Chapter Text
Donquixote Homing was a sickly boy. He spent most of his time confined to his bed, waited on hand and foot by an endless stream of slaves who were forced under the threat of death to give into his every demand. He rarely saw his parents, and when the slaves thought he couldn't hear they said that the Master and Mistress had no time for him, and were simply waiting for him to die before having another child. One even wondered if they had forgotten they had a child at all.
When Homing heard these things he would stare at the paintings that covered the walls of his bedroom. They were the only thing that seemed to make him happy, if only for a short while, and the slaves were constantly bringing him more in a futile effort to soothe his troubled heart.
Contentment was a concept that Homing was unfamiliar with, but the pictures were pleasant enough. They were romantic depictions of normal humans living their normal human lives. There was something about humanity that intrigued him. Their bright colorful clothes looked infinitely more comfortable than the white suit forced upon him during the rare occasions he ventured out of doors, with no bubble that deadened the air and left him lightheaded. Instead the pictures depicted scenes of revelry and dancing, of feasting and laughing, of thought and contemplation. Each was unfamiliar in their own way, and Homing found himself jealous of a few pieces of canvas.
It never crossed his dull, unchallenged mind that these paintings might not accurately represent reality. The fantasy alone was enough to make him endure another day.
"Young Master, I've brought you supper."
Homing glowered at the slave bringing his dinner. She was smiling, as commanded, but it was obvious even to the young boy that she would rather be any place else. The frail control over his temper snapped, and Homing lashed out against her.
"What's this?!" he shouted, lifting up the silver lid. "Broth? Vegetables? I don't want this…this pig slop! I want a bowl of ice cream, with chocolate and marshmallows!"
The slave's smile slipped. "But—of course, Young Master. I'll get it right away."
"Of course you will! You lazy cow!" Homing threw the tray of food at her, fat tears streaming down his face. "Can't you see I'm ill? Just go away and leave me alone!"
The crash of breaking china overshadowed the slave's stammered apologizes, and Homing buried his head under his sheets and wept until he was given what he wanted. The ice cream was rich and sweet, and he ate so much he made himself sick. He cried himself to sleep, hidden from the world by a canopy of silk, surrounded by paintings of faraway places that he would never go but desperately wished he was well enough to see.
And while Homing wallowed in self-pity, a young slave was sneaking out of bed, determined to find the source of moans that echoed through the mansion's empty halls.