Chapter 9 - Sleeping King
Translator's Note:
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Here you go, and I wish you a good read.
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While the people of Twydal busied themselves harvesting roses, Aurelian was racing up the northern tower.
No longer did he need to crawl on all fours, climbing step by step while muttering "heave-ho, heave-ho" like he had as a child.
Now he ascended the spiraling staircase in a dizzying rush, leaping two steps at a time, sometimes nearly slamming into the walls in his eagerness. His only goal—to reach Fisé as quickly as possible.
For fourteen years now, this visit had been as natural to him as brushing his teeth.
Even though everyone around him insisted that royals and nobles should sleep until noon, and that he should begin attending evening soirees and meeting potential brides, he never once gave up his early-to-bed, early-to-rise routine.
"Good morning, Fisé!"
At the top of the long staircase, beyond the iron bars, Fisé stood at the window.
His gaze was fixed on the people picking roses below.
He had been watching the state-owned rose gardens since before dawn, checking to see if the white roses—the kind that produced rose oil—had bloomed.
Clad in his usual black garments, his expression rarely changed. But Aurelian could always tell what he was feeling as he looked out over the fields.
That was the face of someone quietly thinking, I'm glad the roses bloomed today, too.
"Fisé, are you going to ignore me when I say good morning?"
When he called out a second time, Fisé finally reacted. But his response was slow, deliberate.
He looked at him, his face clearly saying, You again?
He had come to see him every day since he was three. That made it fourteen years now.
Surely, for Fisé, this had become routine too. Yet he never showed any sign of acknowledging it.
Of course, he never once acted like he had been waiting for him.
And yet, without fail, he always had water boiling at this hour.
"Good morning. You raised your voice again, didn't you?"
"Ah—sorry."
Feigning repentance, Aurelian covered his mouth with his hand.
In truth, he felt no remorse whatsoever. His childish shouts and gestures were entirely deliberate.
He was not as young as he sometimes pretended to be.
His body had matured, more or less, and there had been nights when he found himself burning with desire, quietly seeking relief under the blankets.
But the joy of seeing Fisé again was simply too much. The time between leaving him in the afternoon and seeing him again the next morning felt agonizingly long. By dawn, his anticipation soared beyond control.
"Autumn is deepening now—surely the chill got to you. I'm just about to make some tea. Will you have a cup?"
"Yes, please!"
It was a near-daily exchange, so familiar by now it was practically scripted.
They had followed this same rhythm since he was a child. The only difference was that he used to drink milk—now it was tea.
Twydal spent most of the year buried in snow. Even during summer, it remained cool, and in the early hours before sunrise, the cold was undeniable. That was why Fisé always offered him something warm to drink, pretending it was simply because he was making something for himself.
Though Fisé had no real need to drink anything at all. He didn't require warmth, and yet, he always boiled water. He pretended it was incidental, but Aurelian had known since childhood that it wasn't. Fisé just wasn't very honest with himself.
Aurelian approached the desk before the iron bars, resting against the weighty oak writing table.
The space on his side of the bars had changed greatly in fourteen years—it had practically become his second room.
The kingdom was poor now, and few new things could be acquired. But the furnishings, remnants of a more prosperous age, were exquisite.
The desk, built to suit Aurelian's tall frame, was lavishly carved with no wasted space outside its top surface. Gold embellishments adorned it generously, a testament to past grandeur.
The lamp he used to read in the early mornings had a shade made of iridescent shell—rare and precious in a land as far from the sea as Twydal. Even more luxurious pearls were set into the base, held aloft by a silver mermaid crafted so finely she seemed ready to swim away.
At one point, Twydal had been so desperate they'd sold off furnishings like these just to survive. The fact that they'd managed to endure this long was thanks entirely to the white roses Fisé could still coax into bloom.
Those same white roses, once abundant throughout the kingdom before Aurelian's birth, now bloomed only around this tower. Even the rose oil they yielded was scarce, and the people lived modestly.
Aurelian's role was to visit this tower each day, keep Fisé in good spirits, and maintain—ideally expand—the rose garden and its yield.
Though no dramatic progress had been made, the harvest had never once declined. That alone was a comfort to him.
"Tomorrow, I'll be seventeen—if I recall, you told me that around this time yesterday. At your age, a prince ought not to recklessly dash up staircases. And calling out so boisterously is unbecoming. You're very handsome, and appear quite the noble young man. But that only makes your childish behavior stand out all the more. As the prince of a kingdom, you must carry yourself accordingly."
"I understand. You're absolutely right. But… must that really be the first thing you say?"
With arms spread and a theatrical look of dismay, Aurelian feigned protest. Fisé sighed.
He knew what would come next. The words and the expression Aurelian had been waiting for.
Though reluctant at first, he never failed to say it—every year, without exception.
"Happy birthday, Your Highness."
And every time, he smiled as if it were the first.
Clad in black from head to toe—long black hair, dark eyes, the black garments and shoes woven by fairy hands—Fisé always claimed, "I am a dark fairy who brings misfortune." And yet, from the depths of that stern heart, he always wished him a happy birthday.
"Thank you, Fisé… my Rose King."
Even without saying much, even with the iron bars between them, they understood one another.
Fisé, too, was remembering that day seventeen years ago.
And Aurelian—he remembered it as well.
He could describe it clearly now. The moment he met Fisé, an exquisitely sweet scent of roses drifted into the air. He'd felt that he had to wake up. From the stillness of newborn slumber, he remembered wanting to open his eyes. Fisé's magic had shimmered like starlight, and the layers of his gown fluttered like petals caught on the wind.
To him, Fisé had looked like light itself.
No one knew the truth of why he could no longer make white roses bloom. Rumors abounded, but none held certainty. Whenever he asked him directly, Fisé would wear such a pained expression that, after trying twice, he gave up.
"Shall I put honey in your tea?"
"Yes, please."
"...A generous amount?"
"Yes—lots, please."
The truth was, he no longer needed things to be sweet.
But around Fisé, he chose to act a little childish.
There had been a time when he longed to appear more grown-up. But that phase had passed.
One reason for that was the day Fisé told him: "Once you become a man, you mustn't come here anymore."
He had only been fifteen then. And he had wept, brokenhearted.
"Why would you say something so cruel!? That's not true, is it?" he'd cried, pleading with him. And without missing a beat, Fisé had replied:
"Because I'm not good with grown men."
He hadn't known.
Unaware, Aurelian had been changing—his hairstyle, his clothes, his mannerisms—trying to become exactly what Fisé struggled with most. And then Fisé would struck him with a final, unrelenting blow.
"I believe you're a good prince. You've done nothing wrong. But I don't make exceptions. I truly cannot tolerate grown men. Just being near them causes the blackest roses to bloom—covered in thorns. For the sake of the kingdom, for the sake of the people, please understand."
Fisé offered no loophole, left no room for further plea.
"As for the roses, don't worry. If you send me a kitten to play with—one that might keep me company like Launis used to—then I'll remain calm. I'll likely produce just as much rose oil as I do now."
To place the prince of a kingdom on equal footing with a kitten—those words had filled Aurelian with humiliation. Many nights, he'd soaked his pillow with silent tears.
Looking back, he realized just how much of a child he'd been. Back then, he thought only of himself.
If Fisé, shrouded in rumors of having fallen into darkness and become able to bloom only scentless, thorn-covered black roses, could now bloom white roses again—even just from the presence of a kitten—then that was a wonderful thing.
The years they had spent together must have helped him begin to heal, in some quiet, fundamental way.
And yet, all Aurelian had truly cared about was increasing his own worth in Fisé's eyes. He had not been thinking of him in the truest sense of the word.
As Fisé passed him the tea, fragrant with honey and roses, Aurelian wrapped his hands around his.
Fisé's fingers, holding the delicate porcelain, were warm. His own, still chilled from the climb, felt cold by comparison.
Once, it had been Fisé's hands that enveloped his. Now, that balance had quietly reversed.
He was allowed to hold Fisé's fingers for a moment, cupping them gently around the teacup. But anything more—any touch that lingered too long—would arouse suspicion. If he could, he would trace each slender finger, gently stroke them one by one, press a kiss to the tips and the soft backs of his hands.
But the moment he did, his happy childhood would end.
The next day, his role might be handed over to a kitten—and he would no longer be allowed to see Fisé.
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