Chapter 1 - Sleeping King

Translator's Note:

Hello, I hope you've all been doing well

Here you go, and I wish you a good read.

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The snowbound kingdom of Twydal, encircled by frozen mountains and endless forest—here, even summer offers few warm days. Though swathed in snow for most of the year, this land held resources that no other nation could rival.

 

Here bloomed white roses of intoxicating fragrance, flowering year-round, to the envy of all the kingdoms across the continent.

 

Even beneath snow, their petals would neither wither nor freeze.

 

They enticed with the richest scent—healing, beguiling, lingering even in the snow itself.

 

The people of Twydal harvested the roses, and under the guidance of perfumers, devoted their lives to crafting perfume for the glory of the realm.

 

Glassblowers designed exquisite bottles to elevate the worth of perfumes, oils, and rosewater. Others made leather pouches to match the bottles, or luxurious boxes to contain them. Many were craftsmen of rose soaps, cosmetics, sweets, jams, and teas. Since most citizens worked in rose-related trades, it was common for them to begin laboring at dawn, when the fragrance was at its peak.

 

Though taxes were high and their lives not exactly luxurious, the people of Twydal knew neither the fear of foreign invasion nor the pangs of famine. Their nation, well-armed and vigilant with knights, soldiers, fine horses, and weapons, had the means to import and store every kind of food.

 

Because roses were wealth. Perfume—especially—was traded at exorbitant prices, bringing prosperity to Twydal.

 

Even in autumn, the roses bloom so profusely that they hide the changing leaves… how embarrassing.

 

Fisé, the Rose Fairy known also as the Rose King, blushed as he looked upon the white roses.

 

He didn't need a mirror to know his cheeks had gone red.

 

The eastern range of the frozen mountains was deemed sacred ground—humans were forbidden from passing beyond its base. Yet two months ago, a single brave knight had wandered in. On a white horse, he had ridden all the way to the edge of the thorny enclosure. And he was handsome beyond measure, a striking young man. His name was Spencer. A nobleman and a high-ranking knight, well-educated and well-traveled, he knew many things Fisé did not.

 

Though he bore the title of Rose King, Fisé was still young. Since birth, he had taken the form of a boy—so his age could not be measured by human years. Only one year had passed since he was entrusted with the protection of Twydal by his predecessor. It had been barely two years since his birth, and he was still painfully inexperienced. The former Rose King had taught Fisé only the barest essentials before willingly returning to the fragrance of the roses. Now, Fisé had no one left to lean on.

 

The more I long for Spencer, the more the white roses bloom, the stronger their scent grows. I can suppress most things through will alone… but not my heart. And so, I cannot stop the roses either.

 

Bathed in the hues of sunset across his snow-pale skin, Fisé waited for the knight at their promised meeting place.

 

From the rose garden at the mountain's foot, if he listened closely, he could hear the sound of hooves—Spencer's beloved steed.

 

At the edge of the thorns that ringed the garden, Spencer dismounted. Carefully avoiding the sharp thorns, he stepped inside.

 

"Fisé, I made it before sunset, just like I promised. I didn't keep you waiting, did I?"

 

"Spencer… thank you for keeping your promise. But I did wait. A very long time."

 

"Were you looking forward to seeing me again?"

 

"Yes. Ever since the morning you left four days ago… I've been waiting. Always, always waiting."

 

Fisé threw himself into Spencer's chest, wrapping his arms around the knight's back.

 

That strong chest, so warm, so solid—it made his heart melt.

 

He loved Spencer's chestnut hair. He loved his slightly sun-kissed skin, his hawk-like brown eyes. He loved the way Spencer looked at him, the sound of his voice. He loved it all. But perhaps, it didn't matter what Spencer looked like. Even if his hair, skin, or eyes had been different, Fisé would have felt the same.

 

It wasn't because he was beautiful.

It was because he was Spencer.

 

"Fisé… I wanted to see you too. I was so distracted during my duties, just waiting to be free and come here… My commander even scolded me for daydreaming."

 

"Spencer, really? You wanted to see me that much?"

 

"Of course I did. Ever since I met you, I haven't been the same person I was before."

 

"That makes me so happy… truly. But you mustn't earn your commander's disfavor. You're a promising knight, aren't you?"

 

"I try to be. But love makes it hard. All day long—even in my dreams—my thoughts are filled with you. This may not even be 'love' anymore."

 

"Not love…?"

 

"I mean, it's true love."

 

"Spencer…"

 

"Fisé, I love you."

 

Ah… those words. I had been waiting for them. I sensed them from the day we first met.

 

"Spencer… I love you, too."

 

"Fisé, thank you. I swear my love to you. Though my body serves the king of men, my heart belongs to you alone. Ah, my dearest Fisé… my one and only Rose King."

 

"Spencer… I've long since become your captive."

 

When he kissed him, it was as if his lips had been set ablaze.

 

That night, too, Fisé was loved within the small palace carved of pale white stone.

 

From the walls—entirely overgrown with golden moss and ever-blooming white roses—drifted a fragrance beyond all description.

 

The love that filled Fisé's heart brought radiance not only to the palace, but to the entire kingdom.

 

As he was kissed upon the bed, his clothes slipped away, and the caress of his bare skin made even his toes tremble in delight.

 

When Spencer ran a hand over his short black hair and whispered, "So sleek… so lustrous," Fisé felt as if his heart might burst from joy.

 

Spencer never held back his praise—embarrassingly earnest, always gentle. In the intimacy of the night, he would murmur:

 

"Your skin glows like a pearl born from a distant sea, bathed in moonlight."

 

"Your eyes are the sacred night from which new moons are born."

 

"Your lips are roses soaked in honeyed blood."

 

"And your voice is as clear and crystalline as quartz—enough to bring birds and angels alike to their knees."

 

"…ah… ahh… Spencer… more… more…"

 

Lying on his back and begging, Fisé saw Spencer smile sweetly, murmuring his name again and again: "Fisé… Fisé…"

 

And then, moving his hips even more vigorously, he engraved pleasure deep into a body that had been untouched until the end of summer.

 

"F–ah… aah…!"

 

It was Spencer who taught him everything—how to kiss, that the buds on his chest were not meaningless, how to soothe the ache of lonely nights, how to welcome the sharp-edged fullness of a man into his body…

 

And of course, the melting pleasure that came after.

 

Tonight… tonight, it might finally bloom—

the eternal rose… the miracle of true love!

 

As he ascended into another climax, Fisé imagined a flower he had never seen.

 

It was said that if the Rose King were to fall in love with a human, and be filled with true love, a miracle would occur.

 

An eternal rose would bloom—one that bestows eternal life, eternal youth, eternal brilliance. A golden rose, to grant to his beloved the divine gifts that come naturally to fairies but are forever out of reach for humankind.

 

Without it, a human would one day age. They would wither, lose their light, and fade away before him.

 

That was why Fisé longed to make it bloom. While Spencer was still young and beautiful, he wanted to preserve that moment forever.

 

If the rose bloomed, Spencer would surely remain here with him, apart from the world of men.

 

He wouldn't leave. He would stay. He would love Fisé like this, night after night.

 

The eternal rose... won't bloom tonight either. Even though we have sworn our love to each other.

 

Even though he loved him so deeply… perhaps miracles were not so easily granted.

 

Though he had not been Rose King for long, Fisé's power was more than sufficient. White roses bloomed around him in endless abundance.

 

What was missing? Was it something in his feelings, or Spencer's? Neither seemed lacking—and that only made the unfulfilled wish all the more frustrating.

 

Before he realized it, dawn was creeping in.

 

Fairies possess no body heat of their own, and Fisé's skin had grown cold with morning dew.

 

Now that he had known the warmth of a human, he had come to know cold as well—and it made him shiver.

 

He hated to waste any moment of their precious time together in sleep, but the comfort of Spencer's presence often lulled him against his will. This morning too, the warmth had stolen him away—and he awoke, heart aching with regret.

 

As he rose, he felt a trickle of semen slip from deep within his body, bringing back memories of the night before.

 

Blushing, he purified himself with fairy magic, wrapped a sheet around his body, and set off to find Spencer.

 

But he was nowhere to be found.

 

His skin was colder than dew—it felt like ice. He realized now just how long it had been since Spencer's warmth had last touched him. Where had he gone? It was far too early for him to return home.

 

Besides, they had made a promise.

 

A promise Fisé himself had begged for. "Don't leave while I'm asleep. No matter how deeply I slumber, wake me. Wake me and make our next promise." And Spencer had sworn it to him.

 

Spencer, where are you?

 

Fisé felt his presence close, and so he stepped into the rose garden that served as the palace's front courtyard.

 

The sky, awaiting the sun, had turned a heavy gray. Wan clouds veiled the thin, retreating moon.

 

As he walked along the alabaster colonnade, he heard the rustling of plants being parted.

 

A damp, hushed sound. The scent of roses hung unusually thick in the air.

 

Because of the love Fisé bore Spencer, white roses now bloomed across all of Twydal, so calling this one place the rose garden felt almost absurd. And yet—this place remained special.

 

Here, the white roses grew so densely that even their stems and leaves were hidden, forming a carpet of blossoms, a wall of petals.

 

And there—in the midst of that fragrant white garden—he saw him.

 

Tall and broad-shouldered, Spencer was bent low, searching for something.

 

Fisé opened his mouth to call his name—Spencer—but halted before the word left his lips.

 

There was no doubt about it—the rustling of foliage, the shifting of leaves—it was Spencer. And what stood in his way, what he brushed aside with clear irritation…

 

…was none other than the roses.

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