Chapter 6 - Sleeping King

Translator's Note:

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"Rose King Fisé, it's been some time," came the voice of the king from beyond the iron bars. "I came early today because there's someone I want you to meet."

 

But Fisé did not turn around. He kept his eyes on the land below—snow-covered fields and black roses stretching to the horizon.

 

Someone he wants me to meet?

 

At first, Fisé assumed he'd brought another suffering commoner to plead with him again.

 

But oddly, there were no other footsteps. Whenever citizens were brought in, soldiers always accompanied them, yet today it was quiet. Still, there was… a presence.

 

He didn't want to see Spencer's face. Didn't want to hear his voice. Even turning around felt like a humiliation. But the mention of "someone" in such an unusual morning visit piqued his curiosity.

 

"Good day, Your Gwase, the Wose King!"

 

The voice, sweet and high, pierced his hesitation.

 

Before he could think, Fisé had turned.

 

Standing beyond the bars was King Oswald Spencer Twydal, and in his arms he carried a boy of perhaps three years.

 

No—he wasn't just any child.

 

He was radiant. A prince whose smile outshone even the ornate garb of the king himself. A little sun.

 

That baby… it's him… Prince Aurelian…!

 

He wore clothing dyed the same sky blue as his eyes. His hair, spun from sunlight and gold, hadn't changed since his infancy.

 

His skin was pale and soft, with cheeks flushed a delicate pink.

 

His lips, plump like cherries, were drawn into a shy line at first—but when Fisé said nothing, he looked uncertain and offered a more formal greeting, clearly practiced:

 

"Um… G-Good day, Your Gwase, the Wose King. I… I'm Prince Aurewian Samuwew Twydaw, the son of King Oswawd."

 

For a moment, Fisé nearly responded, "Good day to you as well."

 

But he stopped himself just in time.

 

He'd seen the king's lips twitch into a smirk.

 

This man. He's using the child to try and soften me.

 

How despicable. How utterly vile.

 

Fisé's heart twisted.

 

The prince's innocent greeting tugged at something tender inside him—but he could not fall into the trap.

 

No matter how sincere the boy, Fisé could not reward Spencer's scheming. And yet… he couldn't bring himself to reject the child outright either.

 

Still unsure how to respond, Fisé narrowed his vision until it held only the boy.

 

The prince was large enough for his age that his face was level with the king's, so close the two were nearly indistinguishable. But Fisé focused—only on the boy's face.

 

Though he couldn't help but see other things—Spencer's chestnut hair, the broad shoulders he had once trusted, the strong arms and large hands—he forced them all into a hazy blur.

 

What made that possible was his iron will not to yield… and the brilliance of the young prince.

 

Because the child held all the light in the room, Fisé could do the impossible.

 

I'm fine. I'm only looking at this child.

 

Their eyes locked, and in that instant, it felt as though a string had been drawn taut between them, humming with silent tension.

 

Fisé's jet-black eyes, steeped in shadow, met the sky-colored gaze of Prince Aurelian. Without speaking, they seemed to exchange words.

 

Fisé knew—the child had understood his unspoken reply: "Good day."

 

At least, that was how it felt to him.

 

The prince beamed, eyes narrowing with joy. "I wanted to see you, Wose King!"

 

"Daddy, put me down! I can walk on my own!" he chirped, wiggling from the king's arms and taking off at a run.

 

With small hands ill-suited to the cold iron, the prince reached for the lower part of the bars—no one had ever touched them before.

 

At once, his smile twitched with pain. "Ow—t-that stings!" he cried, quickly pulling his hand back.

 

Red-black rust had smeared the pale palm.

 

"Ah…"

 

Fisé's gaze snapped to the water jar.

 

He wanted to grab a pail and let the boy wash his hands right away.

For a brief moment, he forgot even Spencer's presence. The words "Are you all right? Did a thorn prick you?" rose to his lips unbidden, along with the instinct to fetch water.

 

Fisé couldn't help it. He didn't dislike innocent children—far from it. And if they were hurt, standing by in silence felt unbearable.

 

No. If I soften here, I'll fall right into his trap.

 

Even if his instincts cried out, Fisé froze his resolve down to his very fingertips.

 

He numbed not just his body, but his heart. He reined himself in completely, like a heartless puppet.

 

He turned his gaze aside.

 

Perhaps Spencer did truly care for the boy—for he offered him a handkerchief and said, "Are you all right? You're a prince. Don't touch things that'll dirty your hands."

 

"Thank you, Daddy! It stung a little. But I'm okay!" the prince replied cheerfully, rubbing the handkerchief eagerly across his palm.

 

"I'm gonna hold hands with the Wose King, so my hands have to be nice and cwean!"

 

Even as Fisé tried to look away, he caught sight of the boy moving in the corner of his vision.

 

He'd thought he had frozen his heart—but it stirred again, too easily.

 

If the rust hadn't been washed with water, it might lodge itself in that soft skin… The thought made sitting still unbearable.

 

If a wound formed and that thornlike rust entered the blood… it could be fatal.

 

And yet the king didn't seem concerned in the slightest. "Make sure you get between your fingers, too," he instructed casually, and when the child tried to hand the soiled handkerchief back to him, he waved it off with, "Just leave it on that chair or something."

 

Fisé couldn't believe his ears.

 

He felt his revulsion for the man intensify.

 

Even Fisé—who was not truly human—understood how vulnerable a human child's body could be. It should be common knowledge among adults that even the smallest cut or trace of rust can be dangerous.

 

Perhaps… he doesn't actually care for the boy that much.

 

Fisé stole a sidelong glance at the man's profile and thought he glimpsed something ugly—envy.

 

With Twydal's decline, the king had aged more than three years' worth.

And this was not just any man—but one who clung fiercely to youth and immortality. To such a man, the beautiful child before him—a boy who would carry the future, with golden hair and eyes more brilliant than his own, a prince destined for the throne—might very well be a source of envy. Could it be… that he would rather take the boy's body for his own?

 

Is this just how I see him because I loathe him? Because I hate and resent and scorn him?

 

Or is it the truth?

 

Fisé didn't know. But once the thought took hold, it wouldn't let go.

The boy could have walked up the long spiral staircase by himself.

Had the king carried him just because he couldn't be bothered to slow down? He needed an heir, yes—but perhaps he didn't love him at all.

Perhaps that's why he showed no concern, made no effort to ensure his safety, only going through the barest motions of fatherhood.

 

Fortunately, it seemed the thorns hadn't pricked him.

 

The small prince turned his clean hand toward Fisé and said brightly,

"Wose King, I wanna hold hands with you! Look, all clean now!"

 

He seemed eager to say, See? All better now! But the faint stain of rust still lingered, nestled in the whorls of his tiny fingerprint.

 

"I am a rose fairy who favors purity," Fisé said at last. "Hands once soiled remain unclean, no matter how you wipe them. Unless they are washed well with warm water and soap, I cannot shake them."

 

That was all Fisé could bring himself to say.

 

He had considered countless replies, imagined every outcome, and carefully chosen those words.

 

So the boy wouldn't try to scrub again with that dirty handkerchief.

So he wouldn't touch the iron bars again if he came back. And so that he would not think of himself as something filthy and rejected.

 

Fisé didn't want to wound a child's innocent heart. Those were the words he had judged best.

 

"Okay! Then pwease give me soap and warm water, Wose King!"

 

Fisé's wish had been granted—and Prince Aurelian responded with a radiant smile.

 

It was a relief that he hadn't been hurt.

 

But the boy's cheerful request was… entirely unexpected.

 

On reflection, though, it wasn't entirely unnatural. The boy was only three, after all—and a royal heir of Twydal. Raised with every comfort and pampered by all, it was only natural that he believed everything he asked for would be given.

 

"I'm afraid there is no warm water here," Fisé replied. "Not even cold. Carrying water up to this high tower is a laborious task, and I am given only a limited amount each day. You may be a prince of this kingdom, but that does not mean you can have anything you want, anytime, anywhere."

 

Fisé had no desire to wound him unfairly, but some truths had to be spoken. He had to push him back, gently but firmly.

 

He did not want this boy to grow up into a foolish king like his father. So, for the sake of discipline, he spoke with clarity—even severity.

 

Not for the boy's sake. But for the people—for those innocent citizens who had been caught in the petty quarrels of a greedy king and a powerless Rose King once lost in love.

 

"Aurelian, forget the handshake and just talk for today. I'll be leaving now—you can stay here as long as you like."

 

At the sound of the King's voice, Fisé's chest stirred with unease.

 

Perhaps he had grown cautious over the past three years, for he no longer directed his words at Fisé directly—but his scheme was evident in the way he used his son.

 

As expected, since he had failed to move Fisé, he now meant to soften him through the boy.

 

Fisé didn't understand why, but the prince seemed to like him. He was sweet, beautiful, and delightfully personable.

 

The King knew all too well how most adults would eventually yield to the prince's charm. They wouldn't be able to help accepting the boy's affection. That's precisely why he had brought him here.

 

No doubt he believed that, if all went well, the white roses would bloom again, producing the precious rose oil that would revive Twydal's fortunes.

 

This man isn't chasing some eternal miracle of a rose anymore. He no longer dreams of forever. His desperation is too immediate. He is clinging to anything he can, scrambling to reclaim the glory that slipped from his hands.

 

When Fisé was first imprisoned, the King had begged for reconciliation, hoping to summon the eternal miracle of the Everlasting Rose. But somewhere along the way, that persistence had given way to resignation—and panic.

 

There had even been a time when the King pleaded with him in earnest: "The white roses alone will do. Please… just bloom them as you once did. Just enough to extract rose oil…"

 

His pursuit of youth, immortality, brilliance—none of it had succeeded. And now, with even the nation's wealth crumbling and its very survival at stake, the King was confronting the bitter consequences of his own failure.

 

It was painfully obvious. He regretted ever interfering—regretted it deeply.

 

"I'll go back with you, Daddy!"

 

 

 

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