directed at someone—though I know not whom.
“Do you have any idea… how it feels, not knowing when I’ll ever sleep that way again?”
From this point on, the lines are not in the script.
The playwright I so dearly loved.
A genius the likes of which England won’t see again for centuries.
I add these lines to the script of William Shakespeare.
I recall the moment he first handed me this ‘Macbeth.’
The tragedy that made me shed countless tears from that day on.
How about an adaptation done like this?
I wished I could tell Shakespeare in person.
No doubt his eyes would have sparkled, and he’d say, “Let’s prowl the stage all night long!”
We would have locked the doors of the Oscar Grand Theater and spent the night reciting lines ourselves, revising the script as we went.
“Even if I lie down, I cannot sleep. Day after day, I beg forgiveness from no one for my suffering… Kuh.”
I managed to speak that much before a fierce coughing fit seized me.
A line that only someone living in a true tragedy could utter.
“Cough, cough…! Kahak.”
Overcome by the fever coursing through me, I collapse onto the bed.
In this damned tower, there’s no such thing as heating.
The fever is no small matter.
My throat burns as though on fire, and though I’ve swallowed every drop of water in the room, my mouth stays painfully dry.
“Se–se-eek—”
Yesterday, I decided I’d never be able to practice my lines in this condition and resolved to rest.
For someone like me, who can seldom fall asleep, it turned into quite a long slumber.
When I woke, I realized this fever was no ordinary one.
Yet here I am, at the top of the highest tower in the annex, with few options.
It must be almost time for the servants to bring my meal…
They’ve become increasingly lax, going from three visits a day down to fewer and fewer.
I’ve been locked away for ten years.
Now they only come once a day, leaving one day’s worth of food and water.
Judging by the sunlight outside the window, it’s still morning.
If they came while I slept, I’m in trouble.
Clunk.
I hear movement outside.
A small flap at the bottom of the door opens.
“H-hey…!”
A tray heaped with bread slides in.
Despite my call, the little door shuts at once, ignoring me.
“Ugh.”
I freeze in surprise.
Is that really my voice?
This isn’t one of the voices I’ve carefully crafted for acting.
It’s the pitifully cracked voice of a sick man.
“Ku, kuh! Cough, cough, cough.”
Even that single word is too much. The moment I speak, I’m racked by a tearing cough that feels like it’s splitting my entire body apart.
— … Young Master?
Luckily, someone must have heard me and returned.
A faint voice calls through the thick wooden door.
“Cough, cough.”
But I can’t form any words.
— Y-Young Master…! Are you ill? Please wait. I’ll fetch a physician right away!
With hurried footsteps, they dash off.
No… That’s not what I wanted to ask for…
That’s the last coherent thought I have before I drift into unconsciousness again.
Creak.
For the first time in ten years, the heavy wooden door to the topmost room opens.
Standing there is a maid, face pale as a sheet, and a doctor holding a medical bag.
The steep climb up the tower must have been too much for him; he’s dabbing sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.
“Young Master, can you hear me? I brought the doctor.”
The maid, apparently today’s meal-delivery attendant, can’t even bring herself to touch the person lying on the bed. Her hands tremble uncontrollably.
She’s frightened.
No matter how out of favor he is within the Battenberg family, if something goes wrong with the young master, she’ll be held responsible.
“That’s enough. Let me see him.”
The physician motions the maid aside and approaches the bed.
“…!”
Seeing the young man’s burning-hot body, he hastily loosens the front of his clothing.
“This is… oh dear…”
The patient’s chest is covered in red rashes.
“Oh no…”
At the sight, the maid’s face goes even whiter.
She’s seen rashes like this before on her younger sibling.
“D-Doctor, will our young master be all right?”
“How long has he been like this?”
“W-well… For several days now, whenever we came, his food was untouched. We just assumed he was fasting again, so we took the meals away…”
“How many days?”
“About three, I think. We just thought he was on another hunger strike, so…”
Terrified, the maid begins to sob.
The doctor sighs and tells her to fetch cold water and towels.
“He has measles. It’s contagious, so warn everyone to stay away from the tower.”
So this is supposed to be the room of a duke’s son? the doctor thought, surveying the frigid interior with a grave expression.
Scattered stacks of paper and ink stains cover the place.
No trace of a fire having been lit. The so-called ‘meals’ left behind look pitiful.
Everyone in the domain knows the youngest Battenberg son has been confined to the tower for ten years after incurring the duke’s displeasure.
But no one imagined it would be this dire.
“Here! Doctor.”
Soaking a towel in the cold water the maid brought, he wipes down Noah Battenberg, the youngest son.
Even then, the fever refuses to subside.
After ten years locked in a lonely tower corner of the castle, his body is frail. Measles is dangerous enough, but thanks to the servants’ negligence, he missed the critical window for treatment.
“It’s too late. The medicine won’t help anymore.”
“….”
“…How…could this happen?”
One by one, people of the Battenberg estate arrive, too late, to see Noah’s miserable condition. They’re struck speechless.
“Ugh, since this place is so inaccessible, move him to the farthest room in the annex.”
At the order of Jane Battenberg, the Duchess, servants move Noah—bed and all.
As the doctor had warned, it seems there’s little hope. Noah lies there with a deathly pallor, not moving a muscle.
Once he’s taken from the room, everyone follows, leaving the chilly space abandoned.
Devoid of its occupant, the room feels barren.
Paper is strewn everywhere, some sheets scribbled on, others blank. On the desk are great heaps of crumpled notes and tattered scripts, worn from countless readings.
Creeeeak.
The heavy wooden door closes with a dull thud, sealing away every trace of Noah Battenberg forever.
‘Is this… a dream?’
My body refuses to move.
I feel like I’m floating, but I can’t think clearly.
‘Is anyone… there?’
I want to call out, but my mouth won’t open.
‘I need someone… to tell Oliver… to pass on… my final request…’
Oliver, my only ally.
‘“I’ll never live to a ripe old age because of you, Young Master.”’
He used to grumble like that, yet he helped hide my double life every single day.
By day, I was the youngest son of the Duke of Battenberg.
By night, the nameless star actor of the Oscar Theater, “the Golden Mask.”
For three years, Oliver and I slipped out of the grand Battenberg castle under cover of darkness.
With more than two hundred servants on the estate, the grounds were riddled with hidden passages.
My siblings would never dream of stooping to such filthy, cramped spaces.
But my thirst for acting overrode all other concerns.
That magical double life continued for three whole years.
Because of me—just as he always feared—Oliver ended up banished from the Battenberg estate. He was badly beaten, left with a limp.
One day, my father, Duke Hugo Battenberg, discovered my secret.
A son of Battenberg, acting on stage like some common performer?
The moment he found out, he had Oliver dragged in for a brutal punishment while I was away.
Poor Oliver.
To the Duke of Battenberg, the family’s honor mattered far more than a single servant’s life.
By sheer luck, Oliver wasn’t killed outright. I intervened as soon as I heard what had happened.
I knelt before my father, pleading for Oliver’s life. I promised I would give up acting.
In exchange for sparing Oliver and exiling him rather than executing him, I was locked away at the top of a remote tower in the family’s annex.
Ten years is a brutally long time.
What kept me going were those three brilliant years of memories.
After glimpsing a performance by Richard Burbage of London’s Chamberlain’s Men, I resolved to become an actor myself.
Shortly thereafter, I met Oscar and officially joined his troupe.
Shakespeare adored my performances, and we talked through countless nights.
I still recall the thunderous applause of the crowd that filled my ears every time I took the stage.
During my ten long years, I survived by reliving one line a day from a play I’d rehearsed a thousand times, or a single conversation I’d had with Shakespeare for an entire week.
I remember the day Richard Burbage first saw me act.
I remember the day Oliver shed tears after watching my performance.
Every last scene is etched into my memory.
In the cold, lonely top-floor chamber, I recited those lines, wrote them down, adapted them, again and again.
Thus, I lived my entire life on the memories of those three years.
If only I could see their performances just once more, with my own two eyes.
If only I could stand on stage again, exchanging lines and emotions with them.
If only I could step out before that cheering audience one more time.
That hope alone sustained my stubborn life.
‘But, Oliver… it seems this is the end.’
No matter how many times I blink, there’s only darkness.
As though I’m submerged in water, no sound reaches my ears, and though I exhale, I can’t feel my breath.
The sensation is like floating in warm water.
Slowly, I close my eyes.
If only I could wander once more through that dream.
In 1623, Noah Battenberg slipped into eternal sleep in the very castle where he was born and raised.
“Waaaah! Waaaah!”
A loud noise.
Annoyed by the racket echoing in my ears, I pry my crusty eyelids open.
“Ugh…”
The moment I do, the wailing that had filled my ears suddenly stops.
Huh?
Where is this place?
“Oh my, Siwoo’s awake!”
“Look at that, he stopped crying because he saw us.”
“No way, he stopped because he saw me.”
A young man and woman appear in my blurry vision, talking in a language I’ve never heard.
What is this?
Where’s the doctor?
Frowning in confusion, I open my mouth and try to ask who they are.
“Uh?”
…What?
That wasn’t my voice.
It wasn’t the rich tone that once stirred an entire audience the moment I stepped on stage—more like a tiny animal’s cry.
I am Noah Battenberg, youngest son of the illustrious Duke of Battenberg, known throughout England!
“Waaah—!”
“S-Siwoo! It’s Daddy!”
“Baby, what’s wrong? Did Daddy’s face scare you? Huh?!”
I was sure I had died from that incurable illness.
And yet…
Pat, pat.
Someone’s gentle hand rhythmically pats my back.
A warm fragrance drifts from the cozy arms holding me, softly easing my mind.
Though I grew up surrounded by the finest perfumes of noble society, this is a scent I’ve never known.
Before I can think any further, I drift off again, enveloped in that soothing warmth.
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