Chapter 15 - Sleeping King

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The room was terribly quiet. Nothing interrupted the king's voice. Not even the occasional crack and crumble of logs in the hearth could drown out the words Aurelian so desperately wished not to hear.

 

"I'm telling you—he's mine. Surely, as a man, you understand. No—more than that, what you need to grasp is a woman's heart. Though he is no woman, he plays the same role. And a woman never forgets her first lover. No matter how young or beautiful you may be, Aurelian, you'll never erase the mark I've left on him. Even if you inherit all my titles and every right I possess, the Rose King will never truly belong to you. He is mine."

 

Though shadows of death clung to his features, the king's voice remained as commanding as ever.

 

His words poured forth like a curse, wrapping around Aurelian like a tangle of thorned vines.

 

His chest tightened as though those thorns were piercing his heart—but strangely, he didn't feel as though he'd been cursed by his father.

 

Because the man before him no longer felt like a father at all.

 

What sat there now was merely a man—seething with jealousy and sick with possessiveness.

 

Maybe… I've sensed it all along.

 

Since he was old enough to form thoughts, perhaps some part of him had already understood. The way this man looked at Fisé. The meaning behind the quiet rejection radiating from Fisé's every movement.

 

But he hadn't wanted to face it. And so he'd buried the suspicion—denied the possibility.

 

How could he not be shaken by what the king was now confessing about Fisé's past?

 

And yet, here he stood—still upright, still looking down at the man who should have been his father.

 

Does he really think I'd believe his words over Fisé's?

 

What the king said was the kind of thing one both wanted and didn't want to know. A jagged truth that caught in the heart. It was in the past, and yet its impact lingered—influencing Fisé's present condition, even touching the fate of the kingdom of Twydal.

 

It might be important for someone who loves Fisé, someone who wants to make him happy, to know these things.

 

But no matter what truths may lie buried in the past, no one knows the present-day Fisé better than he does.

 

No matter what anyone says, his feelings would not waver. That truth burned bright and unwavering within him.

 

My feelings haven't changed in the slightest. But still… how pitiful this man is.

 

This was a king, a father. A man who had ruled a nation and raised a child.

 

And yet, even as death approached, he had nothing better to say.

 

No parting wish to say, "Take care of him."

 

No guidance such as, "You are a prince—set aside your love and bear an heir."

 

Only regret. Only obsession. Pressing his bitterness and desire onto others like a curse.

 

As Aurelian stood in silence, perhaps the king thought him stunned into speechlessness.

 

He looked up at Aurelian with a smug, triumphant sneer.

 

And that face—that face—was what finally made it impossible to stay quiet.

 

"Father. I know this is impudent of me—but I must say it. If your only wish is to remain in someone's heart no matter how, then that is the height of foolishness."

 

"—Foolishness, you say?"

 

"Yes. If you truly torment the one you long to be remembered by, then yes, you will linger in their memory. You may even leave a wound that never heals. You may become someone they never forget. But that's an easy thing to do. It's nothing noble. It's because it's cruel and shameful—because it's something that would sadden you if done to you—that people of sound heart choose not to do it. Anyone can inflict pain.

 

What you've done—what you're confessing to—is this: you've deeply wounded the mind and body of the Rose King, a being vital to this country's future. You've made him despise you. And still, you've selfishly imprisoned him, obsessed over him. That is no different from treason."

 

And the moment he said the word "treason," Aurelian felt something within him settle.

 

When had he stopped seeing this man as worthy of reverence as king? It had been years, perhaps. But only now did he realize how naïve he had been.

 

"You… you dare call me—me—a traitor to the crown?"

 

"Yes. I do. I don't know the details of what happened between you and Fisé. But the fact that Fisé can no longer bloom white roses, that he was forced to produce black roses filled with thorns that brought harm to this kingdom—none of that was of his own will. It's obvious.

 

He has suffered deeply over the hardship he brought upon the people. Even now, though he's managed to bloom some white roses once more, he carries anxiety within him. And you—you, who laid hands on the Rose King, who drove him into such a state, who couldn't even soothe his pain in the end—you're not merely a failed king. You're practically a traitor to the nation."

 

He knew angering the king was not wise.

 

He knew that letting his emotions show was dangerous.

 

And yet, he could not stop himself.

 

Was it arrogance, to speak as if on Fisé's behalf? Would Fisé scold him for it, if he were here? Perhaps he would say Aurelian knew nothing—that he had no right to make assumptions.

 

No matter what Fisé may say, I know this: his words are not always honest. But I trust in the Fisé I have seen with my own eyes. Even if he sometimes acts cynical or cold, I know—beneath it all—he is a pure, gentle fairy.

 

That will never change.

 

Aurelian was about to say it aloud:

 

Release him. Give me the key to the cell you still control, and free Fisé this very moment—

 

But before the words left his mouth, the king let out a low, guttural groan.

 

He said something—but the words were too slurred to make out.

 

Gripping the ends of the armrests with both hands, the king trembled violently as he stood—his expression like that of a wounded beast. The proud beauty he once possessed in his youth was gone; his skin had lost its luster, turning a sickly hue. His lips were cracked and dry, blood staining both his teeth and mouth, as though he'd bitten down in fury.

 

"No matter how you scorn me… I am king. Even in death, the Rose King will remain imprisoned—by the command of the former king! Even if you become king, for thirty years… you will not be allowed to touch him!"

 

"…The former king's command?" Aurelian repeated.

 

He couldn't believe what he had just heard.

 

The "former king's command"—he'd heard of such a thing before.

 

It was a law unlike any other: a single will, issued by a deceased monarch, that remained binding even after the throne passed to a new ruler. Out of respect for the former sovereign's authority and final wishes, no successor could overturn it.

 

Aurelian's own grandfather, the former king, had once wielded such power. His obsession with his young and beautiful second wife led him to write in his will: "The queen shall love me as a widow, and no other."

 

As a result, the young queen—though she wished to remarry—was denied permission, grew old alone, and died of illness before ever gaining her freedom.

 

"The Rose King will not be free until—how old will you be then…? Perhaps fifty? If I were to die tomorrow, thirty years from now you'll be forty-seven. By then, you'll be withered. There's no chance he'd look at you. The one who'll catch his eye then will be some fresh-faced, innocent youth—perhaps your grandson."

 

The king's voice was laced with triumph, though he seemed barely able to remain standing. With difficulty, he removed one hand from the armrest and reached into the inner pocket of his coat. From it, he drew a key.

 

"Remember this, Aurelian. This key will never be yours. I will entrust it to someone who will carry out my will. For thirty years, you will be kept apart from him! This is the punishment you deserve—for calling your own king, your own father, a traitor!"

 

He laughed coldly, holding the key aloft like a trophy.

 

The golden light from the fireplace and candles glinted off its polished surface.

 

The prison in the northern spire was old; its iron bars were rusted. But the lock and key were newly forged. The king had ordered them remade many times, selecting his key-bearers with the utmost care.

 

Of course, the door had never once been opened in Aurelian's presence.

 

"This key will never be yours. Not while I live. Not even after you become king. Never. You should be grateful I'm naming you my heir at all, after the mockery you've made of me as king and father! If I had another child, I'd strip you of your title without hesitation!"

 

To Aurelian, the key the king held aloft no longer looked like a symbol of power—it looked like a dagger.

 

Had they not been bound by blood, his father might well have drawn a real blade. Might well have plunged it into him without a shred of hesitation. That's how palpable his murderous hatred was—the sheer weight of it, bearing down like a thousand spears of ice.

 

His skin felt like it had frozen to invisible frost.

 

His face, flayed. His flesh, ripped raw.

 

 

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