Night held the earth close, quiet as a secret. The wind was still. The streets lay empty and heavy with sleep and shadowed stories. Through the tight, dark lanes — where stones kept the memory of blood — came Achreos, wrapped not in silk, but in shadow.
He came unto his mansion — not a home, but a graveyard of memory. The very walls seemed to breathe sorrow. It all stood as a tomb: a monument to love long buried, and a chamber of torment where he'd walked alone with his ghosts.
Aye, he entered unseen, slipping through the iron gate as a wraith might drift through veil of mist. Past the broken garden, past the doors that knew his hand — and yet recoiled. He paused before his room, his fingers resting on the wood, and lifted his gaze not to dream, but to weigh what had passed.
The sky above, pale and wide, held no answer. Yet into it he spoke, quiet as breath as if talking to a beloved:
"This day," quoth he, "I have done what mine heart hath yearn'd for these two bitter years. It has began."
And with that, he passed within.
*** The dawn that follow'd broke slow and gold, as if careful not to wake the ache in the stones. Achreos, risen early, girded himself plain and unadorned, and walked forth with steps sure and swift.
He found the knave where he ever was where all things had a price, even silence. Achreos, who once knew only sword and sorrow, now bore the tongue of courts. Politics, once a stranger, had become his blade.
Thus armed, he went to the Grand Duke — a man carved of age and iron — and laid bare his cause. The Duke, sitting with still hands and listening eyes, weighed the words as a smith doth weigh a blade.
"I see no folly in thee," said he at last. "Only fire that has learn'd to burn cold. Very well. I shall stand for thy cause. Let it be done."
He the knave sought the Emperor's ear, and it was granted. There, in the great hall of murmurs and marble, he offered his name and station as patron — a shield to the forgotten boy, Vecillious.
"He shall not be cast aside like spoiled bread," the Duke declared. "He shall rise — if not by legacy, then by mine own name but your pride he shall be as the son of the daughter of a man who once ruled the battle field"
And so the old palace, long left to rot, stirr'd with motion once more. Servants came with buckets and fire, clearing soot and silence alike. The scent of soap mixed with ash as they scrubbed away years of ruin.
Then, one morning, food was set. Fresh, warm, and real.
Bread still steaming from the hearth. Roasted roots kissed with salt and herbs. A pitcher of clean water. Meats carved with care, not cruelty. All laid on a table in the room that once held only cold.
Vecillious stood before it, lean and frayed, his eyes hollow with the weight of waiting. He looked not at the food, but through it — as one might look upon a trick too cruel to speak aloud.
"Poisoned," he whispered, voice tight as thread. "That is what it is. Dressed in warmth, but deadly still."
He turned his face away and sat in silence. The plate remained untouched.
Day after day, meals were brought, and day after day he refused. Though hunger gnawed him raw, he denied the hand that fed — not from pride, but from fear.
Thus, in a palace made ready for his return, Vecillious chose famine, thinking safety a lie — and kindness, a blade in disguise.
"Him—is it him that maketh all this to be?" quoth he to himself, fingers twisting the ribbon about his hair—the same that the lad had tied for him.
Verily, Vecillious, now cast adrift upon the tempestuous sea of doubt, did seek refuge 'neath a sable bough within the garden's hallowed shade. Therein he sank, his weary back against the chill'd and steadfast stone, his arms entwined about his bent knees as if to clasp his very soul. From lips unbidden, a grievous sigh did slip, heavy as the weight of worlds unseen.
"Art thou weary, or is't fear that weigheth upon thee, little one?" came a voice, warm and gentle as the summer's breeze. The suddenness of it made the boy start.
Before him stood a lady, strange yet fair—eyes clear as the summer sky, the hue of his own, and hair of a soft, pale rose. Vecillious bowed his head low, as was his wont.
"Ah, so this is how thou dost look," quoth she with a gentle laugh. "Hehe, truly adorable art thou."
The lad looked at her not.
"Take this," quoth she, smiling soft, and held forth a small crumb of bread. He eyed it with doubt, slow and careful.
"Ha!" she chuckled, light as breeze. "No venom lurketh in this bit." She snapped a piece, bit it quick, then said, "Look now."
With trembling hand, the lad took it — and hunger swifter than his fear made him eat it all, ere a second thought could find him.
The lady chuckled soft, and the lad's cheeks burned faintly with shame. He knit his brows and asked, "Who art thou?"
"Me?" quoth she, with a gentle smile, "I am thy sister."
Vecillious paused, wonder and doubt weaving in his eyes. She thinketh on me? But why so? His gaze turned wary, questioning the lady's truth.
"Well then, little one," she said, laying a light hand upon his head. "If ever thou need'st aught, send word. But now I must away."
The lad wandered restless, pacing here and there. Beneath his breath he whispered,
"W-when shall the lad come?"
Around the hour when the sun did dip toward eve, and the meeting had drawn to its close, Achreos took leave of the knave with a solemn nod and farewell. His steps then carried him swift toward the once forsaken Ruby Place — that desolate keep where Vecillious now was said to dwell.
Within its cold and shadowed halls, Achreos found a servant, pale and silent as the stones themselves. With measured tone he did inquire:
"Where is the 'Prince'?" he asked, his voice sharp with quiet mark of challenge — for though this lad bore no right of birth, he was prince in truth.
The servant's eyes flickered, trembling, and he said in a respectful tone:
"I—I shall seek him."
Achreos raised an eyebrow in mild rebuke.
"Seek him? Should'st thou not rather watch o'er him, since the lad is yet young and frail?"
The man replied earnestly:
"Forgive me, milord. I shall do as thou command'st."
"From this day forth, see that thou tak'st good heed to his keeping."
"Aye, young Duke."
"Where is he oft found?"
"The garden," came the quiet reply.
With that, Achreos turned his steps toward the garden's quiet refuge, where the lad awaited.
Perhaps this was the conversation that passed 'twixt Achreos and the servant.
*** "Whiny red," quoth he, a soft and kindly smile playing upon his lips. Thrice he spoke the words, gentle as a whispered breeze. At last, the boy stirred and, with slow steps, drew near and spake.
"Thou hast come," quoth he, as tears traced gentle paths down his cheeks.
"Art thou weeping once more?" the lad spoke soft, his voice gentle as the dusk.
"Dost thou recall me still, or hath the years clouded thy mind?"
"I—I do remember," whiny red stammered, gathering his thoughts slow.
"Was it really thee?"
"Was it I?" the lad asked, a playful lift to his brow.
"Aye, 'twas me," he said with a quiet laugh.
"But how?" he whispered, eyes curious.
"Magic," the lad said, smiling like he knew more than he'd say.
"Magic?" he questioned, wonder in his eyes.
"Aye, don't ask. Just tell me, how hast thou been?"
"Fine," quoth Whiny Red, his head bowed low.
"Just fine? Not well?" the lad asked, one brow raised, head tilted with a trace of concern.
Whiny Red gave no answer.
"At times like this," the lad said softly, "when one asketh of thy well-being, 'tis oft their own they're speakin' of, too."
Whiny Red looked up then, puzzled, as though the words had caught him off guard, unsure how to shape a reply.
"Forgive me," the lad added at once. "I meant not to make thee uneasy."
"U-uh… 'tis fine," murmured Whiny Red, voice low.
The lad smiled, warm and certain. "Well then, thou art stuck with me now. I shall come each day, and sit at thy side."
Whiny Red said naught.
The lad laughed, light and playful. "Those few tears of thine told me thou hadst waited for me. But now? I begin to wonder."
"I–it's not that I waited for thee," Whiny Red murmured.
"Oh?" the lad tilted his head, a teasing glint in his eye. "And why not?"
"I–I only… I wanted to—" Whiny Red stammered, then faltered. "I-i wanted to see if thou wouldst truly… truly come again."
He turned his head, gaze falling to the ground, cheeks warm with quiet shame.
"Enough of this," the lad said gently. "Let us not linger here — dusk is drawing in."
Whiny Red glanced up, uncertain. "W–where should I take thee?"
"Oh, me?" the boy smiled, eyes bright with mischief. "I want thee to bathe."
"Heh—" Whiny Red blinked, caught off guard. "D–dost thou think me filthy?"
"Nay, not so," the lad said quickly. "But thy true charm lieth hidden."
Then, as the words left him, he cringed a little, cheeks flushing red. "oh, that sounded dreadful…"
Whiny Red glanced about, unsure, then turned on his heel. "Pray… follow me," he said, voice quiet.
As he turned, the black ribbon tied in his long, wavy hair caught the lad's eye. A flicker of guilt passed through him—yet warmth, too.
"So," the lad said gently, half-smiling, "thou kept it safe."
Whiny Red said nothing, only led him on.
The lad followed close behind, until at last they reached Whiny Red's chamber — a place untidy and unkempt. The elder lad said naught, yet his brow furrowed slightly as he stepped within. He rang the bell with little more than a flick.
Not long after, two servants came hurrying in, breathless with haste, eyes darting first to the Grand Duke's son. Seeing him, they bowed deep.
"Yes, milord?" they asked, ignoring Whiny Red entirely.
The elder lad frowned. "I am not thy master," said he. "The prince standeth here, not I."
The servants flushed, and at last turned to Whiny Red. But Achreos spoke again, calm and sure: "Warm the bath for the prince."
They obeyed at once.
He then added, "See him bathed well—and cut his hair."
At that, Whiny Red spoke up, a touch of unease in his voice. "Please… cut it, but only to my shoulders."
Achreos looked to him, a slight calm smile on his face. "Thou likest thy hair long?"
For a moment, the younger lad said nothing. He looked down at the floor, silent, his hands drawn close. He did not answer for reason not know why.
After that, the two lads ate their dinner in quiet company. The elder lad then called a young woman, fair and about twenty years of age. "Elaina shall now serve thee," he said gently. "Thou must eat well and live free of care; she will tend to thee."
Whiny Red looked up, confusion and sorrow flickering in his eyes. "Art thou leaving?" he asked softly, his face drawn with sadness—perhaps for he felt safe beside Achreos, and feared the coming absence.
The elder lad smiled gently and said, "For now, little Whiny Red. But on the morrow, I shall return—I promise thee."
Then the lads rose, and the younger went with the elder outside, to see him off beneath the fading light.
The elder lad gently patted the young lad's head and spoke, "Shall we walk upon the dawn of a path untrodden?"
The young lad looked down, cheeks flushed with a rosy red. All he could say was, "I–I will wait for thee."
"Farewell then, Whiny Red," the elder lad replied.
"F–farewell," came the soft answer.
Achreos turned and went his way, eyes lifted to the sky, whispering to the wind,
"His form… his stutters… and the ribbon. Aye, am I doing the right thing?"
......To be continued