Chapter 17 - Sleeping King

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Chapter 17

 

 

Later that night, Fisé was diligently working on a translation.

 

By the soft glow of a lamp and the pale light of the moon, his pen moved smoothly across the page, sketching fairy script with practiced elegance.

 

Launis had gone out. Fisé didn't know when he might return—and since Launis never made a sound when moving, he had to maintain an appearance of calm.

 

He had already shown Launis his weaknesses, his failures. That very morning, he had seen him lying listlessly in bed. But even so… the past and present were no longer the same. Just as much as he didn't want to cause him worry or sorrow, a certain pride had taken root in him—a pride befitting an adult fairy, one who bore the name of king for his magical prowess and wisdom.

 

I'm fine now... I'm doing work that helps the younger fairies. Even if only the bare minimum, I've been able to produce the rose oil that sustains the people's lives. No matter what Aurelian is saying to that man right now—or what's being said to him—my heart will not waver.

 

He repeated these words like a spell, but deep down he knew—he couldn't stop worrying.

 

Yes, he longed to leave the prison and be free, but it didn't have to be now.

 

What he feared more was Aurelian confronting his bedridden father and, as a result, uncovering the ugly truths of the past.

 

He couldn't bear the thought of Aurelian—so pure, so earnest—being wounded by those memories. Nor could he endure the idea of seeing contempt in those eyes. He knew that no matter what lies the king might weave about the past, Aurelian wouldn't swallow them whole.

 

And yet, he couldn't stop imagining it.

 

It was absurd—almost certainly impossible. But still, the thoughts came: "I'm disappointed in Fisé," "It's disgusting that I spent every day with such a filthy fairy," "Give me back my fourteen years," "To lie with a married king as a man—how shameful," "Poor Mother."

 

He could not banish the image of Aurelian looking down on him with cold, unfamiliar eyes.

 

The expressions, the voice, were vivid—too real, like a nightmare lived while waking.

 

Even though I deserve to be called anything, even though my past is steeped in disgrace… I'm terrified of Aurelian hating me. I didn't want to get hurt, so I thought of leaving before he became a man. I was afraid of the way his pure feelings might someday change. I wanted this—us—to end while things were still good.

 

Where is he now? Is his conversation with the king over?

 

If Aurelian never returned again, would I be able to stay calm? Or would the black rose bloom once more, sharp and cruel with its thorns?

 

And if the white rose failed to bloom at all, Twydal—Aurelian's future kingdom—would begin to wither. Would he, then, send some kitten of a youth in his place for the sake of the people? Or would he still grant my release…?

 

As Fisé brooded, his pen snagged on the page, and ink spattered across the words.

 

A droplet landed right in the middle of the fairy script, interrupting the story of a con artist who deceived a naïve little fae.

 

I know from bitter experience that humans deceive. I learned that truth through pain and humiliation. And yet… most of me still wants to believe in Aurelian. I need to believe he's different. And that's what terrifies me most. Because if even he were to betray me, I…

 

If I could vanish into mist, disillusioned with mankind, I'd welcome it.

 

But what scares me more is surviving, and turning that despair into something real and terrible.

 

My power as the Rose King is bottomless. I could unleash black roses across the entire kingdom—roses whose thorns pierce like spears, destroying homes. In this frigid land, that would mean death. People would freeze to death, cast out into the snow, or be crushed beneath collapsed walls.

 

I can see the brambles coiling around human bodies, piercing flesh, shattering bone.

 

My roses, which grow in a single night what ordinary roses take years to produce, would attack without distinction.

 

I picture a child—soft and small, like Aurelian once was—torn apart. I see a mother, much like the queen, collapsing in grief. My hands tremble. I can't hold the pen.

 

"—!"

 

Clutching his aching chest, Fisé heard the sound he had been longing for—footsteps.

 

And in that same moment, he realized: I've been waiting for him.

 

There was no mistaking it—those hurried strides ascending the northern tower's spiral staircase belonged to Aurelian.

 

Autumn had deepened, and once the sun set, frost would sometimes form on the steps. Fisé had told him to be careful when coming late. But of course, Aurelian charged upward without watching his footing at all.

 

If Fisé were to scold him now, would he just grin and say, "It's fine! I'm going up after all"?

 

"Fisé!"

 

He wanted so badly for it to be good news. He wanted Aurelian to smile and say, "Fisé! I got permission!"

 

Not because he wanted to leave this place—no. He only wanted Aurelian to remain as he was: untouched by cruelty, shining like the sun, never marred by sorrow.

 

"Fisé, get ready—quickly! We're running away together!"

 

"…Aurelian!"

 

Just as Fisé had expected, he was smiling—but neither his voice nor his appearance were anything like what he had imagined.

 

His blond hair, spun from sunlight and gold, was tousled and untied, no ribbon or clasp to hold it. His cloak, lined with silver fur, was as dazzling as any prince deserved—but beneath it, his vest, shirt, and coat were smeared with soot. Countless tiny holes peppered the chest, clearly scorched by flying embers. His right hand was wrapped in a scarf, concealing something obviously serious.

 

"Fisé, I got the key. I didn't get permission, but that doesn't matter. We just have to get out of here—now."

 

"Aurelian… did you steal the key from the king? That won't change anything. If we escape like this, we'll only be captured again. And your hand—what happened? What on earth did you do?"

 

As Fisé rushed to the iron bars, Aurelian was already unlocking the door.

 

The key he held looked different from the ones Fisé had seen before—its ornamentation stripped, its metal blackened. Yet it functioned—Fisé heard it clearly.

 

That sharp, metallic click split the cold air and filled it with the color of hope.

 

Even now, in such a moment, he couldn't help but think: what a beautiful sound. It reminded him of days long past—of freedom.

 

"Fisé, at last—I'm opening this door. Please… come with me."

 

"No, Aurelian. You mustn't. Don't open the door. Don't come in here. Please, lock it again—return that key to its rightful owner."

 

"Fisé, we don't have time for this. They'll be coming after us any minute."

 

"Calm yourself. If you truly wish to free me, then wait until you've become king."

 

But it was no use—Aurelian was determined. The door, which had remained shut for fourteen long years, now creaked open by his hand.

 

Even as a child, he had never once been allowed inside this cell. Now, he strode in boldly, his voice clear and sure as he called, "Let's go!"

 

"I said it's impossible! Just look at yourself—your face is twisted in pain."

 

He held out his hand, trying to smile, but his expression betrayed the agony he was suppressing.

 

Instead of his right, he offered his left—a detail not lost on Fisé. Aurelian was right-handed. And he remembered clearly the day, years ago, when the little prince had come up the stairs with his right hand gloved in a leather pouch, reaching out for a handshake.

 

That hand had once been small, white, and soft. Now, Fisé ached to know what had become of it.

 

If he could not see it—if no one would tell him—then he had no choice but to think it through himself.

 

A right hand that could no longer clasp his. A face twisted with pain. A key blackened and burned. Clothing scorched by flame.

 

Piece by piece, the truth came together in his mind. He could imagine, all too vividly, what must have happened between Aurelian and the king.

 

"Launis isn't home, right? Would he be surprised if you suddenly vanished? Ah, but I'm sure he'll come after you soon enough, so that's fine, right? Anything else important... uh, the book you're translating and the manuscript, definitely. Oh, and your fairy robes—you need those too."

 

"Aurelian, enough—"

 

If he had been a storybook princess—graceful, pure, and without flaw—perhaps he could have simply obeyed the beautiful prince.

 

Perhaps then, regardless of which hand was offered, he could have taken it without hesitation, and gone with him.

 

He could have fled with him down the stairs, hand-in-hand, escaping the evil king.

 

And no matter how many hardships awaited them beyond, a pure and blameless princess would, like in the old tales, find happiness in the end.

 

"Did you burn your right hand? Please—remove that scarf and show me. I may not be a fairy specialized in healing, but I can mend small wounds caused by rose thorns. Even if not completely, I can at least help the recovery—"

 

But before he could finish, Aurelian cut him off. "Sorry—there's no time. We'll come back for the rest later."

 

Ah—he didn't even have time to speak before the world turned sideways.

 

He caught a glimpse of Aurelian ducking down—and then, like a bull, he charged forward, his shoulder pressing into Fisé's abdomen. The motion wasn't rough, but it was fast. It took Fisé a moment to even realize he had been lifted.

 

"Aurelian—what are you doing?! Put me down!"

 

"Sorry! I can't use both hands, so this is the only way. Don't struggle—it's dangerous. Just hold on tight!"

 

Fisé understood the words… and yet didn't. It was as if he'd stepped into a world where language no longer worked—had he accidentally started speaking in fairy tongue?

 

When had Aurelian become so forceful, so deaf to reason?

 

Fisé had known the boy was growing strong—too strong to be called a boy anymore. Seventeen now, and already more man than child. Just yesterday, he had still been sixteen, unmistakably a youth in human terms… and yet now, he carried Fisé without effort.

 

 

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