Chapter 5 - Sleeping King

Translator's Note:

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If only I could go back and do it over again.

 

That wish lives in both humans and fairies alike. But the day Fisé longed to return to… was now three years in the past.

 

He had not succeeded in abandoning Twydal. Caught by soldiers at the border, he had been imprisoned in a tower. Day after day, he was begged—or ordered—to make the white roses bloom again.

 

From the day he was locked away—the very same day as the prince's baptism and celebration—not a single white rose had bloomed in Twydal.

 

The kingdom fell into crisis almost immediately. Located at the northernmost tip of the continent, forever battered by snowstorms and glacial winds, Twydal's decline came swiftly.

 

It wasn't surprising, really. The kingdom relied so heavily on imports that self-sufficiency was nearly impossible. The moment their gold ran dry, the food vanished with it.

 

The black roses that bloom undaunted in the snow have now blanketed the land, staining every corner of Twydal in relentless darkness. This morning, too, they spared nothing.

 

From the top of the tall tower, Fisé gazed out over the earth now stained black by the creeping vines.

 

To say he held no resentment toward the king would be a lie. But he didn't curse him.

 

And of course, there was not a shred of ill will toward the Queen, the prince, or the people of the realm.

 

Even the soldiers who kept him locked away—Fisé understood they were simply following orders. He didn't blame them. And yet, the white roses would not bloom.

 

Instead, the black roses grew—thick with barbed thorns, as if to warn all who approached: Do not touch. They held no fragrance. Only pain. Flowers of darkness that brought no beauty, no gain.

 

They bloomed without permission, even when he did not will them to.

 

Often, the impoverished were brought before his barred window. They begged, Please, just like before, let the roses bloom again. But no matter how much he sympathized, Fisé could do nothing.

 

It's your fault the people are suffering! some shouted through tears and rage. But even when he wished from the depths of his heart to grant them what they asked for, all he could produce were black roses.

 

It wasn't that he hated Twydal. It wasn't that he wanted to be cruel to the poor.

 

He simply no longer possessed the power. He was no longer the Rose King. He was merely a fairy, nothing more—one who birthed roses that brought no prosperity.

 

Fisé averted his gaze from the ever-growing black roses and sighed deeply.

 

Once, there had been a softness to him. But in the two years since his capture, he had matured. And over the past year, his appearance had stopped changing altogether. He stood somewhere between a boy and a young man, neither tall nor short, his slender limbs stretching with quiet grace beneath the folds of his black garments.

 

His black hair had once grown long—but after a visit from the king, that ended.

 

The king had come under the pretense of checking in. "Your hair has grown," he whispered, brushing the ends. "More lustrous than before… and so seductive it ignites one's lust."

 

That was all it took. Fisé had taken a blade to it, cutting it short at the root.

 

It wasn't the first time something like this had happened. The king, always misunderstanding—always confident in his appeal—would send his attendants away and slip inside the barred cell, saying things like: "Fisé, you're the only one I truly love. The queen—she's from the suzerain state. She has powerful allies. She may not look it, but she's terribly jealous. I can't defy her."

 

Then he would reach for Fisé again, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

 

He used sultry glances, lowered his voice to something velvety, confident that Fisé would surrender, as if it were inevitable.

 

Every time, Fisé would summon thorns between them, a barricade of bramble, and coldly watch as the king shrieked, "It hurts! It hurts!" before stumbling away in disgrace.

 

The memory still burned.

 

Especially that night—the night Fisé, furious, had cut his hair. The very night the black roses of Twydal surged forth, thorns growing wildly, wreaking havoc across the land.

 

He felt sorry for the people, truly. But thanks to that incident, the king no longer stepped inside his cage. His oily words, his cloying attempts to seduce, all grew mercifully fewer.

 

"Fisé, are you awake?"

 

The voice of the black cat, Launis, stirred him. Without a word, Fisé turned to look.

 

From between the bars of the crescent-shaped cell, Launis slipped in with ease.

 

Though a beast transformed by magic, Launis's intelligence and stamina were exceptional. His reflexes, however, remained much like any ordinary cat's.

 

Fisé's prison was a spire atop the northern tower of Twydal Castle. To reach him, Launis had no choice but to climb the long, spiraling stairs—just like a human. Scaling the outer walls was too dangerous, even for him.

 

"Ah, you're awake," Launis said quickly, his voice low with urgency. "This is bad. He's coming again. Furious, too—ranting about how a harsh winter will lead to certain famine."

 

"Even if he says that, there's nothing I can do," Fisé replied quietly.

 

"Exactly," Launis nodded. "Besides, whenever he shows up, the black roses only grow more unruly. If they injure the children again… If he truly cared about the people, he'd stay far away."

 

"I wish he would grow old soon… too old to climb all those stairs."

 

"I couldn't agree more. But knowing that man, he'd probably move you to the same floor as the royal chambers just to keep bothering you."

 

"I'd rather not imagine that."

 

"Nor would I, honestly."

 

"Launis, come here."

 

Fisé held out his arms to the black cat, still shaped like something between a kitten and a grown feline.

 

He had no body heat of his own, and it was cold after the morning patrol. But he liked the feel of soft fur, the gentle press of a living body.

 

When he held a living creature in his arms, he could almost feel warmth—if only a phantom of it.

 

If he could hold Launis close and quiet his heart, perhaps even the thorns of the black roses would hold back just a little.

 

He didn't want the kingdom ruled by that man to prosper—but neither did he want the innocent people to suffer. If nothing else would bloom, then perhaps just enough white roses—modest and profitable—would suffice.

 

Humans were meant to live without leaning on fairy magic. To depend on it so completely was wrong in every sense.

 

Yes, there were fairies who were generous and pure—but such kindness could not last forever.

 

Twydal's greatest flaw lay with its past kings, who had built a nation dependent upon a single Rose King. And the most grievous sin of all belonged to the current monarch—who had, for his selfish gain, deceived the Rose King and ruined the kingdom's future.

 

He's coming again. That man who planted darkness in my heart… he's coming back to awaken it. I don't want to hurt anyone—not anyone other than him. I never wanted that.

 

And yet… surely, I'll sprout thorns again.

 

Even if I bite my fingers or shake my head in desperate denial, nothing will change.

 

The only things I can control are the roses born directly from my body.

 

I can wrap myself in thorns. I can call forth fragrant white roses close at hand. But the roses that grow far from me… those, I cannot govern.

 

When I had once fallen in love with the false knight I called Spencer, Twydal had overflowed with white roses. Even if they were beautiful and of the highest quality, it had become overwhelming. And though I tried to restrain myself, it had been impossible.

 

Just like that, I cannot stop these black roses from growing now—aggressive, scentless, and laden with thorns. The barbs begin as needles, sharpen into knife-edges, and one day may grow into spears.

 

They'll pierce through homes, through walls, through stone.

 

If this continues, I won't know when I might kill someone.

 

"Fisé, he's here. I hear footsteps."

 

"I'll hide," Launis whispered, then darted beneath the bed.

 

For a small cat, that was enough.

 

But for Fisé, there was nowhere to hide.

 

He had tried escaping many times, even reaching the castle gates on several occasions, but never once had he gotten beyond them. Now, the entire nation was fixated on forcing him to bloom white roses once more.

Despite the fact that he currently served no use at all, everyone in Twydal believed: "He must never be allowed to escape."

 

According to Launis, sketches of Fisé's likeness had been posted throughout the country. The posters instructed that, should he escape, he was to be captured at once and returned to the castle—because if they failed to do so, another kingdom might harness the rose oil and prosper, while Twydal would wither into ruin.

 

Life had grown harsher for all, regardless of station. Amid the growing despair, a cruel song had become popular across the land:

 

"Catch the selfish Rose King Fisé,

Don't let him leave for foreign shores.

Whoever catches him will be a hero,

There'll be gold galore in reward.

One day he'll bloom a white rose again—

Twydal, land of roses restored!"

 

Adults and children alike sang it with cheerful voices.

 

The reverence once shown to Fisé had all but vanished. Should he be caught after fleeing, the treatment would be merciless.

 

Yet Fisé could not bring himself to kill, not even in pursuit of freedom. He would never raise his thorns to end a life. So in the end, he always lost—always brought back here, defeated.

 

He heard the steps echoing now, firm and measured—he knew the broad-shouldered man was ascending.

 

When Spencer came with his entourage, he bore the air of a proper king.

But when he came alone… he acted differently.

 

Boldly assuming the role of a former lover, he would speak of the passionate nights they had shared, shamelessly bringing up memories Fisé wished only to forget. He never once considered how distressing it was, how much Fisé suffered under the weight of those memories. He seemed to believe he was a man who deserved to be loved—naturally, unquestionably.

 

Just thinking about it makes me sick. I can't even bear to breathe the same air as him.

 

And to come alone in the morning, no less—how rare.

 

The royalty and nobility of Twydal typically rose around midday. Creatures of the night, they were sluggish at dawn.

 

What was he thinking, coming now of all times? This entire day would be poisoned.

 

He already felt the weight of it bearing down.

 

It wasn't that nightfall made the visits any easier—but morning… morning was the worst.

 

It hurts... It was as though rose thorns were growing beneath my skin, twisting upward to pierce from within. Roses were not meant to harm me—yet their barbs struck deep, as if accusing.

 

"You were deceived by a foolish king. You dragged the people into ruin with him. You too… are a foolish king."

 

If the roses had said such things aloud, he would have had no reply.

 

Though he knew, of course, that his flowers could not truly speak… the pain they gave him now was all too real.

 

"…Ugh… nn…"

 

Assailed by nausea and searing pain, Fisé staggered to the small window and drew in the outside air.

 

The chill sliced through him, washing over his lips, tongue, throat, and lungs.

 

It cooled him from within. It did not erase the ache completely, but it soothed the worst of it, enough for him to mask his pain behind a calm expression.

 

 

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