Chapter 11 - Sleeping King

Translator's Note:

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

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I wonder if he's better now… Just a bit, at least? And if he is—then maybe I helped with that. Not out of arrogance, but because I truly want to believe I was able to help. Isn't it okay to think that?

 

Aurelian tried to speak with his gaze, willing his thoughts across the distance between them.

 

But Fisé said nothing.

 

All he offered was the faintest lift of one corner of his mouth—just enough to be mistaken for a smile, if one wished to believe it.

 

Still, it was something. At least their eyes met.

 

No matter the distance, no matter the iron bars between them, something was always quietly passing back and forth between them.

 

They spent perhaps a third of each day together while awake. The only contact allowed was the brief brush of fingers or the back of a hand. They spoke neither of past wounds nor of love. It was a fragile relationship, bound by mutual restraint and careful distance.

 

Lately, they had to be even more cautious—balanced on the edge of propriety, surviving on polite pretense and well-measured words.

 

And until now, that had been enough.

 

But it was no longer.

 

Or rather—it was Aurelian who had decided it could no longer be.

 

The one year remaining before his coming of age simply gave him the excuse, the momentum. But the truth was, the desire to step beyond that boundary had been growing alongside his body, until he could no longer bear to hold it back.

 

"You want to go outside, don't you? Even if you keep a calm face—I know you do. You want nothing more than to be free."

 

"Do you really need to ask that?"

 

"I've been pleading with him, you know. Waiting for the right moment when he's in a good mood. That's actually what I meant earlier, when I said I wanted to talk about something yesterday. Tonight, I finally get to see him—thanks to Mother's persistence. I haven't even been allowed to visit lately, so it's been a while."

 

"You haven't seen him at all?"

 

"No. Father doesn't even want to look at me, apparently. Mother would never say something like that to my face, but… word gets around."

 

The more he spoke honestly, the heavier Aurelian's mood became. But being hated by his father wasn't, in itself, something he considered tragic. A father was still a father, no matter the man—and he supposed, in some deep way, that meant there must be some kind of familial love.

 

And yet—Aurelian had never felt respect for his father.

 

There were many reasons, but above all—there was Fisé's imprisonment.

 

Aurelian still had no clear idea why Fisé had been locked away for seventeen years. But he had tried—over and over—to convince the king to let him go. And every time, he'd been shouted down with, "Absolutely not! What if he escapes? How would you take responsibility for that?" The worst times ended in whippings.

 

He could never accept it. And from childhood, he had struggled with the impossible question: how do you reason with a man who won't listen?

 

"Aurelian… whatever the king says, don't let it trouble you. It's not uncommon for illness of the body to spread to the mind. The king can barely walk—your presence must be blinding to him. Just seeing you must be painful. His illness is the problem. Not you. There is no fault in you."

 

"Fisé…"

 

Aurelian had only been thinking of him, yet Fisé was the one to worry about Aurelian, the son unloved by his father. Had he confessed that it didn't trouble him that deeply, it might've come off as bravado—and only worried Fisé further.

 

Even when he acted indifferent, Fisé was a gentle soul.

 

He might be a fairy, but he was nothing like the others.

 

His spirit was fragile in the same way a human's was—perhaps even more so—and he seemed deeply afraid of being hurt.

 

For someone like Fisé to show care, to speak gently, to comfort from another's point of view… that was no small thing. And for Aurelian to be the one receiving it—it made him feel like the luckiest soul in the world.

 

Even if the storm of his own emotions might sweep him away, Fisé had found the courage to reach across. And Aurelian wondered—what could he do in return?

 

"Thank you, Fisé. Really. I've had a lot of trouble with Father, and though I said it didn't bother me… I guess it did, a little. Hearing you say I've done nothing wrong—it lightens something inside me."

 

"I'm glad, if I've been of any use. I only repeated what I've read in books, that's all."

 

Fisé said it flatly, chin resting in one hand.

 

There was likely a trace of embarrassment behind his stillness—but more than that, it seemed he regretted stepping into a human family's affairs. He turned toward the bookshelf, cutting off their eye contact.

 

Their shared gaze faded, and with it, the quiet bond between their hearts.

 

Aurelian couldn't help but wish it were just shyness, not regret.

 

But Fisé's silence wasn't born of shame alone. His heart was caught on something else entirely.

 

That something… was none other than King Oswald.

 

Whenever the king's name was mentioned, Fisé's demeanor shifted.

 

He feigned composure, but it was clear—he was anything but calm.

 

Aurelian didn't know what had passed between them. But the whispers were many: That the royal family and nobility siphoned off the riches gained through rose oil.

 

That the people, too, relied too heavily on Fisé's power—failing to till the fields or raise their animals, burdening him more and more. That Fisé, born as the Rose King and still young at the time, was drained of strength and fell into deep distrust of humans. When he finally tried to leave the kingdom, the king had him captured and forced back—against his will. Their relationship collapsed.

 

Since then, Fisé had ceased blooming fragrant white roses. Instead, he grew only black roses with razor-like thorns.

 

They say the kingdom suffered terribly in the three years between my birth and when I first started visiting here. But I don't believe for a second that Fisé wanted it that way. Back then, Father was even more greedy and forceful than now. He pushed Fisé beyond all reason. Fisé couldn't go on blooming white roses. He was exhausted. And they even locked him up, like it was his fault.

 

Aurelian gazed at his beloved, who no longer looked his way. His hair fell in soft silence, slipping like silk.

 

That dark hair, too long to reach the desk, must feel like something that would flit away if touched.

 

Aurelian had never once laid a hand on its shimmering waves.

 

When they first met, Fisé's hair had been short—but so sleek, so beautiful. As a child, Aurelian had once said, "Fisé, your hair is so pretty. I love it. Can I pat it?"

 

Fisé had hesitated, then finally answered, "That is something only lovers do."

 

He had added, "When someone like that comes into your life one day, you may ask them instead." Aurelian remembered every word, etched into memory without a syllable lost.

 

To Fisé, it must have been a gentle refusal. But to Aurelian, even then, it had sounded like a promise—that one day, they would be lovers. Because he had wanted nothing more than to touch that hair.

 

And just as fiercely, he hadn't wanted anyone else to touch it.

 

The morning after I praised his hair, I remember everyone in the palace saying the rose gardens had suddenly expanded. And from that day forward, Fisé's hair began to grow. It would get trimmed and grow back again, but never once did it fall shorter than his collarbone.

 

If he were to ask, "Did you bloom the white roses because you were happy I praised you? Did you grow your hair because you wanted me to compliment it more?"—Fisé would probably cut it all off. Shear it so short his nape would show.

 

It would be more than just shyness. He would feel humiliated—hurt—and he'd never let it grow again.

 

"I'll talk to Father. Really talk to him. This time, I'll ask from the heart."

 

"You mean, to release me from here?"

 

"Yes. Of course, I've always asked him seriously before, but… when he yells 'Silence!' or 'Get out!' there's not much I can do. After all, he's the king before he's my father. And recently he's been bedridden, so I couldn't press him as hard as I wanted."

 

"Is his condition… not good?"

 

"I'm not sure. Some physicians say he doesn't have much time left. Others say he'll be fine."

 

That much was true—but Aurelian had lied, slightly.

 

Not a single physician had told him the king was going to be fine.

 

Those words were reserved for the patient. Family members were always told the truth—blunt and unvarnished.

 

"I don't understand much about human illness or mortality… but it must be difficult."

 

"Yeah. It is."

 

But truthfully, continuing under the current king was far more difficult. Aurelian didn't have the arrogance to claim outright that the people would be safer, happier, and better off under his reign. He knew how dangerous it was to believe in such things without proof.

 

And yet, one thing was clear: The death of the current king would not be a great loss for Twydal.

 

No one could say exactly how long this era would last. One doctor had said, "His Majesty may not survive until His Highness reaches maturity." Another had guessed, "Perhaps five more years at most." Others gave estimates that fell somewhere in between.

 

Regardless, the succession was already decided—and Aurelian was the only direct heir.

 

Naturally, Aurelian desired the crown.

 

What he wanted was absolute power—because without it, he could never bring Fisé out of that prison.

 

Fisé must have known that too. Even Launis, the spirit beast who looked like a grown kitten, had once sighed, "Once Aurelian is king, we won't have to live this stifling life anymore."

 

The long years of confinement were hard. In truth, Fisé likely wanted to be free as soon as possible.

 

Just a little longer… only a little more until the new king was crowned, and then he could be released. If he could just endure until then, freedom would be within reach.

 

That hope alone might be what allowed him to endure this moment.

 

 

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