Chapter 14 - Sleeping King

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That evening, Aurelian dined alone with his mother, the Queen. After offering him many warnings, she finally let him go to the King's chambers. Like Aurelian, she too wished for the Rose King's release—but more than anything, she feared for their family's happiness and the peace of the realm. Naturally, she hoped to avoid a clash between father and son.

 

So she had cautioned him, "You may ask for his release, but whatever you do, don't raise your voice. Don't provoke His Majesty or agitate him." She'd also said something else, echoing Fisé's own words: "You can improve the Rose King's treatment once you become king. Arguing with a sick, bedridden father whose days may be numbered is foolish. I don't want you to do anything you'll regret."

 

Foolish or not, I have my own principles in life.

 

With that thought, Aurelian walked through the main corridor, heading toward the Rose Door—a place he was usually forbidden to approach.

 

Even before they had gained the Rose King's favor, the rose had symbolized royalty in Twydal. Of all the designs, the golden rose was most revered—reserved solely for the King and his heir.

 

The royal chambers—ten vast rooms in all—lay beyond a pair of grand doors engraved with hundreds of roses in gold.

 

The doors themselves were breathtaking, but the corridor leading to them was just as lavish.

 

First-time visitors often gasped, calling it "a cave of gold." The walls and ceiling were gilded, while the floor was obsidian, chosen to accentuate the shine. Instead of crimson carpets, silk dyed gold lined the path. All other colors were stripped away, leaving only gold and black to embody the King's authority.

 

Of course, the floors gleamed, the chandeliers were polished, and even the tiniest speck of dust was rigorously swept from the sculptures and frames.

 

Even now, when the country was no longer wealthy, the King's surroundings remained immaculate and dazzling.

 

After all, King Oswald was an extravagant tyrant. As he aged, he had grown increasingly bad-tempered and merciless, doling out harsh punishments for the smallest mistake.

 

Though the hallway sparkled, it was not beautiful. It was a corridor of vanity—gaudy and hollow.

 

The scent of roses… it's leaking through the door. He's still using this much essential oil, even now.

 

As he walked beneath chandeliers lit by candlelight, the brilliant golden doors loomed ahead.

 

Four guards stood before them, clad in imposing armor, and bowed their heads low.

 

"I have an appointment with my father. May I pass?"

 

At Aurelian's request, they bowed even lower.

 

They did not reply—their station forbade it—but two of them worked together to unbolt the heavy doors.

 

Unlike the palace attendants who served the Queen or the Prince and often smiled and chattered, those who served the King did so with rigid discipline. Whether soldiers or maids, all wore the same tight-lipped, tense expressions.

 

The hinges groaned as the door, thick enough to rival a man's torso, slowly opened.

 

At once, the air changed—not metaphorically, but truly. The very air was different beyond that threshold.

 

The corridor housing the King's rooms was saturated with the fragrance of white roses. Stepping in felt like standing at the heart of a rose garden at dawn.

 

One could only shudder imagining how much essential oil was used here each day.

 

Such extravagance… He thought, as he always did, with a mix of disbelief and quiet exasperation.

 

Though the ten rooms ahead were all designated for the king, only three of them were actually in use now that he was confined to bed. For this reason, both the queen and Aurelian—along with several ministers—had repeatedly advised him to "use the oils more sparingly." But the king insisted on filling every space he might enter with the scent of roses, as if trying to recreate Twydal's most prosperous era through fragrance alone.

 

"Father, it's your son. Are you here this evening?"

 

Aurelian knocked gently on the door of the main bedchamber, then glanced at the guard standing nearby.

 

Before the king could reply, the guard silently nodded.

 

That was confirmation enough. From within the room, a voice finally rang out: "Enter."

 

Aurelian opened the door himself—and immediately furrowed his brows at the overwhelming scent of roses.

 

"Father, excuse my intrusion. Thank you for permitting me to visit you tonight."

 

Standing in the doorway of the dimly lit chamber, Aurelian addressed the canopied bed, assuming the king was lying there.

 

"It's quite cold despite the lack of snow. I hope the chill hasn't affected your health?" he asked, his gaze drifting to the fireplace. Of course, flames already danced in the hearth—but if his father desired more warmth, Aurelian had intended to add fresh logs himself.

 

To his surprise, the king was not in bed at all.

 

He sat upright in a chair before the fire.

 

"Father… You stayed up waiting for me?"

 

Aurelian was taken aback—not only because he'd heard the king now handled most of his duties from bed during the day, but because of how carefully his father was groomed.

 

The fire behind him made it hard to see clearly, but his long hair was neatly combed and tied back with a ribbon, just as it had been when he was in good health.

 

Nor was he dressed in sleepwear. Instead, he wore a silk shirt adorned with abundant lace, a cravat at his neck, and a knee-length coat with oversized gold cuffs. Beneath that, a resplendent vest peeked through, glittering under the firelight.

 

"Did you have an official audience planned today, Father?"

 

Aurelian hadn't heard of such a thing, but it seemed the only logical explanation. When he asked, the king scowled.

 

"And would it be strange if I wore proper clothing? Would it please you more if I were lying bedridden in wrinkled nightclothes, hair in disarray, clasping your hand and saying, 'I leave it to you now'?"

 

He had already misspoken. The last thing he wanted was to offend his father—yet he'd failed from the very start.

 

Still, to waver now would be to betray Fisé.

 

Today—on his seventeenth birthday—he had come here determined to take action, no matter the cost.

 

"Not at all, Father. You look splendid, and I'm glad to see you well."

 

"The queen's been going on and on about how you're turning seventeen today. It's terrifying, really—how the sweet, honest child I once knew can now lie to his father without flinching."

 

"Father…?"

 

"In your heart, you're wishing for my death. Hoping to claim the throne as soon as possible, aren't you? So you can free the Rose King without ever having to bow to me. I suspect that once he's out of confinement, you plan to put your hands all over him."

 

The words hit Aurelian like a physical blow.

 

Before he realized it, his hands had clenched into fists, and his forearms were trembling.

 

While unions between men were frowned upon by religious doctrine, such restrictions applied only to relationships between humans. There was no explicit commandment forbidding intimacy with fairies—no edict that said, "Thou shalt not lie with a flower." And yet… Aurelian knew better than to rely on such excuses.

 

He had never imagined his father would perceive his forbidden feelings. The shock left him speechless.

 

"Did you really think I hadn't noticed?"

 

With his stern, broad nose and harsh countenance, the king glowered in the firelight.

 

Though he sat sprawled deep in the single-seat couch, it was clear that standing took effort now. His clothes were fine, but his complexion had lost its vitality. The loss of muscle was visible even beneath the garments. He looked smaller, thinner—his cheeks hollow, his face shadowed. Though they hadn't seen each other for some time, the change was stark. Anyone could tell the end was not far off.

 

"Your true feelings are written all over your face, Aurelian. I can see your shame, your fear at being exposed. It's easy to read. The Rose King's beauty is poison to a child like you, still clumsy with newly awakened lust. He is a dark fairy who seduces men and devours them whole."

 

"—Father!"

 

"He was once a naive, delicate boy. I molded him from the ground up—trained him, refined him. I opened his petals, turned a daisy into a rose. It was I who shaped the immature Fisé into the Rose King he is now. So no, I don't blame you for being drawn to him."

 

"Father, wait—please… what are you saying…?"

 

There was no need to ask again. Every word had reached his ears, and his mind was sharp enough to understand.

 

 

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