Chapter 8 - 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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Fisé sat up with a start, flustered and unsure of what to do.

 

He'd thought the boy might return again near the end of his boyhood—or once he came of age, when worldly desires took hold. That he might then seek some gain, and find his way back here. But that prediction had failed far earlier than expected.

 

Not that he'd fully believed Launis's offhand musing. Nor was it his fault that it hadn't come to pass. Still, it wasn't exactly good news either. Unsure of what to do, Fisé turned toward the mirror.

 

I mustn't let my guard down. No matter how unaware he may be, the child acts under the King's orders. He is still the son of that despicable man.

 

Reminding himself not to be swayed by the boy's innocence, Fisé combed his hair before the mirror.

 

His clothes—unchanged for three years—were as dark as his hair, but had been woven by nameless little fairies long ago. Their color had darkened to match Fisé's despair, yet even now, the hem swirled gracefully without wind. If properly purified, they never grew dingy. Unlike human cloth or silk, they never wrinkled, always remaining smooth, elegant, pristine.

 

Just a little longer… he'll be here…

 

Fisé braced his expression, steeling himself for the reunion.

 

No doubt, the King had told the boy something like "go again and befriend the Rose King."

 

Fisé wanted to reject him outright. But he didn't want to hurt a child's heart with careless cruelty.

 

If only the boy were grown—he could be as cold as he pleased.

But this… was more complicated.

 

"Heave-ho, heave-ho… and—mmm, I made it!"

 

A bright, high voice rang out, followed by panting breath.

 

Fisé looked toward the stairs, trying to feign surprise, though his heart was already braced.

 

Beyond the iron bars stood a rarely used guard's chair, where the same handkerchief from earlier had been left carelessly. Beyond that, a corridor—just a few steps long for an adult—offered a clear view to the stair's final step.

 

The prince had said, "I made it!"—though, strictly speaking, he hadn't quite reached the top yet.

 

Bathed in the soft gold of morning sun streaming through the tower's window, a glimmering halo of blond hair appeared.

 

Considering the height of the tower, the climb must've been a tremendous feat… and yet the prince wore a triumphant smile. Perhaps that sense of accomplishment had become confidence—his eyes sparkled as he beamed with pure delight.

 

"Wose King! I washed my hands with hot water and soap, so they're all nice and clean!"

 

The boy came dashing forward, his right hand wrapped in a dirtied leather pouch.

 

While Fisé stood frozen in astonishment, the boy, undeterred by fatigue, approached the iron bars and eagerly thrust his hand—still wrapped in the pouch—through the gap in the cell.

 

"Your Highness, don't touch the iron bars!"

 

"Okay! I won't!"

 

Fisé's heart skipped in alarm, fearing the boy might graze the rusted metal with his unguarded left hand. Unwittingly, he took two steps forward—no small distance in a narrow cell.

 

"...Why the leather pouch? Was it... your father, the king, who told you to wear it?"

 

"Nope! Daddy's... on his duties? I asked Hanna to wash my hands lots and lots! Super clean! But I go up the stairs like this."

 

As if struggling to find the right words, the prince went back for a moment and pressed his left hand to the floor.

 

It seemed he meant to say: "I might get my hands dirty climbing the stairs, so I covered them with a pouch."

 

With care, he peeled the leather off with his left hand, revealing the small fist beneath—milky-white and pristine. As he opened his palm, even the tiny nails were clean. It looked soft, warm—so much so that Fisé felt a sudden urge to reach out and touch it.

 

"My hands are all clean now, so let's shake hands!"

 

Taking care not to touch the iron bars and ruin his hard work, the prince again reached into the cell.

 

By now, Fisé had taken yet another unconscious step forward, lowering himself to meet the child's eye level.

 

Though he was fully aware of the need to remain cautious, his body acted on its own—drawn in despite his resolve.

 

Yet he did not take the offered hand. He had come close enough to do so, but instead, he gently stopped the boy's extended fist.

 

"Why… Why do you insist on shaking hands with me?"

 

He couldn't help but wonder if the king had told the boy to do this.

 

After all, it made no sense. A child who had met him at barely half a month old wouldn't remember that moment. There was no way a handshake would mean this much unless someone promised him a reward or he was trying to win his father's praise.

 

What do children that young even want...? A puppy? A kitten? Or, since he's a prince, perhaps a fine young pony? If his father had told him, "Be nice to the Rose King and I'll give you what you want," then yes—this kind of determination would make sense.

 

Fisé, having convinced himself the boy was acting solely for a reward, watched the prince stare down at his extended hand. He'd expected an immediate answer to his question—but the child was silently contemplating his little fist, lost in thought.

 

"Umm, see... I've held the Wose King's hand, like this... really tight."

 

"...What?"

 

"When I was a baby! I remember."

 

The boy's innocent revelation took Fisé off guard. He wiggled his long fingers as if to show how they had moved that day.

 

Opening and closing his hand rhythmically, he asked, "I did, right? Really tight."

 

"You did, yes... But I doubt you could truly remember it. That was when you were barely two weeks old. You probably heard stories about it from others and mistook those for your own memories."

 

Fisé realized the words might be a little too difficult—and more than a little cruel—for a child. But before he could take them back, the prince gave a firm, "Nope! I remember."

 

It wasn't defiance, nor did he seem to be lying.

 

He didn't pout or grow upset at being contradicted. Instead, he smiled and opened his right hand again.

 

"It smelled really nice... and it was soft... and sparkly."

 

Word by word, he recalled the joy of that moment, as if savoring it with his whole being.

 

"A nice smell? Like roses? The soft part… was it the dress? And the sparkles—was it my magic power?"

 

Fisé ventured a few guesses.

 

"Dunno," the prince replied immediately.

 

His words were clumsy, but his understanding was keen. Fisé could tell that the boy, clever as he was, had likely retained at least some of what adults had explained to him.

 

Still, the child didn't describe the events—only his own sensations.

 

The sweet scent of roses. A shimmering dress that fluttered like mist. The radiant golden glow of the Rose King's power. Everything he recalled perfectly matched what Fisé had worn that day.

 

"I didn't wanna let go. I wanted to stay with you... forever."

 

"...With me?"

 

"Yeah. But then, you said bye-bye, remember? So I asked Daddy and Mommy—lots and lots! And then they said, 'If you're going to be friends, then it's okay.'"

 

"So… after asking over and over to see me… your father said, 'If you're going to become friends, then you may'—is that what happened?"

 

"Yup!"

 

Once again, his face shone with pride, the joy of a wish fulfilled.

 

Then he cried out with glee, "Let's be friends! Let's shake hands!"

 

Faced with that unguarded exuberance, Fisé couldn't bring himself to refuse the small outstretched hand.

 

Three years ago, on the day of the prince's baptism—a day Fisé had drowned in false happiness, and one which ended in utter ruin—they had met. A radiant human infant and a young fairy wrapped in fragrance and light: they had gazed into each other's eyes, and they had reached out and touched.

 

Fisé had even bestowed several blessings upon the prince, drawing upon his power as the Rose King.

 

It wouldn't have been strange at all for something beyond the ordinary to have been born between them.

 

A human hand… a child's hand… how soft, how warm it is.

 

From behind the iron bars, Fisé gently cupped the boy's hand.

 

The prince had called it a handshake, but a three-year-old's hand was far too small for that. When Fisé covered the boy's tiny fist with his own right hand, the urge to touch more stirred his left hand to move as well.

 

"Wose King, do you remember the handshake?"

 

"I do. I was an adult, after all. Though... it wasn't quite a handshake."

 

"It wasn't? But I held you really tight, right?"

 

"Yes. You did. You held on very tightly."

 

Their eyes met—and the prince blushed a soft rose color.

 

It was the face of a child realizing that a cherished memory wasn't just his own—that it had been remembered.

 

As Fisé held the boy's right hand in both of his own, warmth seeped through him, filling him with something soft and unfamiliar.

 

Fisé, who had no warmth of his own, found the heat of another deeply alluring.

 

He had felt the touch of soldiers and jailers before—during each failed escape—but those had been brief, impersonal grips. What he now felt from the prince was a warmth willingly given.

 

It was not only physical—it seemed to reach deep into his chest, kindling a comforting glow.

 

"Please, call me Fisé, not Rose King."

 

"Lowd Fishé?"

 

"Yes. I've brought nothing but harm to this kingdom, and I can no longer summon roses as I once did. I am no longer worthy of the name Rose King."

 

"Umm… umm? So… you're not the Rose King anymore?"

 

"It's not that simple," he said. "But… I don't feel I deserve to call myself that."

 

"De… de… serve? Hmm?"

 

The prince tilted his head, clearly puzzled by the unfamiliar words. But Fisé made no effort to explain.

 

It wasn't something a child needed to hear—and besides, the idea that he was unworthy of being the Rose King was, after all, only his own belief.

 

"Just call me Fisé," he repeated gently.

 

" Lowd Fishé…."

 

Still holding his warm hand, Fisé found himself lost in the prince's gaze.

 

He had never imagined he would feel anything special for a child, and yet—those honest, unclouded blue eyes seemed to slowly melt the thorns embedded in his heart.

 

"Hmm… I don't really get it, but okay! You're Lord Fishé!"

 

"You don't need to call me "Lord". And how shall I call you?"

 

"Me? I'm Aurewian Samuwew Twydaw!"

 

"You pronounced it so well. Very impressive. But… I wasn't asking for your full name," he said with a soft chuckle.

 

And then he realized—he was smiling.

 

Even as Fisé held his hand, uncertainty lingered in his heart. Was this truly right?

 

But something in him whispered yes.

 

By doing this… perhaps the white roses would bloom once more across the lands of Twydal.

 

He didn't wish to give even a single drop of rose oil to the king. But for this darling boy, and for the innocent people of the kingdom—yes, perhaps a few fragrant blooms would be enough.

 

 

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