Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

On a spring day

because of your love

I saw the pleasing sight of sunlight shining

into my shadowy backyard.

Out of darkness to the fireside of love

you gently called me,

and smiled as purely as a wildflower,

standing in front of me in the bright, shining light

that only someone who has passed through darkness can make.

Ah,

just to think of you–

you

are

so

lovely.

— Kim Yong-taek

Throughout the majority of his life, Jesse heard whispers—voices muttering low and echoey around the palace, so often that sometimes he wondered if people forgot that out of all the five human senses, it was only his sight that he lacked, and not his hearing.

"His Majesty the Prince Consort feels threatened by the Prince," was the thought that Jesse overheard the most, uttered by servants who were under the daft impression that he couldn't hear them gossiping just a little further away.

He's always wondered what they meant by that. As a young child, it wasn't surprising that he couldn't understand the weight of the stare the prince consort regarded him with, still oblivious to the several nuanced shades that separated love, tolerance, and hate. But with how frequently the servants talked, it also came to no surprise that Jesse eventually began to piece the picture together himself:

Jesse Venetiaan was a bastard child, born between the love shared between his mother the Queen, and the commoner priest she fell in love with, despite her being legally married to the current Prince Consort.

His existence should be a curse to the Royal Family, he often heard the murmurs say. And yet, one night, when the whispers had been particularly bad, when Jesse came crying to his sister after dragging his hands across the sides of the walls to where he memorized was his sister's room, Elise had assured him that he was loved and he would always be loved.

But not even those sincere reassurances were enough to complete erase the sting of the few stray murmurs that claimed his lack of sight was a punishment for the Queen's infidelity—a ridiculous notion, Elise repeatedly told him with her young yet firm voice, because he was a child blessed with gold and amethyst, and she always reassured him of that when they were children.

Getting cursed was a terrible thing.

There were many things that the Almighty God was capable of, and snatching children whose middle names weren't properly able to protect them was one of those many apparent curses—

But being blind was not one of them.

Regardless, Jesse was blind and not deaf, and he knew that despite his sister's attempts of protection, he would never truly be able to ignore the whispers about whatever was written about him in the deeper corners of the gossip paper columns.

Jesse had only been a child when he realized that people liked to talk. They talked and talked and talked, and eventually, he came to the realization that the one who talked the loudest was none other than his mother's husband, the Prince Consort.

For all that Elise could give her soul into pouring him with her unwavering reassurances, even they couldn't help but sound weak before Werner Venetiaan's harsh words.

"An ugly nuisance," was the other comment that Jesse heard quite often, amidst all the love he received from his older sister.

Growing up, the words that the Prince Consort threw at him only became more vile and harsh, and in the way that naive children did, it wasn't surprising that Jesse eventually began to believe that the words Werner Venetiaan threw at him might've been true.

He was a child whose life had been affirmed by the love of his sister, after all, and the love that she showered him with was always so overwhelming there was nothing he could do but remain hopeless in the face of it. The tides reversed whenever Werner scorned him, however, tormenting him over the table when the man called him over for tea, berating his every fumble, his lack of manners, the odd way his eyes shook—rapid, minute circular motions that Werner constantly compared to the movement of flies—Jesse found that all the words of Mother's husband stung, and Werner told him plain and simple that it was because the truth stung and that his sister's love has made him blind, blinder than the state of his eyes made him, blind to the reality of his dirty little being.

"Your dear sister is too kind," Werner crooned at him, and for all that Jesse found his voice so very gentle and beautiful, it was one of the most terrifying sounds he had ever heard in his life.

"She doesn't want to hurt you, so she feeds you those lies to make you believe you are more special than you really are."

Jesse's hands shook as they held his cup—too large to properly fit his hands, the scalding tea burning his skin as he struggled to drink it. With Werner watching him, he knew he couldn't refuse it, lest he be disrespectful to his esteemed stepfather.

"You know that you are not supposed to exist, don't you, boy? That your existence is a curse upon this kingdom."

"But—" His voice quivered. "But noonim said.. she says—"

"I do not remember allowing you to call her Royal Highness, noonim." Werner laughed, everything but kindly, and Jesse promptly shut up—ice filling his veins and freezing him on the spot. "I told you this already. My dear Elise is too kind; Her Royal Highness does not understand the differences between your positions. Or are you hard of hearing in addition to having those useless horrid eyes as well?"

Jesse felt tears prick his eyes at those words. He wasn't sure as to whether or not they were due to the undrinkable burning tea in his hands, or from the harsh words of the prince consort sitting before him.

"Do not stare at me like that," Werner snapped, and lowering his head, Jesse chewed at his lip; he didn't even know he was looking at the man in the first place.

"Listen here," Werner roughly spoke through tightly gritted teeth. "You do not have golden hair. Your eyes are the furthest things away from amethyst, and they constantly shake around like disgusting little flies. The only reason why your attributes are associated with precious gems is that the people have nothing else to praise you for besides overglorifying the first things they see upon laying eyes on you."

Hands grabbed suddenly at his chin, and Jesse stifled back a yelp. He made sure to keep his eyes tightly shut, because he knew that if he opened them, Werner would only get angrier.

"Your hair is bland like dirty barn hay and your face is disgusting. You stupidly trick yourself into believing all the delusions being fed to you is because your useless eyes are unable to see the plain truth—but worry not, my dearest son."

Werner's gloved hand squeezed him harshly, skin never ever touching his, while his other brushed the fringe above Jesse's tightly shut eyes—a cruel mimicry of tenderness.

"I will be here to make sure you do not grow too conceited."

As the days passed, Jesse heard less and less of his sister's voice.

Ever since Werner had assigned him a new tutor after firing his former one for incompetence, Jesse barely had any time to try seeking her out.

He had been devastated that day, because Jesse had truly liked the gentle old man that was previously assigned to teach him, and the instructor Werner sent as a replacement was so much more harsh and cold, never sparing him any sympathy.

She read too fast during her lectures, and in geography, she reorganized his carefully constructed image of the continent into a jumbled mess of countries, so different from what his previous tutor taught him. When it came to his etiquette lessons, there wasn't a moment where Jesse could go without feeling afraid and on edge, because the governess had a habit of correcting his posture and harshly prodding him with a stick, so suddenly and without notice, and never told him when he was about to walk into the walls when they practised his strides, always placing so many heavy tomes onto his head it made his neck creak.

"That is because she is not there to coddle you like your old tutor," Werner told him, words icily spat when Jesse dared to voice his timid thoughts. "You are not a baby. Do you need someone to hold your hand whenever you walk, too?"

"But I- cannot see where—"

"How hard is it to follow a single old woman throughout the palace? Ha! Truly, you are so useless..."

And just like Werner was, his new tutor was just as harsh. Not once did she ever hold back, and everything was so different from what he had previously learnt, so different from what Elise used to read for him whenever she had free time and wanted to help him study.

And Jesse didn't know what to believe anymore, when he heard all those harsh words spill from both Werner and his new tutor's lips. Everything his sister told him contradicted their words, and all he could do was live in a constant bubble of confusion, never quite understanding what was right and what was wrong.

He never left the palace, and he was barely able to get around without the help of his sister or a maid, and to that, Werner only called him a nuisance for bothering the servants like that when they clearly had better things to do.

"... But, what... what if it's Her Royal Highness?" Jesse weakly asked, erasing the habitual noonim for Elise's more formal title, because Werner always got mad at him when he called her sister.

Werner scoffed. "Elise is going to be the Crown Princess one day. Her Royal Highness can't be wasting her time escorting you like a common maid, reading to you when she could be studying for her own future, instead. This is why I got you that tutor. So that Her Royal Highness won't have to waste her precious time on filthy bastards like you anymore. Are you trying to say you would rather sabotage Elise's bright future with your selfishness?"

"No! No, Your Majesty, I- I—"

"Then stop," Werner snarled, the sound of his breathing frighteningly deep and careful, bottled up rage that only filled up the more time he spent with Jesse, "taking my kindness for granted, and listen to your tutor so that your stupid brain can finally develop."

Jesse held back his tongue when he wanted to spill about how different his tutor's teaching was from Elise's patient textbook readings. He didn't know what to make of it, either, knowing that one of them was wrong, because how else could teachings differ from each other so starkly? 

And when Jesse was finally left alone at the table, Werner's words bouncing around the inside of his head, he wondered if the man could really be telling him the truth.

All the insults, all the sneered words. Jesse was slow, Werner often reminded him of it, but he knew that words often came from truths.

Your eyes are horrendous, Werner often jeered at him. Always shaking so stupidly—just like flies.

("I love your eyes, Losna," Elise would always tell him, her voice in his head, softly chiding him because "no matter what you may think, they are beautiful because they are yours.")

But when Jesse met up again with his tutor, the answer she gave upon his asking her was the same as Werner's.

His Royal Majesty the Prince Consort only ever speaks the truth.

She didn't say anything about flies, but Jesse knew they were insects, and what they were, and that Werner hated them—hated them enough to associate them with the pupils Jesse had often been told were always squirming.

He never noticed it himself—couldn't feel it, nor control it, but Elise always told him that his eyes were fine as they were. He didn't know how he looked at all, however, and so he was never able to find it in himself to fully agree.

(At night, he often wondered when his mother would heal from her broken heart enough to leave her chambers, and reassure him with her gentle voice that he was as beautiful as the kind commoner man who she loved so dearly.)

But Werner once told him that his cursed existence was the reason for his blood father's death, and so Jesse couldn't find it in himself anymore to try and visit her anymore—and risk permanently nailing the hammer into her shattered soul.

The next time they met for tea—and Jesse didn't know why they still did, when it was clear that Werner thought of him as nothing more than filth beneath his sole—Jesse made a habit of keeping his eyes closed.

Werner sounded happier in the days following that, even as he laughed over how Jesse burnt his tongue on the scalding tea he had been served, or when he took a bite out of what he supposed was a cookie, only to find it salty beyond belief—but still forced to eat it.

(He always ended up vomiting everything he had eaten, whenever he was invited to have tea with the Prince Consort.)

It was when Jesse was sixteen that Elise finally found out about his tutor—and only because he hadn't noticed it when the wounds on the back of his legs had begun bleeding through his white pants.

After a particularly harsh session where Jesse failed to properly recite scriptures past the two hundredth mark from the Church's holy texts, it wasn't out of the ordinary for his tutor to tell him to place his hands on his desk, or to lift up the bottom ends of his pants whenever he failed to reach her standards.

His mother had high hopes for him, when he was younger. The Queen had hoped that he would become a strong priest so that he could become Elise's partner, and Jesse barely remembered that but Elise had been firm when she told him, with a large, gentle grin in her voice, that it was the truth.

Jesse had a feeling that there was the truth. Maybe not the one Mother and Elise thought of him, but a truth to his existence—whether it be as a partner to Elise or as something, someone else.

Since he was young, Jesse had always felt as if he belonged somewhere. Small, invisible threads tugging at him in several directions, begging him to follow an unknown destination.

Elise said he was special. She had always meant it kindly, but Jesse was never truly able to feel like how she saw him.

And now that many years have passed, with Jesse now having turned sixteen, he was legally considered an adult.

He had not a single trace of Divine Power within him, despite all the blessings of the Almighty God and wishes of his Queen Mother, and he had remained a normal priest all the way up to this point.

Un-special, un-extraordinary. A compass turning on its head without even knowing where its purpose was pointing to.

(Somewhere. There was somewhere out there calling for him, reaching. Jesse couldn't help but mourn his inability to know where to even begin his own half of the search.)

And having finally arrived at adulthood, he thought things would've at least changed.

He didn't feel like one—an adult—but he was, and his tutor told him that he would soon become an honorary bishop, now that he was of age, but she told him he wasn't worthy at all, yet.

So she made him study.

Study, study, study and study, so that rules, essays and scriptures engraved themselves into his head like a second skin and on-call instinct, because he wasn't special, and so there was nothing else he could do but try his best and pretend he was. But it was difficult, however, because Jesse couldn't read, and the looming threat of his tutor slapping his palms and fingertips whenever he did something wrong was ever-impending—like vultures always preying upon his every flaw. She rarely ever broke his skin there, right where anyone could see if he didn't wear gloves, but she never hesitated to have them be chafed raw and rendered so very numb whenever she could. It often got to the point where he could barely even feel the raised print letters that had been embossed into the books especially made for his use.

But he had to work hard to earn that title of bishop.

If he couldn't be, then he would just be a pitiful charity case, wouldn't he? Bestowed a title he didn't deserve only because he just so happened to be born a bastard into the royal family.

So he worked hard.

So very, very hard.

(The very night before he turned 16, he knelt at the royal family's chapel on bruised knees and prayed before the beautiful statue of the Almighty God—marble fabric cloaking Her face, never resting her eyes upon the boy She supposedly favoured, in Her own way as blind as Her golden-haired boy.

'Almighty God, what is my purpose?' he asked—perhaps foolishly, because never once had he gotten an answer.

Though sometimes he comforted himself in the delusion that maybe he had felt a hand gently caress his head, that night.)

But one day everything had gone just a little too far, and his fingers had gone so numb he couldn't even have felt the wetness that came with him leaving trails of blood across the paper while he had been studying.

His tutor screamed at him.

Not only because the book was expensive, but because it was a holy text, and Jesse had dared to sully it with his filth—the vile, dirty blood of a commoner.

Jesse couldn't even have known what he was doing, and he had sworn at the embroidered hems of her dress that it wasn't his intent to commit such blasphemy. But a mistake was a mistake, and he had also dared to bloody the fine silk and fabric of his tutor's dress when he had been begging for her mercy on bruised knees.

Very soon after, Jesse had to kneel on his chair and pull the ends of his pants up to his knees, and she would hit him with that thin, whip-like stick of hers, and he would bite at his lip to do his best to avoid crying.

He was going to be a bishop—honorary in name, but still a bishop.

He was also sixteen, and so Jesse wasn't going to cry, because he was officially an adult, and adults didn't cry.

Werner once told him that he deserved all his punishments for all the trouble his existence had caused, and his tutor was only doing her job in helping Jesse realize his transgressions—helping him become a person worthy of his sister's love, of the people's apparent adoration. And Jesse believed it, because Prince Consort Werner was Elise's honourable Royal Father, an adult that Jesse should respect and get in the good graces of, because Jesse didn't know what he would do, should the man one day decide that Jesse wasn't worthy anymore to even breathe the same air as his precious only daughter.

Jesse had no one but his sister, and he needed to be worthy of her love—as worthy as Werner said he would be, if he continued to stay quiet and took all his punishments like an obedient boy.

But Elise thought differently.

Elise always thought differently.

In no less than five minutes, Jesse heard her unleash her fury at his tutor before roaring down at the guards to have the older woman be thrown out.

For what felt like an hour, he listened to Elise scream at her father—wondering why why why and 'How could you? He's just a CHILD!!' until Werner merely broke down into abundant tears, crying for his daughter to 'Please calm down, I was not aware that old woman would do that to the poor boy! Your Royal Highness, you do not think your father would ever do something so terrible would you? Besides, he's sixteen now, he's already an adult, how can Your Highness continue coddling him like this!?'— spewing word after word after word until Elise could only grit her teeth, helpless love for her father conflicting with protective love for her younger brother, and she finally turned around to go back to Jesse's side, muttering quiet apologies over and over as she carefully led him away to treat his bleeding legs.

Jesse had never heard his sister this angry in his entire life.

Jesse has also never once seen her tears.

At nineteen years old, Elise silently cried as she cleaned his wounds and bandaged him up, hands treating him so gently, as if anything she did could hurt him even more than what had already been done.

At sixteen years old, Jesse wished his eyes weren't so useless so that he could've seen his sister's sorrow and known how to comfort her, instead of helplessly crying before her.

(Later, after they properly visited a healing priest, when he quietly told her that with a guilt-ridden voice, she let out a single, stifled sob, before she pulled him into a hug—her love, all-encompassing, yet tinged with so much sorrow it was almost suffocating.)

"Jesse…"

He was eighteen when he heard his sister gently, yet hesitantly, call his name, one day as they were drinking tea.

He knew his sister had prepared a whole assortment of sweets for him—she always did, whenever she freed herself from her training and duties, and had managed to escape from Maartje and Janine's capable eyes.

But the lingering ghosts of salt and pepper tinged the tip of his tongue, mouth burning from the memory of scalding tea, and he barely found it in himself to reach out to take anything more than just a couple small bites—harsh critiques about his unrefined manners and excessive gluttony tugging his arms and appetite down like heavy chains, the aftertaste of bile choking down at his throat until his saliva felt too thick to even swallow.

Nearly startling out of his seat when he felt fingers lightly brush against the side of his cheek, Jesse snapped out of his thoughts.

"... Noonim..?"

He hadn't even noticed when she got closer.

"Losna, why…" she started, gentle and cautious and tinged with the same emotions she always wore when speaking with him. "Why don't you ever open your eyes when you're with me, anymore?"

The sadness in her voice was heavy and laced with a feeling of sorrow that he was all but familiar with.

Jesse blanked for a second, unable to respond—unsure of how he was even supposed to.

But in the end, he merely smiled, slowly reaching out his hands. It came to no surprise when he failed to find hers on his first try, but Elise was quick to realize his intentions, ever so astute when it came to his every action, and carefully made sure to place her hands right where he could easily find them.

And Jesse eventually did, because Elise always let him. Her hands were warm, calloused from weapon training and from all the administrative writing Janine couldn't help her with. They were warm, so very warm when Jesse held them, gentle when he knew and heard so much of the strength they were actually capable of holding.

She was the rising Sun of the Holy Kingdom. Jesse felt it in the way her personality was; how she treated him with those scarred hands of hers that were so warm and gentle, embracing him with the same warmth he felt on his skin whenever mornings came through the curtains of his bed chambers.

He didn't know what expression his sister might've been wearing. He didn't even know what she looked like, to begin with.

Only once had he felt her features, tracing his fingers delicately over her face when they were children, to construct an image he couldn't even be sure of its accuracy.

He'd never know how she looked like—would never know the colour of her hair, nor how she looked with love pouring from every inch of her body when she stared down at him in his crib on the day they first met, only three years older than him. He'd also never know if she still, to this day, looked at him with that same affectionate gaze that he, in another universe, would've been so familiar with it wouldn't even take him eyes to feel its effects.

He loved her, and she loved him.

They didn't share the same father, but they both knew it didn't make them any less of the pair of siblings they considered themselves to truly be.

"... Losna?" she called his name again, softly, hoping for an answer he wasn't sure he could give. She sounded afraid, as if she knew what was wrong but could only hope reality wasn't as bad as she was thinking.

Elise always made sure to tell him that she loved him—that in itself was so very clear—but nothing would ever truly be able to conceal the familiar sorrow she always cloaked herself, never seeming to ever leave her voice.

"Please," she murmured, barely a breeze and almost desperately. "Could you look at me?"

… Jesse's chest twinged, and he didn't have the heart to tell his sister that she might be even more blind than he was, for loving a pair of eyes that he knew could only be ugly.

All that he could muster up was a smile.

Ever since that hectic day teo years back, when Elise finally managed to stand up to her father about Jesse's treatment, Jesse had begun growing out his hair—just enough so that he could feel his fringe falling over his eyes.

It was a messy look on him, Werner frequently told him with what was undoubtedly a mocking sneer on his face, but Jesse felt more comfortable that way because ever since he had started, Werner hadn't outrightly called him ugly as often anymore.

And so, Jesse convinced himself to believe he was finally doing something right.

Elise, however, often tried coaxing him into cutting his hair—if only just a trim—but he never gave in.

Eventually, all she could do was accept it; the fact that her brother would never show her his eyes, that he would rather hide them behind the thin curtain of his gold-strung hair.

"At least let me braid the side of your hair," she murmured a little broken; so very lovingly. "Then, we could match."

"Match?" her Losna voiced back curiously, and Elise hummed in affirmation, fondness dripping from every inch of her voice.

Gently, she helped bring his hand to feel her own hair, how it also wrapped around her head like a crown and where the length fell all the way past her back, braided all the way down.

"... I wouldn't mind matching," Jesse grinned after a minute of running his fingers over the intricate bumps of her braided crown, his awe prevalent on his face—hidden at the eyes he always kept closed, but always so expressive.

And Elise smiled back, so very brightly, even if she knew he would never be able to see it.

With careful fingers, she twisted the strands on the side of his head into a braid, never once touching the bangs that purposefully brushed over his eyes. Jesse's hair only went a little past his ears, but it was enough. In the end, the braid was just loose enough so it didn't feel tight against his scalp, but strong enough so that it wouldn't undo itself when he slept.

And at the end of the day, they were more or less matching.

Elise always had attendants and maids to style her hair, so she wasn't exactly the most skilled—but the soft grin Jesse wore on his face for the rest of the evening, gently feeling his fingers over his new braid, could've convinced her that she was the best in the entire kingdom.

Jesse had no allies in the palace beside his sister.

He used to have his first tutor, but that old man had long been ripped from his side. His mother, the Queen, also loved him very dearly, but she had never quite left her room these days, said by physicians and priests to still be mending the fragments of her broken heart.

… Jesse didn't know how it was possible, for someone to love someone so dearly they'd lose their mind upon finding out they were suddenly gone forever.

Deep in his heart, he felt a little like there was someone out there that would love him—someone besides his mother, besides his sister. Someone he had yet to meet, leaving something hollow in his heart that only that unknown someone would be able to fill.

(A voice from the past: 'Almighty God, what is my purpose?')

He wondered if it was possible to miss someone he's never met. But he hadn't gone mad yet, not like his mother, so Jesse liked to pretend whatever it was that he was feeling was nothing other than his mind's own making, desperate for something as romantic as a fated partner, a soulmate.

He only had his sister, and that was alright.

But he couldn't help but wonder how Elise would feel, if Werner decided to rip them apart. He wondered if she would lash out, if she would become like their Queen Mother, or if Elise would come to accept and understand the will of her Royal Father.

Jesse wasn't sure if he would ever like to know.

He's never really had someone break his heart, and being familiar with the state his mother was in, he didn't want to ever find out—not that he had anyone that would take up that hammer to smash him into pieces themselves.

The servants he grew close with all eventually switched out for ones who were unfamiliar and distant. A young maid who once gently helped tend to his wounds never had her voice heard again in the halls. The librarian who kindly enjoyed narrating storybooks for him was one day abruptly replaced. The guards who would kindly escort him wherever he pleased were gradually assigned to other parts of the palace, or sent away to different outposts entirely.

Everyone who ever seemed to look at him favourably always ended up leaving him.

Not even the walking canes he had requested from servants stayed with him long—always disappearing or found broken whenever he was lucky enough to even find the remains.

And so Jesse learnt rather quickly, that it would impossible to have either anyone or anything to support him.

(But then—)

"His Royal Majesty, the Prince Consort, thinks of you as a threat," the voice of a young woman told him one day.

Jesse had been sitting in the gardens, until she suddenly showed up, unannounced, and sat just a little further away from him.

"... I would never take my honourable sister's birthright from her," Jesse countered, feeling both defeated and tired. "Who would ever want a blind king?"

"If I may, I don't think people are interested in you just because you could possibly take the crown from Her Royal Highness."

"Ha," he smiled faintly, amused. Cocking his head, he allowed her the opportunity to converse. "Then what else could there possibly be?"

"I do not mean to be rude when I say this," the young woman said, "But if you were to look into the mirror, you would easily know why His Royal Majesty the Prince Consort is wary of you."

"My Lady," Jesse smoothly interjected, his insides souring, but never revealing themselves—years of dealing with his stepfather ensured him that skill. "I am afraid I cannot see into a mirror at all."

And she laughed, then, and it was so startling to hear a voice giggle in gentle amusement, without any apparent hint of the mockery he was so used to hearing.

"Is that not why I said I had no intention to be rude before saying that? I have eyes of my own, Your Highness, which means I am able to see what you are not, and it appears to me that you are not aware of quite a few things."

"..... You…" he paused. "Are you not rather bold?"

A smile could be heard in her elegant, youthful voice. "A young lady has to be calculating and forward in such a way, if she wishes to gain what she wants in high society."

It didn't take Jesse long to pick up on what she was trying to allude to, and very faintly, he frowned—just enough to show his wariness towards her, if she were to look at his face.

"Do you wish to use me in some way? I'll have you know, my Lady, there is regretfully not much I can do for you."

"That is where you are wrong," she interjected, and with such certainty Jesse almost found himself believing he could trust her. "We can be beneficial to each other, I swear it."

Jesse's mind drew blank.

He really couldn't grasp how odd of a situation was now playing out. A few people have tried, before—though never in a manner as forward as this. It was aristocratic culture, after all, to proceed in sly roundabout ways in order to get what they want. Jesse, blind and with no allies, learnt the hard way that he had to be picky with who he let into his life.

But still, he conceded, allowing himself to humour this girl.

So they sat together, for a little while, discussing some things about high society. He learnt that the young lady was of decent standing, but not as high as she wished. He learnt that she was the youngest daughter in a family primarily of sons, with her only eldest sister being the next family head.

"I wish to marry someone of higher standing in order to help my family, but I am not seen as very desirable as opposed to some of my other peers. Not that I am ugly, of course, I am very beautiful. There just so happens to be quite a few other beautiful girls amongst our peers, as well."

What she wanted was clear and worded simply on paper: she hoped to use Jesse's popularity to boost her own.

The Royal Prince of the Holy Kingdom, infatuated with a certain young lady—what could be so special about this girl that even a blind young man could find interest in?

"That will not work," Jesse hesitantly shook his head—hesitantly, because he considered the alternative where it would but voices within him, weighing his esteem down, said it would never. "You will only get insulted for associating with me."

The girl was silent, for a second, before she spoke carefully, almost as if she had begun to realize something a little shocking. "Your Highness, who put those ideas in your head..?"

Jesse ignored her.

"I am blind."

"You are a Royal Prince," she retorted pointedly perplexed, naturally, as if that was enough to make up for his lack of sight.

"I am— useless."

"Wh... Certain you are not, if I am here talking to you!"

And before Jesse could open his gritted teeth to throw in more cards, hoping that he could finally be left alone and at peace, the young lady immediately put her foot down.

"Your Royal Highness is handsome and so incredibly beautiful, that His Highness the Prince Consort himself cannot help but be threatened by your mere existence."

That is absurd, Jesse would immediately retort, whispering sharply, because for a mere noble young lady to speak such words in compounds of the royal palace might as well be treasonous slander.

Your golden hair and amethyst eyes draw the attention of everyone in any room the very moment you walk in, she would then tell him in her own whisper, and Jesse would cut her words off with a lift of his gloved hand, whip-scarred fingertips tingling beneath the thin fabric.

"There is no way His Royal Highness would feel threatened just because…"

Something soured squeezed at his throat, and Jesse wished he could ignore his feelings that knew—always knew—deep down, that the lady before him was saying nothing but the truth.

Fatigue that had accumulated over eighteen whole years weighed down on him all at once—heavy, not unlike that of books balanced atop his head.

".... I do not wish to be a threat to him," he finally whispered, his voice weak, defeated, and so very, very tired.

"And yet, you are."

The weight of the silence was heavy. They sat together in that very silence for a little longer, and Jesse had a hunch the young lady was perhaps being considerate, at that moment, for letting him organize his thoughts.

Cupping his head in his hands, he lightly rubbed at his eyes, before finally releasing them, mind renewed.

"Tell me more," he murmured, gears and cogs that have been forcefully frozen over time, slowly thawing out to begin spinning in the threads of desperation, "About how we can be useful to each other."

And Jesse couldn't see her, and never would he be able to—but for a second he was certain that she had been smiling.

("To start off, you must call me noona!"

Her voice was sweet and made purposefully low just then, tinged with tease as she placed her hand over his.

Awkwardly, Jesse slowly pulled his hand away.

"Why...?"

"................... I will forgive you just this once, Your Highness. We shall have to work on that."

"Ah— Yes?")

At eighteen, Jesse could finally say that he had a friend.

… He… had never had friends before.

The young lady—two years older than him, he would later learn—eventually managed to achieve what she wanted, somehow. Jesse didn't know if he would ever find out how she managed it, exactly, but whenever they met, tucked away in the shadowy darkness of the verandas during big parties, she always felt to him a person that knew how to carry and navigate herself particularly well.

She was charismatic. The type that was louder than his sister's, but more modest than the Prince Consort's excessive flair. A good sort of charisma, one that he admired, because he knew he wouldn't ever be able to achieve that level of likability, himself.

And, oh, how very easy to like, that young woman was.

Jesse laughed, exasperated but glad for her, whenever she slyly told him that she had a boost in suitors that were curious as to how interesting she might be, for the only Royal Prince of the Holy Kingdom to be infatuated with her upon only a few meetings.

She cackled in turn at his awkward face when he told her about how Elise had carefully approached him a few weeks into their scheming, wondering if he had gotten himself a lover she didn't know about.

(Jesse didn't know he was capable of feeling as flustered as he had felt, when his sister had asked him that.)

"There are other young ladies I know that would benefit from the attention you would bring them from the gossip tabloids, Your Highness."

"I thought you wanted to outshine your peers?"

So why share him? went unsaid, but he knew very well that the young lady was smart enough to pick up on the small things he frequently left out.

She was quiet for a second, before her hand lightly, softly fell over his.

Her touch was gentle,

—and it was so very startling.

"... You always look so lonely," she said quietly, carefully, and Jesse could not for the life of him understand why she sounded so sad.

Sad in the way Elise always felt. Sad in the way both women's voices sometimes softened whenever they spoke to him—a pitiful, wounded animal that they felt the need to coax out less they frighten it.

"During parties, always leaving after showing up for a mere few minutes... Always staying on the balconies…"

Her hand gripped at his a little tighter.

"Your Royal Highness, you may not be able to see yourself, but I can. I see how loneliness wears on your face, I can see how much you—"

Jesse smoothly interjected, the trajectory of the conversation drawing from him something that felt a little like shame, a little like exhausted resignation.

"It is hard enough trying to blindly navigate the royal palace's ballrooms—not to mention the manors of other nobles. Besides," he shrugged, dismissing her concerns. "I do not have many friends. It is better to avoid making any with other influential households, anyway. It would be bad for me if it looked as if I were trying to make allies… supporters."

"But—"

"But," Jesse smiled, a tired, little thing, frayed at the edges. "I would hardly mind it, if you were to introduce those ladies to me. It- would be beneficial for my image."

She hesitated, just then, even if only for a second.

"You know… when we talked that day… I never would've expected you to end up doing something like this."

"What do you mean?"

The response was lightning quick.

"Because you're terrible at flirting."

Jesse weakly huffed.

"Hey…."

"Well, it is difficult to say terrible when there is nothing to judge. There is never any flirting coming from you in the first place."

"Noona…"

Laughing, she lightly hit his shoulder. "Do not only call me noona whenever you feel like having your way!"

I'm sorry, he would then say, grinning clumsily from ear to ear, and she would scoff and pinch his cheeks at his weak attempts of placating her, before she would finally, unsurprisingly, forgive him.

It had been a long time since he had someone else other than his sister to laugh with as freely as this.

A friend.

The word lingered around in his head as he was once again left alone on the terrace.

Young lady Fientje Bolhoeven eventually became that sort of person to him.

At nineteen, Jesse had gotten to know quite a few people.

Several young ladies who adored the attention they received from the gossip columns, and a few madams whose businesses barely made them rich enough to be considered part of the bourgeoisie. Sometimes he met courteous, though rather flirty young men, but the only man Jesse had ever known was the Prince Consort, and so he was infinitely more comfortable with women, in the end.

Young Lady Bolhoeven made sure to only introduce him to ladies of lesser status but of still relatively good names, and he was thankful for that, because he hadn't a clue what he would do if he had to one day chat with the beloved princess of a dukedom, or the precious young lady of a reputable marquisate. He had studied the names of every single person in high society, though being blind meant that he wouldn't ever be able to recognize them by face, and so young lady Bolhoeven and her many connections, in a sense, became substitutes for his eyes.

But it was nice, he smiled, submerging himself in the light, excited chatter of three young women he had been whisked away to meet with, on one of yet another party's veranda. He hadn't known how comforting he would find being amongst a lively group of people to be—he wondered if he only had this late realization now because he had found people who he could finally lend part of his trust to.

Jesse didn't know when the people he frequently met up with shifted from enjoying the gossip tabloids' attention to actually enjoying his presence—accepting him in their fleeting little bubbles—but it made him feel a little warm inside whenever he thought of it. A dam he hadn't even known had been constructed had finally burst, overflowing and spilling everywhere, messy and desperate, but so very welcome.

He came to understand, eventually, that these women somehow came to care for him, all in their own ways. A lot of them were lonely, he eventually understood, as well. Some liked attention, others had personal ambition, and some merely liked the company.

And so there they were, several people who were at various levels of lonely or desperate, clinging to each other in a makeshift bubble of comfort and protection.

But they weren't just lonely. Not all lonely.

Some were just genuinely kind, kinder and more considerate than Jesse would ever be. Teaching him the diverse vocabulary used amidst social circles, and how to recognize certain roundabout ways of speaking, since he couldn't rely on the secrets of visual gestures. They were all things his tutors never taught him, and the girls always laughed and cooed at him whenever he mentioned it—treating him like a sheltered young prince that they had to acclimate to the more backhanded side of high society.

He felt bad, using them like this. For using the protection and information they so earnestly gave him.

And when he would tell them that, guilt gnawing away at him at the edges, they would always smile, or scoff, and hit his shoulder—but their touches were always so very light, and for some reason that made it hurt even more.

Then, they would always say it was their pleasure, because they were friends—

Always in voices just faintly tinged with the sort of sadness Jesse was so used to hearing, when it came to the now-countless amazing women in his life.

(At nineteen, Elise's knight had taken an arrow for him.

It had apparently been dipped in poison and demon blood, and Jesse felt his heart freeze—knowing that it had been directed at him, and that someone close to him, to his sister, had gotten hurt on his behalf.

He hadn't known he was crying until Maartje laughed between pained gritted teeth, and gently, sadly, placed a comforting armoured hand on his trembling, frozen shoulder—as if, between the both of them, he had been the one in pain.)

"Hmm…. So even after all that, the filth is still alive."

There was a sharp silence, then. Jesse's closed eyes felt dry and heavy, and his voice strangled him as it pinned his tongue flat in his mouth.

He wanted to retort—to ask if his existence was truly as disturbing as Werner always made it out to seem.

(Jesse thought of Maartje, who said she was alright despite being damned to never being able to use magic tools ever again; of Elise and her despair, who cried in fury and anguish when two of the people she had cared for the most had been targeted, now more aware than ever that even if she placed herself and a knight at his side, nothing would be able to keep Jesse safe.)

(The eve before his 16th birthday flocked his dreams once again—'Almighty God, what is my purpose?')

As soon as he could, Jesse shakingly, discreetly called for some of the women he was acquaintances with, and asked if they could meet.

He had so much work to do.

At twenty years old, Jesse's carefully fabricated image of a playboy started to more concretely solidify throughout the kingdom.

At twenty, he had to reassure his sister that he was alright, and that he wasn't sacrificing anything when he decided to tarnish his own reputation in such a manner—and of course, Elise managed to find out about his plan eventually, he smiled helplessly, because of course she did.

"Have you ever even properly held someone's hand?" she murmured, her familiar sadness dripping from her every word.

And Jesse would smile a little sheepishly, a little wobbly, when he admitted that he couldn't even dare—not if it wasn't for the sake of public appearances. Though his grin became a little more fond when he told her that his acquaintances were smart people, and that they knew how to manipulate the media more than he could ever begin to understand. Sometimes, they would present themselves as nothing flirtatious bubbly women who knew nothing more than to cling to his arm, disguising how they carefully guided his blind steps throughout the many gardens they walked through with calculative eyes, passing by as many known gossipers as they could to effectively sell their performance.

But then, Jesse would stop, noticing his sister's growing silence as he fondly retold the many stories he had to share of his many acquaintances, and would ask her what was wrong.

And that was when Elise would hug him, apologizing and apologizing and apologizing that Jesse had ever felt the need to do this in the first place, and he could only hug her back, smiling when he reassured her that he was happy—happier than he had perhaps ever been.

"The young ladies and madams all treat me nicely, noonim."

He was genuine when he said that, fondness coating his words as they hung around him like stars.

Still, Elise only hugged him tighter, apologizing and apologizing—weighed down by the knowledge that despite all her best efforts, her protection alone couldn't ever have been enough to help him.

"A scoundrel."

What felt like what seemed to be a pamphlet slapped itself across his chest. Jesse merely kept his eyes closed as he heard it fall to the ground with a dull twack.

"That is what they are calling you," Werner said, and the delight and hilarity in his voice were so apparent, Jesse found it hard to believe that he had once thought anything this man did for him had ever been for Jesse's own favour.

"I have not a single clue what any of these daft women see in you. Perhaps they took pity on you for all your defects." Werner smiled, sounding almost as if he pitied them. "But I suppose it makes sense for women who can barely even call themselves aristocrats to be interested in filthy commoner blood like yours."

"... Your Majesty, I.. I can tolerate insults towards me, but for you to smear the honourable names of my acquaintances—"

The shoulder of one of Werner's guards roughly bumped into him as they walked by. As expected, the prince consort didn't want anything of Jesse's touching him.

A strangled cry left his lips as the sole of a foot stepped over his fingers.

"To think you would dare speak so brazenly towards me. It seems those harlequins you have been associating with have had an effect on your character, my dear son."

The edge of what felt like a scabbard pushed at his chest, crumbling Jesse's form further to the ground.

He didn't know how long he spent, laying on the floor like that, muscles tense and locked frozen in the fear that has been drilled into him since childhood.

But still, Jesse fumed. Fumed in anger that he had frozen up—that his tongue had felt too heavy to throw back a retort after a mere push and shove.

For all the protection the countless women in his life had given him, up till now, he couldn't even spare the energy to properly defend them back.

Ah... he smiled, curling up from where he had slowly fallen to the ground, hands lifting to cover his stinging eyes. How truly useless.

(But his plan was working, and that, at least, he could claim as one of his scarce few successes.)

"—Are you alright, Your Highness?" the madam and owner of a relatively renowned tea house softly cooed as she escorted him by the arm around the gardens—carefully, so that he wouldn't trip.

Jesse had almost forgotten where he was, so absorbed in the memory of what had occurred just a little earlier today.

"I am fine, madam," he smiled, a little tiredly, letting her concern wash over him like a warm blanket as they continued their performative stroll.

(Word of the Scoundrel of the Holy Kingdom continued to spread, and Jesse told himself he was happy.)

('Almighty God, what is my purpose?')

(Finally, at twenty-one years old, Jesse's youngest sibling had been born.)

Hearing his mother's pained screams down the palace corridors throughout the whole process was nerve-wracking—though when it finally stopped, Jesse had to refrain himself from following his sister when she rushed after her father to check on the state of their Queen Mother.

Soon after, the cries of a healthy newborn baby filled the hallways, and he heard the excited gasps and cries of the servants around him.

And Jesse was twenty-one, still, when, a few days later, Elise carefully escorted him by the elbow to the room of the newborn baby he had yet to actually meet. He was always under the impression that he wouldn't have the chance to meet the child until much later on, but Elise made sure that Werner wouldn't know he would be visiting. And so, the room was peaceful and empty, only the two of them present to visit the small bundle of life Jesse could vaguely hear breathing within the crib.

He wondered if he could love this baby—this child, born from the mother he loved and the husband he feared.

Elise encouraged him to reach out, excitedly murmured words spilling from her lips in hushes, and so Jesse finally, carefully, cautiously did.

A second later, small fingers found themselves wrapping around his index.

A second later, Jesse found himself flooded with adoration, one that overwhelmed his entire being to the brim for the sister he now knew was named Cornelisse.

(A second later, and for the few minutes following that, she absolutely refused to let him go.)

Jesse couldn't see her at all, but he could tell, deep down in his soul, that his new baby sister was beautiful, and that he was going to love her forever.

"Amie—!" Jesse coughed out his sister's middle name in a rather punched out wheeze, and he knew immediately that the small weight thrown into him was Cornelisse from the distinct expensive floral aroma that the servants washed her hair with.

The only reason he hadn't died from the sudden shock, these past few years, was only because Cornelisse knew, at least, to announce herself in advance to give him warning before she would go tackling him.

"Big brother!!" she grinned, her entire small body flung into his side. Her voice was swimming with mirth and joy, and so full of unconditional affection. Jesse, to this day, still hadn't a clue on how she was able to adore him as much as she always proved she did.

Elise would laugh if she heard what went on in his thoughts.

She would laugh and laugh and laugh, and then she would finally calm down, amusement fading into a sad little smile. Then, she would remind him that he was loved and deserving of love, just as she so often did ever since the incident of ten long years ago.

Elise made sure to remind him that he was loved whenever she could. And after Cornelisse was born, his sisters had both taken it upon themselves to share the task between themselves.

He heard the reminder when Elise would carefully run her callused fingers through his hair, fluidly, gently, reverently—as if handling silky threads of gold, always treating him like something precious whenever she wanted to braid it. To this day, Jesse still hesitated to believe he could consider himself to be even a sliver as beautiful as his sister so often fondly told him he was.

And again would he hear it, whenever Cornelisse found him hiding away in his room where she would then curl up beside him, small body warm as she snuggled up to his side, lively but still so careful, as if to not startle him with her sudden presence. And then she would begin to talk about whatever came to her mind, and so often would end up comparing his features to anything flattering she could think of—as if Jesse would eventually come to understand just how lovely and highly she thought of him, if he had a point of reference.

But he wouldn't, because never would he be able to see whatever it was that she saw.

He couldn't see the golden wheat fields that she talked of, nor the fine jewellery that her father the Prince Consort gifted her—worn around her neck and wrists, decorated into her fine hair.

Jesse didn't even understand what colour dandelions were, but he had felt their petals between his fingers before, soft and delicate whenever Cornelisse passed him carefully twisted flower crowns, and as such, yellow became associated with that. But then she would sing him even more praises while she compared him to all the other yellow flowers she could possibly think of—unaware that, in the end, her favourite dandelion flower was in reality just a simple common weed.

Jesse couldn't understand the beauty that Elise saw in him, nor could he ever begin to comprehend the loveliness of nature that Cornelisse frequently said he shared—but he could feel, and he could always feel, so very strongly, just as he did with the warmth of the sun that he could only ever be able to feel by the warmth of it on his skin.

And so, that was what he did.

He felt the warm fondness and sorrow of Elise, who whispered promises of protection when she thought he couldn't hear her.

He felt the blazing adoration of Cornelisse, who showered it at him without hesitation, overwhelming him in all his other senses as if to make up for it in everything that he couldn't see.

Elise often told him that the people didn't find fault with him for being blind. She told him that they adored him, revered him, and celebrated his existence unconditionally, because he was a child blessed by the Almighty God, and they were their devoted believers.

And Jesse liked to think he could believe her, because she loved him so dearly and so very clearly, and he would like to think that she wouldn't lie to him.

(At twenty-six, Jesse Venetiaan began to wonder—just a little. Slowly, and eventually, surrounded by his sisters, surrounded by the other women who provided him with their protection—if he could truly be someone worthy of all this love.)

"Have you read the papers?"

"They say—"

"Apparently the Crown Princess crossed the borders—!!"

"—broke the agreement!"

"Diplomatic hostage? Our prince—?"

"But the Riester Empire is so far away….."

(At twenty-eight years of age, Jesse tightly covered his ears—habits from his childhood coming back full circle.)

Cornelisse was crying.

She was crying so much, and Jesse didn't know what to do besides kneel and try to follow the sound of her heartbroken cries, avoiding the toys thrown and tossed onto the ground.

"Cornelisse…" he called, and it came to his surprise to find his voice warbled, slightly knotted within his throat, words heavy and coiled around his tongue. "Cornelisse, please—"

"I don't want you to go!!" she wailed, and Jesse finally found her—his fingers brushing against delicate silk, and he knew with certainty that she was there when he felt his sister throw herself into his arms, latching on as if to make sure he would never be able to escape her. "Why do you have to go?!!"

Jesse was familiar with love. Love that was all-encompassing and that left no room for refuting—that was the love that Elise showered him with, and one of the only few types of love that he had ever truly known.

But this time, he then came to know sorrow— sorrow that was different from the one Elise always cloaked herself with whenever she visited him, full of regret and affection and that was so gentle it almost hurt.

In contrast, Cornelisse's sorrow was wild and fierce.

(Once, Cornelisse had told Jesse that she found him as warm and gentle as the sun.)

He had never quite understood what she meant by that, when the people frequently bestowed him the nickname of Moon. The title of Sun was always reserved for Elise, after all, who was brilliant and who could command silence and attention with just her presence—everything that was fitting for a crown princess, grand and imposing and as amazing as Jesse never was, only a mere small moon hovering around her esteemed existence.

But faced with Cornelisse's anguish, Jesse remembered just how much the sun hurt and scalded him in the blazing summer, searing on the back of his neck— the same sensation he felt when Werner had invited him for tea when he was younger, still a little naive, only for Jesse to end up standing underneath the sun for hours, holding up the prince consort's parasol when Werner realized Jesse wasn't eating anything offered on the table anymore.

("Ungrateful," Werner had called him. "At least make yourself useful, for once."

His head had been overheating and his skin felt as if it was being scorched over an open fire, but Jesse couldn't dare refute—a heavy saline taste crushing his throat and tongue at the thought of eating even a single bite.)

The memory burned him, and the sorrow of his sister burned just as much, because Cornelisse was never supposed to cry because of him, because she was a child who was so very precious, who deserved everything in the world, who deserved happiness.

As Cornelisse shook in his arms, tiny hands clawing harshly at his sleeves as if that would be enough to make him stay, Jesse couldn't help but feel as if this was his deserved, overdue punishment—the result of all his transgressions.

The tiny star in his arms scalded him and all he could do was murmur apologies, over and over and over for being the one who hurt her, and he wondered, briefly, if this was even a fraction of how Elise felt whenever she saw him.

"After a hundred nights," Jesse smiled, the quiver of his lips faint. Cornelisse's molten anguish had finally subsided into hiccups, and Jesse felt his heart break at the sound he was the very cause of.

"Wait for me, and I will come back."

"Do you promise?" Cornelisse's voice quivered.

Clutched in her arms was the toy Jesse had asked Elise to accompany him to pick out, so many years ago. Elise had told Jesse in amusement that it was a pig, when he held it out to her after picking the closest thing he could find. Jesse, to this day, still hasn't a clue on what a pig looked like—but Cornelisse told him she loved it, and so Jesse decided he loved it too.

"... I promise."

Cornelisse hooked their fingers together, and Jesse wondered, yet again, if the burning shame he felt was yet another punishment—if he was deserving of the love Cornelisse had for him, a wretched person who would only end up hurting her in the end.

A failure of a big brother.

Jesse didn't swear this promise to the Almighty God, because knew from the beginning that it would be a promise he wouldn't be able to keep.

"I promise, so—"

He smiled, and he could only hope it didn't quiver as much as he felt his heart did.

"So make sure you sleep well, and eat all your veggies, so that you will have a lot of energy to play with me when I come home."

And Cornelisse hugged him, small arms warm and tight around his neck, and Jesse wanted to cry with how much he adored the baby sister he might never be able to hug again for a long, long time.

(For a second, he was glad to be blind— that he was unable to see the relief and hope in Cornelisse's eyes that he already heard glimmer so overwhelmingly in her voice—because if he did, he was sure he would've broken down, shattered to pieces and scattered like stars.)

The next morning, Elise and her familiar sorrow made themselves known as they stood outside near the carriage. Her hands shook faintly as she took his palms into her, and handed him what he quickly made out to be a notebook—laced with protective spells, as if to make up for what she had never been able to properly provide him with herself.

"I'm sorry," Elise whispered, and her voice was laced with so much more anguish than usual.

"Sorry... I'm sorry, Losna, I am so sorry…"

Jesse was a child that had always been surrounded by his sisters' love.

(But these days, all he seemed to bring them in return was sorrow.)

"I'll bring you back," Elise whispered brokenly into his hair as she embraced him tightly. Jesse still had yet to undo the braid she had carefully given him a few days back, and Jesse wished they had more time so that he could leave with fresh traces of her gentle fingers in his hair, one last time.

He couldn't see her, but he felt the way her hot tears fell onto his shoulder—felt the kiss she pressed against his forehead, so full of love and sadness and unspoken covenant.

"I will bring you back, okay? Your noona will find a way to bring you back, I swear I will."

Jesse smiled. It was a little fragile, and he knew they both felt it.

"Is that a promise?"

Elise grinned back, a broken little thing, but her eyes burned with tearful determination and sad, hopeful pledges. 

But as always, Jesse couldn't see it—only ever feeling her overwhelming love-soaked sorrow.

The ride to the border inspection grounds was quiet.

Jesse wasn't used to such silence—always surrounded by faint whispers, the humming of Elise's deep, gentle voice, or Cornelisse's energetic, lighting-quick chattering.

Now, he sat alone in the carriage. Guards would occasionally knock on the window to ask if he was alright or needed a break, and Jesse always jumped when it happened, too used to his sisters' gentle and familiar approaches.

But he would reply nonetheless that he was alright, unwilling to be any more of a burden, no matter how much his limbs ached from sitting still the whole ride. It was like that they continued to make their way to the border, in silence and without interruption, only stopping whenever absolutely necessary.

He clutched the notebook his sister gave him before he departed, and held it close to his chest like she made sure to tell him to do if ever he felt unsafe.

Holding back a tiny, choked-up laugh, Jesse leaned back against his seat.

Unable to see where he was going, vertigo made sure to engulf every inch of his being, with every bump and sway of the carriage jolting his senses.

(He felt unsafe the whole ride there.)

Upon arriving at the Temple of Boundries, Jesse was left alone.

The soldiers of the area were currently inspecting the carriage, and Jesse all but tumbled out of it when he was asked to step off.

A wave of concerned voices called out to him, but in the end, all he could do was weakly apologize. It was only then that the soldiers rushed to reassure him, before he was escorted someplace else to take a small rest while they proceed with their inspections.

They seemed to be under the impression that a man can be of no big threat if he is blind, and Jesse found no fault in them for thinking that. There was no way he could steal or touch anything he shouldn't be, when he couldn't even navigate his way around without getting lost with the simplest of wrong turns or spins.

It turned out to be a small mistake in the end, however, to have left him all alone in an area completely unfamiliar to him. Before he knew it, when Jesse woke up after a short, impromptu nap, he came to the slow realization that he was completely at a loss as to where he was.

The unfamiliarity of everything surrounding him made a sudden fright ooze from every pore of his body, and he nearly stumbled sitting up from the bench he had been resting on.

He hesitated to venture. He feared the possibility of him bumping into a wall or falling down a staircase, or hitting himself against a pillar. The memory of his tutor making him navigate himself through the palace halls with several heavy tomes balanced atop his head still wore down heavily on him enough to make his neck hurt with phantom pain, and he wished for nothing more than to find someone to keep him company to rid himself of the unwanted recollection.

Calling out for any of his guards, Jesse soon realized that no one was answering.

Alone was he left with his unfamiliarity.

But amidst his panic he had felt it—something odd and bugging at him, heavy yet light throughout the air surrounding him, and Jesse, engulfed by such a sensation, finally took a step forward, lightly swaying on his feet, before he dragged himself blindly towards the source of light that was permeating his senses.

Jesse couldn't see light.

He only ever felt it: the warmth of the sun, the torches, the candles, the fireplace…

So standing before an object he couldn't even see, he let himself be basked in the odd splendour before him, never once approaching it—too scared to reach out and grasp it within his hands.

It felt a lot like warmth.

It felt a lot like something… strange, yet welcoming.

Jesse didn't know what it was that he was feeling.

He's heard stories before. About the temple at the neutral grounds between the Riester Empire and the Divine Kingdom of Venetiaan—the home of the vacant papal seat and several holy artifacts.

Jesse remembered his sister telling him about a Paten of Wishes, once, and the legend surrounding it. He remembered her fingers gently running through his hair, weaving a single braid into his short locks near his scalp so that he could somewhat match hers, and how she promised him that if she could, she would do anything in her power to use it to help him regain his sight.

… For a second, he clasped his hands slowly together.

For a second, he bowed his head, lips lightly brushing against his interlocked fingers.

For a second, he wondered what would happen if he opened his eyes and found himself able to see—

(His sisters' love had always felt warm;

Cornelisse's warm arms around his waist.

Elise's warm fingers braiding his hair.)

(Suddenly, Jesse was the eve before turning 16 all again, kneeling before Her statue and asking, pleading, begging, 'Almighty God, please, what is my PURPOSE?'—)

He breathed.

—For a second, he made a single wish.

"Your Highness?"

A voice gently called out to him, as if afraid to startle a blind man if they talked even just the slightest bit too loud. But Jesse, despite all the guard's soft precaution, still awoke with a small flinch.

Head snapping up, he realized he couldn't feel that warmth anymore—as if it had disappeared, or as if he had imagined it all along.

Shame, embarrassment, sorrow flooded his senses, warmth dusting his cheeks, and he erased all traces of thought from his head.

… How ridiculous.

A paten that could grant wishes… holy artifact or not, it sounded too good to be true. He had to be imagining things.

The Prince Consort's words whispered into his ears like echoes, and Jesse remembered to keep his eyes firmly shut as he followed the guard carefully guiding him by the arm, all the way back to his carriage.

The ride to the Empire was quiet.

(Jesse clutched his sister's notebook tighter to his chest—words of an unspoken wish smothered to ash.)

Chapter Text

It was late in the evening when he finally arrived at the Imperial Palace grounds—that was what they told him upon their arrival, at least.

Jesse didn't know what evening looked like at all, but he could feel it in his internal clock and in the heaviness of his limbs; in the slight chill in the air and in the song that the crickets sing whenever befell dusk. Always feeling, never seeing, and he had to wonder what it was about early mornings that Cornelisse loved; the aspect about it that Elise found comfort in during quiet evenings. His older sister once told him it was the moon, and that it reminded her of him, but Jesse didn't know what the moon even looked like, and would never understand how Elise could ever associate something she found so beautiful with someone like him.

Legs slightly wobbling when he finally stepped out of the carriage, Jesse had to wonder if it was a product of his homesickness, for the imperial palace grounds to feel so odd beneath his feet when it really shouldn't be any different from the grounds back home.

"Prince Jesse," the voice of who he presumed was a middle-aged man, called out to him quickly. Jesse could hear the concern laced in that voice, familiar because it was a tone he had been hearing for a big portion of his entire life.

Jesse carefully regained balance, memories of books upon books upon books placed upon his head and a thin whip of a stick stinging his straightened back, and slowly he let out an exhale.

"My apologies," he cracked a smile—just a tiny, sheepish one. He had always been a little affected by motion sickness. "I am just feeling a little dizzy."

"Oh— Prince Jesse, please, there is nothing for you to apologize for..."

There were small, worried sounds lightly chiming up after the older man's words, and Jesse could only wonder how many people were there, watching him climb out of his carriage to step onto Riester ground for the first time. He wondered if they waited long, for a blind hostage prince to arrive. Jesse was surprised they even considered him worth all the extra attention.

It was quiet for a second, before the voice spoke up again—so gentle, it reminded Jesse almost of his sister, almost of his first tutor, the one who was infinitely kind and so very patient.

"May I have the honour of guiding you inside the Juliette Palace, Prince Jesse?"

"Juliette Palace..?"

"Your new residence, Prince Jesse!" a younger voice spoke up, this time, and soon after Jesse swore he heard what might've been a soft scolding chime, and the one he assumed to be a much younger boy sheepishly muttered an apology for his excitement. A small hush of giggles and chatters followed soon after, and the whole scene made it very obvious by now that there were way more people present than the sole two attendants he had properly heard so far.

Still, Jesse couldn't understand why anyone here would be excited, exactly, about his presence—and he knew for a fact that it was excitement and not mockery, because Jesse was far too familiar with the latter to mistake it for anything else—but the way the boy had so genuinely sounded made something a little fuzzy worm its way into his chest.

Slowly, Jesse raised his elbow.

Slowly, a gloved hand made sure to meet him halfway.

Relief painted him in slow gentle strokes, and Jesse was glad his actions had been understood, because the thought of holding his arm out for more than a few seconds and being left hanging was an embarrassing thought. But the awkward image quickly disappeared from his head when the person holding him led him so gently, arms carefully interlocked at the elbows.

"Please tell me if we are moving too quickly, Prince Jesse."

Jesse didn't know if he could get used to such careful treatment. Each step they took was according to Jesse's own pace, and not once did anyone ever rush him. Unlike with his Venetiaan connections, these people had nothing to gain by patiently serving him—a relationship that was ultimately much more one-sided on their part.

"May I be reminded of your name?" he asked softly, instead. If any introductions had been given since the moment Jesse stepped out of his carriage, he would've been too overwhelmed to remember them.

His words came out with a tinge of vulnerability that he hadn't intended, and Jesse was sure that if he heard it, then the old man must have, too. It was a little humiliating to have shown that part of himself, and so Jesse couldn't help but brace himself for it the whole time they walked, waiting for a crack to appear in the servants' act of courtesy so that everything could return to the routine he had been so familiar with for the past few decades.

But nothing of that sort happened.

The evening ended with the man he came to know was Benjamin Gerardin carefully leading him around his new, unfamiliar room, and Jesse felt something odd scurry in his chest when the young boy from earlier revealed to him that they made sure there wasn't any furniture he could've bump into, before his arrival.

His bed was tucked into a corner instead of placed at the centre with its backboard against one of the walls, and at its feet, a soft rug had been placed, made of delicate fur that would be sure to feel comfortable on his naked feet. The opposite corner on the same wall of his bed was covered in carpeted tapestry, where the lining of the rectangle made sure to warn him of the presence of the couch and table that sat before the fireplace, void of any sharp corners.

Shelves cluttered with books he wasn't sure he would ever get to read covered the entire wall of the other side of the room, before it made way for a desk in the other corner. Between that desk and the small fireplace lounge, Jesse was told there were doors that opened up to a veranda, making way for textured flooring, small and smooth circular pebbles that he could feel even with his shoes on, so that Jesse would be able to tell its texture apart from the other walls and could find the doors easily whenever he felt for fresh air.

"Prince Jesse, if you have a cane, we have arranged it so that the texture and directions of the flooring tiles would be able to guide you away from the walls."

Jesse was touched, even when he didn't have a cane at all—not with how often it got broken before he could even grow familiar with the notion of having one. He had long given up on trying to rely on walking sticks, and the idea never crossed his mind again as the years went by. But now that it was suddenly being revealed to him that everything has been arranged so that it would be safe and convenient and a little easier for him to adapt to—

The consideration made Jesse feel like he could. That he was allowed to have one— A cane, a guide, one that wouldn't disappear on him out of the blue.

And then it was then revealed to him by one of the attendants that for his personal library, they had gathered all the books they could get their hands on that had been embossed with rise printed letters, books that he, himself, would actually be able to read, and Jesse—

Jesse was so very overwhelmed.

"Thank you," he barely managed to choke out, once the tour of his new room was finished, and his sincerity overflowed in abundance, tinging his words like thick, scalding honey, clogging up his throat to the point where he thought he might choke.

"My Prince, you do not have to thank us servants for merely wanting to make you comfortable."

Benjamin gently led his hand over to the basin of water placed on the nightstand—its corners rounded out like all the other furniture—and let him know there was also a towel nearby.

"All of this courtesy—it is all but the standard human kindness you deserve, and more."

Before he left, Benjamin let Jesse know he has autonomy to wash himself on his own if he so wished, and Jesse was grateful because he was only blind and not incapable of doing small tasks on his own, and sometimes he felt people forgot that. But he swallowed down another 'thank you' and finally, Benjamin and the other attendants retreated from the room so that Jesse could wash his face and finally rest for the night.

The bed was unfamiliar, but it felt warm.

When Jesse woke up, he was firstly greeted by the faint chiming of bells—not too loud to be startling or annoying, but just faint and dull enough so that he could hear the light jingles mapping across his room alongside the attendants' footsteps: a perfect white noise.

Later, when breakfast was served to him, Benjamin revealed that the attendant from the evening before—Ganael Callamard, the young attendant bashfully introduced himself—had the sudden idea to give all the attendants small bells so that Jesse wouldn't be startled by anyone's sudden presence, and let him know exactly where they were at all times.

Something a little warm pricked the eyes behind his closed lids upon hearing those words.

Unable to help himself, Jesse cracked a smile—tiny and small, but still a smile.

He refrained from thanking them, because Benjamin has already scolded him lightly for doing so one too many times already, and so Jesse decided to do the next best thing.

"How old are you, Ganael?"

The teen made a startled little noise at the back of his throat, and upon hearing it, Jesse smiled just a little wider. He couldn't help but wonder if Cornelisse would be this cute when she grew up as well—but knowing his sister, there wasn't a doubt that she would.

"I am sixteen, Prince Jesse!" Ganael nearly stuttered, voice tinged lightly in awe, as if he never would've expected Jesse to ever ask him something even the slightest bit personal.

Jesse startled quietly, the age as familiar to him as they were to the phantom stinging of the thin, stick-wide scars on the back of his legs and feet.

… Just like it was in the Holy Kingdom, children of the Empire became adults at the age of sixteen.

But Jesse remembered being sixteen, remembered how he had been treated, remembered being so young at sixteen, and so his heart began to melt a little for the boy who felt to him so lively—livelier than the gloomy boy Jesse himself had been at Ganael's age, twelve entire years ago.

They talked a bit more before Ganael finally revealed that he was actually the oldest of the attendants besides Benjamin. Jesse nearly choked on his tea at that, unaware that the vast majority of the people that had helped him dress that morning were actually children—their voices were young, but he didn't realized to what extent they actually were. His face must've reflected that, however, because Benjamin reassured him with what seemed to be traces of a smile mixed in with his words, that it was mostly Ganael and himself who took care of helping him dress, with the children at best being the ones to pick out his clothes.

Still, the thought frightened him a bit, that young children might see the ugly scars on his skin—that any one of them had already seen them, faint as they were, but still there—and he felt even more concern as he wondered how Cornelisse would fare working in such long hours, attending to someone as needy as he was.

Unable to help himself, Jesse began feeling slightly guilty.

But Benjamin didn't want Jesse thanking them, therefore he did the next best thing.

So from there on out, Jesse took his breakfast out in the garden, where he would pretend not to hear Benjamin's exasperated but gentle chidings as Jesse urged the attendant children to take more food from the wide assortment spread out on the table.

"Are you going to keep a blind man hanging like this?" he softly teased the stubborn Benjamin at some point, holding in his hands a handkerchief containing a large handful of cookies. He found himself surprised that he would allow himself to be this playful—only remembering being able to genuinely act like this with his sisters and very few of his much closer acquaintances, but he quickly came to the realization that he didn't particularly mind doing this here as well.

A few seconds later, with the children encouraging Benjamin to accept the cookies, Jesse finally heard the man sigh, a defeated little sound, one that Jesse would like to think was also endeared— even if just a little. What soon followed was the faint dull sound of a bell, lightly making itself known from where it had been attached to Benjamin's wrist as he carefully reached out to accept Jesse's offering of cookies, his gloved hands barely even touching his, as if unworthy to even graze his skin.

Benjamin always treated him so reverently, he came to notice. Jesse had to wonder if he, too, was a believer of the Almighty God. He couldn't help but wonder if this kind treatment was only because of the rumours surrounding his 'blessed' features, and for a second his closed eyelids felt a little heavier than before.

"... Thank you very much, Prince Jesse. From the very depths of my heart."

A faint defeated smile could be heard clearly in Benjamin's voice.

Amidst the small triumphant cheers and giggles in the garden, Jesse eventually found himself unable to hold back his own.

Jesse adapted to his new routine rather quickly.

It felt odd, being able to eat without having to worry about his tea being too hot, or a snack being way too salty or way too peppered.

Everything tasted amazing, and it only became all the more amazing when Juliette Palace's chef began catching on to Jesse's preferences—most of which Jesse himself hadn't even known he had, not until Benjamin presented him with the newly improved recipes, and he found himself wanting to devour them without even breathing, only holding back due to previous bad experiences, mental barriers that he hesitated to pull down.

He couldn't remember there ever being a time where he was able to eat so freely, back in the Holy Kingdom's palace. He couldn't remember if he had even been able to enjoy eating—only ever indulging himself the slightest bit more when he was in the company of the young ladies and madams that he knew he could give some of his trust to. He once thought he could be at ease when dining with Elise, but Werner had long proved himself capable of slipping a note to the servants delivering their food, and Jesse was soon corrected of his impressions after ingesting one too many spoiled meals.

But if any of this was poisoned, Jesse inwardly cried, I don't think I would mind dying in such a manner.

Because while the bland tea that Werner made him drink had been occasionally brewed with slight drops of poison, just enough to escape lethality, added under the false guise of wanting to have Jesse build up a tolerance—always leaving him sick, shivering and cold, for at least a few days…

At the very least, the carefully prepared tea served to him in Juliette Palace tasted kind.

Jesse wouldn't mind that. A kind death.

One that would embrace him as warmly as his sisters did, gentle and warm and welcoming.

"Prince Jesse," Ganael's grinning voice complimented the slight chime of his bracelet bell. "You seem really pleased with our kitchen's food, lately."

"... Please do not tease me," Jesse murmured, his hand lifted to hide both his red face and the motion of his chewing cheeks.

"Hehe, of course, of course. But truly, do you not find our chef's skills amazing? Chef Laurence seems to get better every day!"

Jesse smiled, easily nodding along. "Then, as always, please be sure to send the kitchens my compliments."

"Of course, Prince Jesse! Oh, and would you like me to ask them to prepare you larger meals now? You still always eat so little, even though it's clear you enjoy it…"

That sentence momentarily made Jesse pause—this was the most he had eaten in one setting, after all, and perhaps out of habit, or fear, he grew used to eating the amount he did.

Nevertheless, he smiled, shaking his head minutely.

"It's alright. I would much rather slowly appreciate a small meal than recklessly devour an entire feast."

"If you say so…" Ganael said almost dejectedly, as if he was disappointed that Jesse hadn't asked him to prepare a meal fit for several families.

Something about Ganael's genuine concern made something warm light up in Jesse's chest.

Juliette Palace was always so kind to him—it all felt like a dream. Jesse wondered what would happen should they one day discover that their prince actually had an enormous, ravenous appetite, not unlike a spoiled, famished beast. And it was hilarious, almost so absurd, it could've brought tears to his eyes with how easy it was for him to imagine such a scenario: his attendants all smiles and gentle voices, happily piling up his plate, more likely to die before they could ever shame him for eating more than a few bites.

(Some days, Werner's voice would come back to whisper in his ears, but when it happened, all Jesse could really truly hear was the faint chiming of bells around him and the light chatter of his young attendants, the light ambiance pulling him away from the suffocating silence of those stifling memories.)

Picking up his fork to take a ginger bite out of his gougère, a content smile made itself known on Jesse's expression—a little wobbly, a little fragile, but snuggly fit across his face as if his happiness was allowed to belong.

It was when Ganael had been reading the latest edition of the Biweekly Riester aloud to him, that Jesse heard it.

Besides his smell, his hearing was the best of his senses, and he noticed fairly quickly the curious sound of clashing swords and faint grunts from outside his open balcony almost immediately.

Ganael and him had been sitting out on the terrace today, as well, so they both caught wind of the unfamiliar ruckus almost immediately.

"My Prince?" Ganael paused in his readings. "Is there something wr—"

The young attendant seemed to have followed the direction of his head because he let out a small gasp.

"Oh!! The Imperial Prince!!!"

Jesse halted.

"... The Imperial Prince?"

As if confirming his words, a loud CLANG— resonated faintly soon after, all throughout the area below. The sharp noise was enough, however, to send a flinch through Jesse's entire being, even though he knew the source had been much further away from where he was.

"Yes, Prince Jesse! The Romero Palace—the palace in front of ours!—is His Imperial Highness' residence. The rear of Juliette Palace is an outdoor training ground specifically for imperial use, and sometimes His Highness takes to sparring around this time!"

"I wasn't aware of there being a training ground," Jesse lightly muttered.

He heard Ganael let out a small, delighted laugh. "It's the first time since Prince-nim's arrival that the Imperial Prince has used the training grounds. It seems he is also affected by Prince-nim's presence!"

Jesse stilled.

"My… presence?"

There was a small bout of silence between them for a second. Jesse was unable to see Ganael's expression, but he could hear the faint chiming of the bell tied around like a bracelet around his wrist, as if the boy was waving it in the air or making vague gestures. It was enough to let Jesse know the young teen was currently feeling a bit flustered.

"Ah, um—" Ganael stuttered a bit, before his tone of voice slightly shifted, making it clear that he was sheepishly smiling. "Prince-nim… You know, ever since you arrived, everyone has been having really good dreams..."

"Huh— What?"

This time, it was Jesse who felt a little baffled.

Good dreams? Because of him?

"Prince-nim… You truly are not aware?" Ganael gaped, almost astonished. It was as if he was a little surprised that Jesse, himself, hadn't realized.

"No, I... didn't know."

They sat in silence a little longer, and for that, Jesse was grateful, because it allowed him to collect and bask in his thoughts.

He has… never had this effect on people before. He's heard of it of such a phenomenon, of course—how could he have not?—but Jesse had never been a real priest, only a bishop, honorary in name due to his blood affiliation with the Venetiaan Royal Family. Not to mention his barely average mana sensitivity, and his inability to even use Divine Power to control ether…

Jesse was a regular human being through and through, not any more blessed than any other man, so why…?

Ganael's startled gasp broke him out of his thoughts, and the boy excitedly whispered over to him.

"Prince Jesse! The Imperial Prince is looking in your direction—!!"

For a second, Jesse remembered that his head was still turned towards the direction of where he heard the sparring going on.

For a second, he swore he felt something warm when he angled his head more precisely towards the noise.

Like the warmth permeating from the light of a candle, like the heat of the sun kissing his skin. It drew his attention like moths to flame—an expression he had always only ever heard, but never truly understood until now.

For a second, Jesse swore he could see something, but upon carefully opening his eyes—after several years of keeping them closed in public—he found… nothing.

(Nothing, besides the feeling of that odd little entrancing, magnetic pull that made him almost unwilling to look away.)

(Fingers interlaced beneath his chin, knees sore on the night before he turned sixteen, kneeling before Her statue— 'Almighty God, please—!')

The strands of his hair tickled his lashes, and his eyes watered a bit when they were hit with the faint breeze of the wind. He couldn't remember the last time he had ever truly opened his eyes, and the thought scared him a little—but the sensation of his long fringe brushing over his fluttering lashes reassured him, even just a little bit.

Jesse couldn't see if the Imperial Prince was still looking his way, and he himself was unsure if he had even been looking in the right, accurate direction.

But still, he raised his hand to slowly wave—oblivious to whether or not his greeting had been missed or seen.

The man didn't say anything, but Jesse could tell there was something Benjamin wished to tell him, with the way his anxiety—no matter how well-hidden—managed to seep its way into his actions.

Jesse had never been able to see Elise, but she had always been busy, the more they grew into adulthood. She was the Crown Princess, and had so much work piled up for her to do, even with her aid's trusted and capable help. Jesse would've had to be on another level of blind to not notice her stress and anxieties in the way she walked, spoke, and carried herself throughout the years. 

And Jesse could hear it present in Benjamin's cautious steps, in the way he sometimes paused after serving Jesse his herbal tea, or whenever he straightened Jesse's clothes when he dressed. Jesse could feel it in the way Benjamin let out small, stifled breaths, as if he had opened his mouth wanting to say something, before ultimately deciding against it.

"Benjamin," Jesse hesitantly spoke up one evening. He only mustered up the courage to do so because at this point, it was a little too obvious.

"Is there.." His voice felt a little hesitant, a little weak. "Is something wrong?"

Jesse liked Benjamin, he truly did. That was why he was a little afraid of prodding—though for his own peace of mind, precisely because he couldn't see anything about Benjamin to help ease him, there was nothing that Jesse could do but brave through and ask for the man outright to end both of their anxieties.

"I do not have to see you to know there is something you've been wanting to say for a while now," he murmured, a little quietly.

Silence soon fell between them. Jesse presumed it was because Benjamin didn't expect for him to be so perceptive, but he couldn't fault the man if he had ever truly thought that.

“Prince Jesse.." Benjamin sucked in a small breath, but it was loud enough for Jesse to hear it. "I do not know if you are aware of this or not, but I am a devoted believer of the Almighty God.”

Jesse slowly nodded. He had a hunch, considering his position, that the attendants of Juliette Palace sent to serve him would be believers of the Church who would've willingly volunteered themselves for the task—and he noticed, as well, the particular way Benjamin and some of the other children treated him. He might be a diplomatic hostage, but Elise had told him before he left that he was to officially enter the Empire as a confessional priest, first and foremost, if only to reassure him with a title and purpose that was less grim.

“Juliette has frequently been called the Frozen Palace. The attendants here were all relegated to this place. However, it was different this time."

"... Because of the news about my arrival?"

"Yes, Prince Jesse."

Jesse was silent for a second. "Ganael.. He isn't the only one from a house of believers, isn't he?"

“... You are astute, Prince-nim. The children from noble households of firm believers almost fought each other to be an attendant at Juliette Palace. Viscount Callamard’s household that had once given birth to a martyr, as well as my own family, Count Girardin’s household, were hoping that someone from our family would be assigned to attend to you, Prince Jesse. The other children who are here are all believers who have gone through rigorous assessments to be here.”

Jesse didn't know what expression could be found on his face at that moment. He knew where this was going, he wasn't daft. Many people back in the Holy Kingdom had expressed similar intent to Jesse and the Royal Family as a whole due to their fervent beliefs, but Jesse never felt worthy, no matter what blessings the Almighty God had apparently bestowed him with, because was just human, not anyone special enough to be the ideal agent of someone's good and strong faith—a mere bishop, only honorary in name.

"Benjamin..."

“Prince Jesse, I have the conviction to become a martyr. But the children—”

A martyr. It wasn't a word unfamiliar to Jesse, and he has heard of so many martyrs when he was in the Divine Kingdom, but it was still one that brought a frown to his face nonetheless because he liked Benjamin, and to imagine a scenario where the man has to become one is something that Jesse would never in his life wish for.

He was not worthy. He couldn't be worthy.

("Your hair is blessed with gold, and your eyes with amethyst.")

His mother's voice was something he didn't know if he could ever forget.

("My beloved son, my baby… the Almighty God smiles upon your precious existence.")

He remembered her as kind, as loving. He remembered her and wondered if she was lying when she said those words, because Jesse had never been able to find traces of blessings in being blind—it was an odd gift for a God to give to a child She supposedly adored.

"—Benjamin," Jesse called, his voice a little more forcibly firmly, this time, only because Jesse didn't trust himself to speak without breaking down into guilt and panic. It was enough, thankfully, to make Benjamin stop talking, and Jesse liked to believe he understood where the older attendant was getting at, to proceed with words he hoped wouldn't come out as wobbly.

"I know naught of what has happened to make you suddenly worry about this but I… I swear, whatever it is, the children will have no reason to endanger themselves because of me during my stay here."

His smile turned a little bittersweet, then, his chest a little tight.

"As the one they have chosen to be an agent of their faith, I will be responsible."

The weight of responsibility fell over him just as harshly as the books his past tutor had him balance and memorize by heart, and Jesse couldn't ever believe himself to be someone that would fully represent faith so pure, but it meant something to them, and so Jesse, weak at heart and weak for children that were so like his younger sister, couldn't do anything but concede.

Opening his useless eyes, he felt his fringe tickle his lashes once again. His eyelids blinked rapidly and clumsily at first, trying to get used to the sensation of having to be kept open after so long, and Jesse didn't know where Benjamin was standing, exactly, but he heard the man gasp, a sharp, stuttered intake of his breath—almost as if he had been punched in the gut and had all his air stolen away at once.

At that reaction, Jesse liked to believe he had managed to at least somewhat meet Benjamin's gaze, right where the man's bracelet singled from where his hands had presumably lifted to cover his mouth.

("Your eyes look horrendous," he heard the Prince Consort's voice in his head. "Always shaking so stupidly.")

His smile wobbled, but remained firm.

("I love your eyes, Losna," he heard Elise's smile in her gentle voice. "No matter what you may think, they are beautiful because they are yours." )

It was fragile and small, but he hoped his sincerity could be felt though it nonetheless.

"There is no way a useless priest can cause them any trouble worse than what comes with caring for the inadequate me."

"No… Prince Jesse—"

Jesse wondered how his eyes must look to the devoted believer that is Benjamin—shaking minutely in small, rapid back-and-forth circles like he knew they did, having found out when he once lightly pressed the pads of his fingers over his closed lids, wondering what it was about them that resembled the flies the prince consort hated so much.

He wondered if faith alone would be able to convince Benjamin of his sincerity, or if the wiggling-like stare Werner has so often berated him for having and compared to writhing worms was too much of a burden to look at.

He wondered if Benjamin would be disappointed to finally find out that the eyes widely renowned to be blessed by the Almighty God looked as terrible as they actually were.

For extra measure, because Jesse knew there couldn't possibly be anything as less convincing than what his eyes could bring, he went as far as to open his mouth and promise— promise like he failed to promise Cornelisse, that Elise failed to promise him,

Because this, at least, at the very least, was something he knew he would be able to do.

[ "I swear to the Almighty God." ]

(And he couldn't see it, but Jesse felt it—just as he always did, always only ever feeling—down to his very bones.)

A wide circle of golden warmth surrounded him by the feet, and suddenly, it was as if he could feel Benjamin's figure standing just a little further away before him.

He lifted his eyes again, and with certainty, now, he could feel his aimless gaze stare straight into Benjamin's.

Jesse didn't know what was happening.

He felt breathless and surprised, because not even when he promised Cornelisse had this happened—but he also knew, deep down, that even a promise with the Almighty God as their witness back then would've done nothing to bring him back to his sister once the hundred night mark passed.

All at once, Jesse felt his sisters' sorrow; felt their warmth.

He felt himself enveloped by every possible sentiment and familiar sensation he had felt throughout his entire, sightless life.

It swarmed around him, and Jesse wondered if this was even a fraction of what it could be like to see, despite nothing ever appearing before the bridge of his nose—not a single shadow, not a single flicker of light.

"Divine Oracle…" Benjamin gasped almost breathlessly, and somehow, Jesse could feel it—the older man's eyes meeting his, pinning him down; his breath escaping his old lips, like a small breeze of wind against his skin.

The warmth around them faded, and then so did the sensation of Benjamin's gaze.

Still, he was sightless. Though what he lost, he gained in trust, and before he left, Benjamin asked for permission to take his hands in his, and Jesse, guilt clawing at every inch of his body, granted it nonetheless.

Benjamin muttered words that seemed like prayer, holding him in his palms as if he was someone precious, and it was only when he finally left the room to allow Jesse to rest did Jesse close his eyes again.

("I am very blessed," Benjamin had murmured to him quietly, softly. It was the most gentle Jesse has heard him speak all week. "To have been allowed, despite my transgressions, to bear witness to Prince-nim's blessed eyes. The gaze of the Almighty God has glanced upon me…"

Jesse said nothing, merely squeezing lightly at the devoted believer's hands in his, because he didn't know how to tell the man he occasionally thought of his eyes as a curse, more so than a blessing.)

But maybe, just maybe—

('I am very blessed,' he heard as a whisper of a memory against his ear.)

Traces of Benjamin's adoration washed over him one last time, and Jesse fell asleep.

The next morning, Jesse directed his questions towards Ganael to gain more insight on the behaviour Benjamin had displayed to him the night before, and the boy, unable to lie for the life of him, immediately folded.

Jesse quickly learnt of the divine item that had apparently been stolen from the Temple of Boundaries, and it startled Jesse enough that Ganael let out a sigh of relief, glad to know Jesse seemed to have been genuinely ignorant about it.

It was then that had been told he had a visitor, and Jesse finally understood the reason for Ganael's relief.

"Pardon me, Prince-nim?"

It was a voice he had never heard before, and the realization put him slightly on guard—he had only just recently gotten used to the different voices of Juliette Palace's attendants, but even then, they refrained from attending to him in flocks, apparently in fear of overwhelming him too much.

"Prince Jesse, this is Dame Élisabeth Moutet, Vice-Captain of the Imperial Guard."

"Ah– Thank you, Benjamin..."

He was about to stand when the unfamiliar voice spoke up again.

"Please stay seated, Prince Jesse. Um…"

Jesse has no idea what the woman before him looks like, whether she is muscular or stern or however it was that a vice-captain should look. But from her slight awkwardness, he allowed himself to believe she could also be rather kind, and so gradually, he allowed himself to relax.

"Please excuse me for being unable to inform you about this impromptu meeting in advance. A serious case of theft happened at the border between the Riester Empire and the Holy Kingdom, and I, well, just need to ask some questions regarding your brief time passing by there, Prince Jesse."

She sounded even more awkward now, and it wasn't exactly hard to figure out why.

"... Ah, if you are wondering whether or not I saw anything, um." Jesse smiled. He felt as awkward as Dame Moutet sounded. "I have not."

I can't, went unsaid, but there wasn't a doubt that it didn't go unheard.

"Of course, Prince-nim," Élisabeth quickly accepted the answer, because there was nothing else she could say against it, unless she suddenly decided to doubt his ability (or rather, lack thereof) to see.

There was a little unpleasant moment of silence where neither of them didn't quite know what to say, because clearly the idea of a man who was unable to even see where he placed his foot, stealing something like a divine artifact, was more than just a little absurd. But Élisabeth was also just doing her job, and Jesse couldn't fault her for it, and so therefore he wished that no more awkwardness would be brewing between them.

To make it better for them both, Jesse, out of courtesy, decided to ask her if she would like to share some herbal tea with him, and for a second he swore he heard her let out a minuscule sound of surprise, as if this was a scenario she never would have expected. In the end, however, she agreed, and Jesse swore he could've heard just the tiniest trace of a smile in her voice, and he took that as a win.

And so, their interrogation continued, albeit this time, much more comfortably.

He recalled his days clearly when Élisabeth asked, and she even laughed when he told her he had yet to get used to putting names to the several voices that could often be heard within and around Juliette Palace. According to her, most people didn't tend to make a habit of getting to know each and every attendant and gardener, but Jesse would feel guilty if he didn't, especially when so many of them saw him as an agent of their faith. His guilt was amplified even more so when everyone seemed to treat him so nicely, so very reminiscent of his sisters' care, of the kindness of the several ladies who constantly helped him out.

In the end, there wasn't doubt that Jesse had managed to clear his name a bit, and Élisabeth even assured him that his story was in line with what the guard who accompanied him back to the carriage had told them. At the very least, Jesse was relieved that he didn't seem to make himself out to be suspicious, despite having been standing right in front of the very divine artifact the Imperial Guard was trying to find.

When he told Élisabeth that he had a hunch that he had been standing in front of something important, but wasn't exactly sure if what he made a wish on was the Paten or not—

"Since, well," he smiled again, "I cannot see."

—she had choked back a laugh, unsure if it would be insensitive of her to freely let out her mirth, but when Jesse cracked a small grin, it seemed it was enough to finally allow herself to spill a huff of a chuckle, albeit still an awkward one, but much more at ease than before.

Jesse took it as another win.

"Ah— Of course, you have not touched it, have you?"

"Mh…I heard that it hardly ended well for the last person who attempted it, if my memory serves me correctly." An uneasy smile played on his lips at the memory of Elise reading to him whatever it was in the book he picked out from the library. "Thankfully I remembered that story. And as you can see—"

He opened his hands—never palms-up, because that would bring forth way too many unpleasant memories.

"I am still in possession of all my fingers."

Élisabeth laughed a little again, before she cautiously decided to inquire, "Ah, if you do not mind, may I ask what it is you wished for?"

Jesse fiddled with the handle of his tea cup, a small little smile on his face, tinged at the corners with melancholy.

His purple eyes shone faintly through the partings of his golden hair, brushed back faintly when he had reached one hand up to touch the loose, messy interwoven sections near his ear.

His smile was gentle and his answer, unexpected, when told them he wished he could've had his sisters braid his hair, one last time before he had to leave them— indefinitely.

("If you were to have any wish in the world, I would've thought—" Élisabeth caught herself just then, before she quickly made a move to apologize for almost stepping out of line.

"I have been sightless my whole life," Jesse merely shrugged. He wasn't at all surprised she would think whatever it was that she did—and for the longest of times, he would've thought the same, too. "There is nothing to miss if one has never had it. But my sisters.."

And he smiled, this time. Wobbly, genuine. Tinged with a sorrow he was familiar with on other people—but this one, this time, was respectively Losna's.

"They're the two people I would forever miss the most in this world."

What a useless world one would be, should it not have Elise and Cornelisse somewhere living within it—ever in proximity of his reach, even if several hundred miles away.

He didn't have to see them. Not when Elise was there to promise him that she would always find him herself. She was his big sister, and when Jesse had no cane to guide him through corridors, he had always had Elise, and he would trust her to find him anywhere in any corner of the continent.)

(Sometimes he could still feel her fingers in his hair, whenever he rubbed over the braid he had to clumsily redo himself, despite the many offers of his attendants.

When they met again, Jesse would ask her to teach him.)

The fact that he was still interrogated despite his condition being well-known, funnily enough, still brought amusement to Jesse, even when evening had long arrived and he was sitting on the edge of his bed.

It felt odd, now. To have his eyes be kept open—even in the privacy of his own chamber, even with his bangs as long as they were. But there was no one here who called them odd, who called him ugly.

Jesse was twenty-eight years old.

He found it slightly hilarious yet pitiful that the words of the Prince Consort still managed to affect him, even to this day.

The words,

(Your eyes look horrendous.)

Contrasting with,

'I love your eyes, Losna.'

Always alternating between disdain,

(How truly useless.)

And love.

'They are beautiful because they are yours.'

Finding comfort in the soft fur of the rug placed beneath his bed, Jesse lightly brushed his fringe back. He wondered if he still looked like a mess, just as Werner said he was, but he recalled the young children attendants, and how they always praised his hair, and how they always gasped whenever they caught even the slightest glimpse of his purple eyes.

He recalled Elise's love.

Cornelisse's adoration.

His friends' protection.

Benjamin's reverence…

He wondered if it would be alright, now, to stop covering them, when so many told him—proved to him, countless times, countless instances over—that it would be alright.

He wondered what was wrong and what was right. He wondered what he looked like to others, what they saw in him, for people to so fervently declare they loved him.

He wanted to understand what it was that made him deserving of it, because he still didn't know if he could ever, truly, come to such an understanding.

But one day. Perhaps one day—

The pads of his scarred feet lightly rubbed against his soft fur rug, and Jesse contented in overwhelming himself in the delicate textile sensation to distract him from any further thoughts.

Click.

Senses frazzling, his back immediately straightened—head turning towards where he knew was the door.

"... Hello?"

No other sound could be heard after that, not a single footstep—not even the slight jingles of the bells his attendants all made sure to wear around as either bracelets, anklets, or necklaces.

"... Benjamin?"

Blindly, he tried searching for his sister's notebook, the protection it would give him, but then—

Then, something hit the floor.

Two, small little thuds of metal, followed by the faint jingles of bells—thrown to the ground, carelessly discarded.

Jesse knew those sounds. He knew them intimately like the back of his hand, always followed by the friendly, welcoming laughs of his young attendants.

Carefully rising from his bed, Jesse found that his naked feet no longer felt comforted by the softness of the fur rug underneath.

"Hello? Speak up, who is—"

A gust of wind flew into his face, suffocating as it wrapped around his neck.

"Mmph—!"

At once, Jesse struggled to breathe.

“Synkie, prepare the sacrament.”

“Just focus on what you’re doing, Peter."

Names he had never heard before exchanged themselves before him, spoken in the language of the Divine Kingdom. Jesse couldn't see his assailants but he could hear and he could remember, and he recalled nothing about two young boys by those spoken names.

"He’s resisting!”

Brain on overdrive, he wracked his memory, trying to associate the voices before him with anyone he might know—but the force around his neck tightened even further, and he choked.

They were talking even more now, but Jesse could barely focus.

He felt hysterical, writhing where he was, trying to claw at hands that were invisible.

"Nhk— hic—!!"

Was he going to die?

He did not want to die.

He was so far away from the Prince Consort who always made him miserable, so far away from the place that gave him the scars on his legs and feet— finally, finally, finally.

In his panic, he couldn't even force himself to keep his eyes closed—not when it felt as if there were going to pop out of his skull any second from now.

“Your Highness, please just accept your fate."

The voice of the young boy was faint. Jesse could barely even hear his own struggle.

"This is the will of the Almighty God and His Majesty’s decision.”

The Almighty God.

His Majesty.

Jesse wanted to laugh. To cry, to break down. To shut his ears close so that he could be as deaf as he was blind.

Nearly every day of his life, people had reminded him of how he had been blessed by their Almighty God—but not once could he ever have felt their adoration the way other's saw within him, always reminded by the Prince Consort of his unworthiness.

I’m scared.

The memory of his sisters' warmth felt tingly at the tips of his fingers.

He made a promise. He promised Cornelisse that he would return to her after a hundred nights. Elise had promised him, as well, that she would find a way to bring him back home—and he believed her, wanted to believe her, because she had promised.

His fingers tingled once more, and he felt the warmth of when Benjamin had taken his hands in his, and murmured how much of a blessing he was.

I don't want to die.

Theory, rites, theology, scriptures and prayers flooded his head—burnt into him just like the scars that marred the back of his legs and feet.

So often did Jesse pray when he was younger. Pray that the Almighty God would prove to him that he was truly blessed—that he was adored.

Not once did he ever remember his prayers being answered, when his wounds bled or when poison had made him bedridden for days; when he had knelt at Her statue in the castle's chapel for the last time on the eve before he turned 16, asking, begging, pleading— 'Almighty God, please, PLEASE, what is my purpose?' and receiving nothing but delusions of an unearthly embrace.

But his sisters were waiting for his return, and so he couldn't die just yet.

Praying to the Almighty God for the first time in years, remembering the warmth that enveloped him when he last made a Divine Oracle—he prayed and prayed and prayed and prayed.

Golden light burst through every window, nook and cranny of the room, and amidst all the noisy wreckage of cluttering books and broken window glass—

(For a second, Jesse truly felt blessed.)

He heard the door burst open a little further away, and this time came several clamouring steps, voices of concern and loud orders being thrown all around him.

Staggering, Jesse nearly fell over, but not before being caught by familiar old fretting hands.

The voices around him were muffled and fuzzy.

He could feel various figures surrounding him in his room—their existence almost like the faint weight of fingers dragging lightly across his palms.

It was warm all over, until it was not. The large circle that felt no different than an extension of his own being, dissipating back under his feet, and the odd sensation of dancing dots across his skin, across his mind, receded until he felt nothing.

No dark, no light.

Tears fell from his purple eyes, and Jesse felt himself stare into the omnipotence of the Almighty God in the far beyond—sight dripping from the tips of his lashes, yet seeing nothing all the same, body and soul split, torn and shredded—

And let himself fall.

The Almighty God adores you, a voice from his childhood says.

Back then, and even now, Jesse didn't know what that meant.

(Something omniscient rests their gaze upon him, so intensely it almost hurts.)

(Eyes burning, Jesse stares right back.)

Waking up in the familiar in-between world of consciousness and unconsciousness, Jesse felt it.

Alongside a low voice of a man he did not recognize, it flared up, slightly flickering by his side. Smooth and grand and all-encompassing—magnetic, like it wanted to draw Jesse in and swallow him whole.

It was warm, almost unbearably so—it would've seared and scorched, had it not felt like the gentlest flame he had ever been burnt by.

Jesse wondered, briefly in passing, if this was what light appeared like, but regardless of a confirmation, he immediately took to it like a starving man.

He wanted to fully wake up. Grab it, touch it. Feel that overwhelming warmth between his fingers and never let go. Embrace and consume and be consumed, in turn—Jesse wanted to be swallowed and devoured whole, to give his entire soul and expect nothing in return.

Elation filled nearly every inch of his body—where it didn't reach, he merely felt sorrow, confusion.

He didn't understand it.

He couldn't understand it.

Where had something like this been his whole life? This brilliant warmth that he wanted to believe was what everyone called light.

“He should wake up soon, right?”

Two voices continued muttering around him, one of which he knew to belong to Vice-Captain Élisabeth, and when he heard the sound of a chair quietly being pushed back, Jesse wanted to cry.

Where are you going?

“Sadie, will you be back?”

Please don't go.

The vice-captain seemed to be talking to the other person. However, all Jesse could truly hear in the moment was the footsteps of the man moving away—his presence tugging at Jesse's being like puzzle pieces being forced apart.

Jesse's mind swarmed and swayed. Reality as he had known it for nearly thirty years shifted to try and accommodate the sudden existence of that larger-than-life flame.

Overwhelmed, sleep began to wash over him in several tempting waves before he finally succumbed, plunging his head deep, deep under.

· •  ☽  ⋆  ☼  ⋆  ☾  • ·

"Ah, you're finally awake."

Jesse's eyes barely cracked open, the drowsiness of sleep rendering his brain fuzzy enough to not have him startle at the sound of the unfamiliar voice.

"Hello there," the voice of the woman continued speaking, softly, as if to make sure she didn't overwhelm him too much when he was just beginning to reign in his consciousness.

“You fainted because of ether overload. I am glad you recovered faster than I expected.”

“Who…" Jesse coughed, a dry, scratchy sound. "May I ask who you are..?”

"My name is Aurélie Boutier," the woman said, and she sounded kind. "May I touch your hand? I would like to give you a glass of water. It would do good for your throat."

Jesse paused for a second, still trying to gather his thoughts, but the urge to soothe his throat reigned over anything, and so he nodded—a little happy that she at least knew to ask first, before suddenly touching him.

Warm, carefully hands guided him towards a cool glass of water, and Jesse nearly sighed in relief at the feeling of his throat coming back to life.

Once he was finished, Jesse swore he could hear the faint smile in the woman's voice when she spoke up again.

"Do you not know who I am?"

Jesse minutely stilled, memories of grueling hours of studies flickering through his brain.

Eventually, he gaped—his jaw slightly dropping outside of his own volition, scrambling his upper body to bow, even despite him being in bed.

“It is an honour to meet you, Madam Cardinal. I've— I have heard so much about Your Noble Eminence, my apologies for not recognizing your name sooner—"

How could he not know this esteemed person? Back in the Holy Empire, her name was in several of the books that he had read and studied, even if she belonged to another country. When he was younger, Elise often hoped that he would become like her—a strong priest that would stand by her side when she would become the future queen.

Cardinal Aurélie Boutier.

The Imperial Prince’s godmother. A person who had rejected the title and position of Duchess twice.

She was also the Empress’s close friend and Religious Partner.

(She was the kind of person Jesse had always been expected to become.)

“It is nice to meet you too, little prince. There is no need to get up.”

The Empire’s only Cardinal quietly chuckled as she greeted him.

She felt a little like the odd dream he had.

It was nowhere near the same levels of bright as the one had had earlier felt—if that was what one could call "bright".

But it was small. Subtle.

(It felt a little like Elise, a little like Cornelisse—a warmth that lingered and felt like a small, ever-sprouting seed.)

Cardinal Boutier told him about the many things that had happened while he had been out, such as the reason why Synkie and Peter's voices felt so familiar to him at the moment was because he had known them as the Bellang twins.

To learn that the two young boys that should've been sent to him as attendants had in reality been assassinated on their way to the palace.. Jesse felt sorrow, and wondered again, if he was worth it.

Benjamin's words about martyrs rang once again in his head, and he hated it.

What if Cornelisse died, one day? When she hadn't even reached adulthood, when she hadn't even gotten a single strand of the grey hair Elise occasionally joked about having?

Mourning the lives of those two boys he could've gotten to know, Jesse closed his eyes shut once more, hiding pools of purple behind heavy lids. It felt a little like regret. It felt a little like shame.

He thought of the two young assassins that had been sent to kill him. He thought of how they could've lived much better lives, about how they were around as young as he was, when the Prince Consort shaped their thoughts and moulded them to become people they never should've been.

At some point, Cardinal Boutier had called him a kind child. Jesse hoped he could be.

"May I ask you some questions?" she then asked.

And all Jesse could do was nod.

(And so was marked their first meeting.)

Cardinal Boutier ended up using her sanctum on him.

He didn't have to use his eyes to know how intricate it was. A part of him, deep down, could feel its complex and elegant patterns as they traced and washed itself over his soul, mapping him in every nook and cranny, inspecting him with an omniscient glance— Nothing that he has ever felt before.

[ "May the Almighty God forgive this child for his lie." ]

Something warm had washed over him, a little kind, a little gentle, and Jesse felt nothing more.

And then—

“Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at 11 AM," she told him a little later on. "I will leave the door to my office open. Feel free to come to ask any questions you may have.”

Even when she had long been gone, Jesse still sat there, blankly feeling the small seed of warmth fade into the distance.

When the topic of the Spring Ball at the Riester Imperial Palace came up, Jesse felt a small sense of anxiety fall over him.

Dame Élisabeth Moutet came and visited him again, and it was then that he discovered the greatest event in the Empire’s Beau Monde affairs.

Back in the Divine Kingdom, Jesse had forced himself to attend so many big events after meeting with Lady Bolhoeven. Werner often warned him against it at first, because the prince consort thrived in the spotlight, and it was hard to draw attention when everyone's eyes would be on the dirty bastard of the Royal Family.

Werner had often said he was merely concerned that the people would be too disgusted by him, and so he was only looking after Jesse when he said he should remain in his chambers during big events.

Jesse came to know better, as he grew up.

But before, when they were way younger, Elise always used to tell him that the people would love to see him, that a single dance with her would be enough to make them lively for weeks—but when he was a boy, Jesse was too anxious, his self-esteemed way too brittle, and he always ended up refusing to attend, and at most when he couldn't, he remained silently on the terrace.

But as the years went by, Jesse had to make his move and get to know more women. He talked to young ladies and charming madams who knew of his plight, and he cloaked himself with the eyes, information, and protection they allowed him like a warm, messily knitted blanket.

Parties, after that, started being less frightening, and became a little more fun. And when Cornelisse had been born and grew old enough to be able to wildly run around, sometimes, she would even eventually find him hiding on the terraces, and would always be sure to share a plate of fine desserts and describe with enthusiasm the prettiest dresses that she had seen in the ballroom so far.

Jesse never got to dance with her, however, even though he knew how to and very well could have. Elise coaxed him into learning it with her when they were younger, and by the time she succeeded in convincing him, she had already nearly mastered all the steps, and so Jesse's skills inevitably fell shorter behind. But she was patient with Jesse the whole time, just as she always was, and the first few dances they did together, he had spent them without his shoes, feet placed on top of her boots, and she had guided him through everything while carrying his weight over her own, until he could finally memorize the steps without her careful support.

That was the last time they've ever shared a dance, and for the years following, Jesse only had his various connections as waltz partners, instead of either of his sisters.

Jesse couldn't help but feel the memory and reminder of lost opportunities clog his throat a little, hearing Dame Moutet talk about the Riester Spring Ball.

(He wished he could've properly danced with his sisters, even just once before he left them.)

“There are talks that Her Majesty will send you an official invitation, Prince-nim.”

"That is a rather frightening thought, Dame Moutet."

Élisabeth laughed out loud at that, but Jesse was dead serious.

"I… do not wish for that sort of attention anymore. If it is only to help restore some of the Imperial family's prestige by showing that I am well, I can perhaps show my face but any more than that..."

Jesse remembered attending one of the bigger parties thrown by the Prince Consort, when he was way younger—long before he had met Lady Bolhoeven who knew high society's social circles better than nearly anyone he's ever met, who equipped him with the knowledge and comfort needed to whistand it.

But she wasn't there for him the years prior to their fateful meeting, back when an unnamed young lady had apparently gotten permission from His Majesty to take him out for a dance, completely without consulting Jesse's opinion and consent. At some point he had ended up standing in what felt to be the middle of the ballroom after adamantly refusing her uncalled for advances, shakily tearing her unwelcomed hand off his waist. He didn't quite want to remember what happened after that, as unpleasant a memory it was, the memory of trembling legs carrying him away from the dance floor, bumping into so many people there wasn't a doubt he made a fool of himself.

With a somewhat helpless smile on his face, Jesse finally shrugged.

"I'd like to refrain from being in highly active places as much as I possibly can, at the moment."

"Ah, that's a bit of a shame.. Though I completely understand, of course.”

Truth to be told, Jesse felt conflicted about this. Had this been back in Venetiaan, he wouldn’t have spared a second before accepting an invite to such a popular event—especially after an assassination attempt. There was no place safer for him than being surrounded by gossipping eyes that would be following his every move, and his acquaintances would no doubt be there to plaster themselves against his sides, flanking him in yet another layer of protection.

But this was the Empire—and Jesse had no allies here in Riester. Throwing himself into public events would be a gamble that would either end in his benefit or detriment.

“But you know,” Elisabeth spoke up again, drawing him from his thoughts. “After getting caught up in an assassination attempt and managing to get yourself out of it on your own has made both nobility and commoners alike, curious about you, Prince Jesse."

….. Jesse had an inkling as to where this could be going.

"Whether it is who you will bring as a partner to the Ball, what you will be wearing, or even what kind of dancing you will do… Every single detail about you is going to pique high interest and curiosity.”

Jesse remembered the rumours written about him in the gossip tabloids. The whispers that servants thought he wouldn't be able to hear—the decades he spent carefully maneuvering his every move so that society's spotlight could be firmly fixated on the circus that was the Holy Kingdom's clown of a blind royal prince.

"I will be busy," Jesse steadily hummed, though a small strain still managed to slip itself into his voice. Brain contemplating his cards, weighing each of his options placed before him.

"Ah— But I have yet to even tell you the date of the ball?"

He lightly shook his head, resolution solidifying. “I came to the Empire to fulfill the role of a Confessional Priest. I will listen to the confessions of the esteemed individuals at the palace, who will not be attending the ball."

Scriptures, rites, prayers. The cold confessional box he had sometimes been locked in for hours as punishment.

Everything that his old tutor seared into him flooded his head.

But it would be fine, this time.

"I know there will be a great number of them, and I am not any more useful as an ornament on the sidelines of a ball, than I am as of right now."

This time, it would be out of his own volition, and he will be safe. When has a royal priest ever offered their services to anyone without prerequisites? Both common folk and nobility would no doubt find themselves opposite to him in the confessional, and with such a huge crowd flocking themselves the palace would also have no choice but to heavily regulate the area, on top of the usual procedures that would be taken with the Spring Ball taking place.

It was a good plan. Retreating from the public without retreating so much to become a turtle.

"So I will remain as a priest for those people, and show my worth then."

And now, especially, with his confounding ability to use ether… 

("You are blessed, my beloved Losna.")

Jesse didn't know if he truly was, but people seemed to constantly think it—and maybe that was enough.

It would be nice to play the role of a blessed man, and make people happy just for once.

(One day, sometime after 11 AM, Jesse thought of the numerous brushes with death he had crossed with throughout his life.

He remembered fearing his meals, the numbness in his fingers. He could sometimes still feel pinpricks of whips flat against his calves, and his skull weighed down by heavy books. He recalled the time Maartje took an arrow for him, and how countless of knights tried to do their best to protect him, only to be gone the next day, demoted, dismissed.

Today was yet another day where it felt a little like he had just brushed close to death. When he came to, Jesse was on the floor, awakened by the sensation of a warm hand rubbing circles across his back.

'Sorry,' he had said. What for, he wasn't sure himself, since the supposed training session he was in was mostly a blur of memories to him at the moment, and the cardinal's response had been kind and tainted faintly with guilt.

"... Perhaps rough teaching isn't fit for you. This was my mistake, young prince."

"You were not rough at all, Madam Cardinal…" Jesse lightly sniffled, reassuring her. "This is all me, I am inadequately suited for your wise teachings."

"Do not take this one for a fool," Cardinal Boutier said, still gently rubbing his back. Her touch frazzled his every nerve, still blaring from sudden overstimulation, but with its rhythm he found himself slowly soothed. "Every child is built different. What works for one would work differently for another. It was my mistake to have overlooked how fragile you are."

"Madame Cardinal…" Jesse weakly smiled. "How could a man nearly in his thirties be fragile?"

"Age has nothing to do with fragility," she said, slowly helping him stand back up to his feet, now that she deemed him fit enough. "One could have the strongest mind and body yet still have tender spots."

"... I… do not wish to be fragile."

Wasn't that one of the few things he's ever wished for?

" I… want to protect myself. I want to be strong," Jesse rubbed his eyes, felt them tremble and twitch beneath his fingers, before lifting his head. "Madam Cardinal, in my own country, there was very little I could do—you might've heard the unfortunate rumours but all I could do to ensure my own protection was to constantly remain in sight, even if I couldn't see who was looking. I know I am but a hostage prince from a foreign country, with my life in Her Imperial Majesty's hands, but…"

His words were very much gibberish, desperate and couldn't have been any further from the moving speeches he had read beneath his fingers in some of his most heroic books.  He smiled, then, wobbly but the most hopeful he's been in a long, long while.

"I wish, for once, to be able to protect myself without having to leave my fate in the hands if others—agency over my own life."

For a short while, the Cardinal remained silent.

In that moment of anxious wait, Jesse sniffled once more, and it was only when gentle hands reached up to wipe at his cheek did he realize he had been crying.

Ah, really now... There was a limit to how pathetic a grown man could be.

Flushed red and flustered, Jesse tried to pull away, not wanting to dirty the sleeves of the honourable cardinal—but Aurélie merely clicked her tongue, tutting, and gently pulled him back.

"I've never met a young man of your age who has cried as much as you have," Her Eminence said, softly drying his cheeks. "Look now, your eyes are red."

Jesse's eyes fluttered aimlessly, embarrassed to have someone be able to stare at him long enough to even remark such a thing. He hadn't a clue on what red looked like, only ever having known that his eyes were white, and his irises purple, so he shut his lids in embarrassment to spare the cardinal of what was certainly an ungodly sight.

"Well?"

"W— Well..?"

"Shall we continue our session? I still have half an hour left of knowledge to impart on you before I must send you on your way."

Jesse's mouth gaped open and close in tandem for a while, before he finally shut his jaw closed with a snap, lips wobbling into a smile.

"From the bottom of my heart... Thank you so very much, Madam Cardinal.")

And so passed Jesse's days, back and forth between Juliette Palace, the confessionals, and Madame Boutier's office.

Surprisingly, the Cardinal had decided to become a mentor, even though her student was the hostage prince that hailed from another country. But she treated him kindly, and not any different than how Jesse remembered being treated by his first tutor before the old man had been replaced, stern but never angry.

She was kind, almost frightening with her patience. She reminded him somewhat of his mother, and Jesse had to wonder if he was allowed to think in such a way, to consider someone else as any similar to his only mother, to consider this place any similar to Venetiaan.

But it wasn't hard to prevent himself from further falling into this deception—after all, from what little similarities they shared, there were still ten more differences.

For one, Jesse could finally breathe.

(Sweat beading at his chin, chest heaving up, down, up, down, up— "Defend," Cardinal Boutier would say as she prepared to attack him, and Jesse allowed his newfound ether to burst, circles drawing beneath his feet, wide, wide and oh-so wide as if it had been bottled up within him for twenty-eight whole years, and was only now allowed to be set loose, miracles amidst miracles—('Losna, my child, you are blessed."))

He knew from experience, however, that peace never lasted for someone like him. Peter and Synkie were only two out of the many that had previously tried, and certainly, he didn't doubt they would be the last.

But Jesse could feel his either circulating his body, permeating the air like a scentless yet comforting perfume, and he knew that if Werner were to ever try, Jesse, this time, would finally be able to fight back.

And then he felt it—

A ball of warmth, swarming his overwhelmed senses.

"Where are your attendants?"

Every single nerve in Jesse's body tingled at the sound of that deep voice, resonating within him to the very core, bouncing off his every wall.

His hand instinctively felt the cover of Elise's book—unseperable from it, after his assassination attempt—and his head snapped towards the stranger.

"Pardon my ignorance, who might you be?"

"You do not know?"

Such a proud voice, Jesse couldn't help but inwardly remark. A noble, he must be, because there was no way the gardeners of Juliette Palace wouldn't recognize his golden hair and distinct Venetiaan-styled garments, and talk to him in such a manner.

A knight, then, perhaps. But Jesse felt that world-consuming warmth again, the sensation that he would assume was what people called light, clouding the area where the man was standing.

… He felt like the warm evening sun.

Jesse had felt this light before, from the balcony of his room, near his bedside after his ether explosion—he knew who this was, would know it anywhere, everywhere, even if buried under the depths of earthly folds, in the hottest of furnaces, or submerged in the deepest of seas.

('Almighty God, what is my purpose?' An invisible hand caressing his head—the sensation both warm like heated metal and cool like icy water.)

"What are you doing," the Imperial Prince all but demanded the answer after a second too much silence.

Jesse couldn't help but smile, hearing that arrogant tone.

"Blind that I am, I know this is a garden, where one does whatever one does at a garden."

Jesse's smile grew slightly larger, corners delicately upturned in practiced familiarity, but surprisingly feeling a bit swept up into a teasing streak.

"Or perhaps I am merely waiting for a lovely lady to pass by to engage in a nice chat with."

"You…" The other man's tone darkened, and Jesse couldn't help but wish he could see what sort of expression would come from the owner of such a deep voice. "This is hardly the place for your philandering."

There was no way the Crown Prince of a different country hadn't heard of the rumours Jesse had cloaked himself with. In a sense, this was everything he had wanted, everything that he had planned to happen through a decade's work, a whole ten years of putting himself in a spotlight lit by none other than his own hands, but…

It saddened him, deep down, that an esteemed person such as the one before him, a blazing ball of warm life, thought of him as nothing but filth.

(It was a bit silly of him, wasn't it? To feel disappointed that someone's first impression of him wasn't good, when he himself was the one to have painted such a veil in the first place?)

"—Why are you looking at me like that?" The Imperial Prince cautiously said, his voice mangling together with that of the Prince Consort's, and Jesse felt a jolt go through him at words that shouldn't have been as familiar as they should.

His eyes, which Jesse had taken to leaving open, these days, slowly blinked, then more rapidly, before the lids felt too heavy under the weight of shame that he had to shut them.

"My apologies."

The response escaped him faster than he could register—instinctual habits resurfacing for the first time in a long, long while.

"They look a bit—" disgusting, like flies, like squirming worms— "... odd, don't they? Don't worry, I'll keep them close in your presence if you so wish."

"..... What? That's not—"

"Prince Jesse!!!"

Ganael's frantic voice came from the far side, heavy loudly, having clearly ran his way all the way back from Juliette Palace to the gardens, the small bells that all of Jesse's attendants wore jingling lightly around his wrist.

"I'm very sorry I took so long, I couldn't remember where I put the chessboard, I—"

An abrupt pause. Stuttered breathing.

If Jesse strained his ears, he wouldn't be surprised if he were to hear the gears turning in Ganael's head, before a shriek nearly destroyed his eardrums.

"Y— Your Imperial Highness!!!?!?;!"

"Chess?" The Imperial Prince immediately frowned, having ignored Ganael's cluster, and Jesse could hear it in his voice when the gears in his head clicked together. "You said you were—"

Jesse huffed lightly. "I am able to make jokes every so often, I'll have you know," he murmured. For a second, he had to wonder if his hurt sounded as apparent as he felt it did, but foolishly smothered that feeling down. There was no one else to blame but himself for fabricating an image so believable that even the prince of another country wouldn't see fault in it.

"... You sought to make a fool of me, earlier."

"Ah- Pardon? Did I not just say I was—"

"Do you think me daft? Duel me."

Ganael let out a strangled gurgle at those words, so taken aback he had choked on his own saliva.

The words were said with such unwavering conviction that Jesse's eyes couldn't help but snap right back open, angled towards the brightness that was the presence of the Imperial Prince.

"Your Imperial Highness, Prince Cédric," Jesse slowly started. "You wouldn't actually try and duel a blind man over a small joke, would you?"

There was a pause that followed suit, and Jesse couldn't help the flabbergasted expression that crawled up his face upon realizing that there was actually a person on this continent that didn't know he was blind.

"..... Or— Do you truly not know that I am blin—"

The Imperial Prince's voice immediately cut in, defensively interjecting.

"Are you not directly looking into my own eyes, at this very moment?"

This time, it was Jesse's turn to simmer in silence.

Surrounded by nothingness for a total of twenty-eight years, he hadn't a single clue on what objects looked like without touching them—multidimensional objects only coming to his awareness the moment he felt them.

But the Imperial Prince before him was a being who defied everything Jesse had ever known.

He didn't know what it was that he was seeing. He wouldn't be able to describe its colour if he saw it, nor would he be able to put to words the shape, form, and texture because he had only known them through description, and not once by sight—

All that Jesse knew, having been near the Imperial Prince, was that Cédric Riester's presence was larger than life, a flame so warm that he couldn't help but be drawn to—his head angling in the other prince's direction like a compass would towards the north, a moth to a flame, the phenomenon of gravity defying all its laws to draw him to this man.

"... Your voice," Jesse opted to say, lamely, unsure of how, exactly, to explain his feelings. "I know where your head is from where the sound of your voice is coming."

A click of a tongue came from where the Imperial Prince stood. But just as he thought this odd matter would be resolved, the man spoke again.

"Have you not been taught how to wield a sword?"

"Prince Cédric…" Jesse huffed an almost incredulous laugh. "The formal education received from one prince to the other differs depending on their circumstance… Which in my sight-impaired case, means that I have never touched a single blade in my life."

"I have seen men fight battles blinded in one eye and still prevail."

"It appears that I find myself blind in both, Prince-nim."

"The ability to see is meaningless. You have two hands and two feet. You are perfectly apt in all that matters, and even then, I have seen knights fight with less limbs."

Something swelled in Jesse's chest at those words—a mixture of incredulity, exasperation, shock, overwhelming him like waves upon waves of whiplashes. His heart quivered, shaking tenderly, the words "perfectly apt in all that matters'' bouncing around his head and multiplying upon each impact until it cluttered his ears with a numbing buzz, silencing the world until all he could hear were those very words.

"I would—" he cleared his throat, voice sounding oddly hoarse. "I would rather not risk hurting myself with a weapon I am unfamiliar with. How about… a different sort of duel?"

Silence. Contemplation, and then—

"Name it."

Checkmate.

"Ganael?" Jesse called lightly. "You have that chessboard we were going to play with, don't you?"

A few days back, Jesse made a request asking if it were possible for his attendants to order a customized chess set that would make it easier to play for the visually impaired.

It would be near impossible, after all, for someone who couldn't even see the board and differentiate black pieces from the white ones to play chess at all—but for a whole decade, Jesse had spent his time alongside young ladies with the energy to have a plenitude of hobbies, and one of the many just so happened to have been chess.

At first, he naturally found the game rather impossible. But after a few years, Jesse had grown quite capable at drawing a map of the board in his head, and keeping track of the game at play. And while it had been difficult at first, trying out different ways of playing that would put him at less of a disadvantage against a visually apt opponent, he had a lot of time to learn and adapt.

He had grown intimately familiar with the feeling of each piece, from pawn to rook, bishop to knight, queen to king—made even easier from the customized pointed pins on the black pieces, to the smoother tops of the white ones, then to the small subtle height difference between the two sets of squares on the board.

For a long time, he had been at a disadvantage. Losing track of where all the pieces were and knocking over pawns as he felt over the board, taking too long before making an indecisive move…

But now—

"Checkmate."

The Imperial Prince was silent at his words, and all Jesse could hear was the shocked noises of the attendant children around them, and even more particularly, Ganael's excited gasping awe.

Jesse smiled.

He wasn't able to be good at many things—he never had much of an opportunity—but for the ones he had a chance at, he made sure that he wasn't just good, but great.

(There was a reason Jesse Venetiaan had been able to survive for so long. His young mind had once been vulnerable to outside influences, engraved with fear and compliance—and traces of that will forever linger—but as he grew under the care of the forces of nature that were young aristocratic women, there wasn't much one could do but allow aspects of their own intellect to be polished under such influences.)

(Oh how he wished, however, that his brain wouldn't turn to such frozen mush when faced with the Prince Consort.)

"Would you like a rematch, Prince-nim?"

Jesse felt as Cédric's incorporeal light expanded—enveloping him fully and whole, burning him yet never hurting, and he revelled in the sensation that the mere presence of the Imperial Prince brought him.

"Again."

Jesse's body tingled from head to toe at the prince's deep, commanding voice, and he felt himself brimming with a calm yet turbulent energy he hadn't even known he had in the first place. Briefly, he noticed that his ether had been escaping him throughout this whole ordeal, small, delicate whisps gravitating towards the Imperial Prince as if trying to merge into one—and without even reacting, Cédric received it all, perhaps not even realizing it himself as well, too focused on the game at hand.

The act was so natural, it was as if they belonged.

(The eve before his sixteenth birthday resurfaced again— 'Almighty God, what is my purpose?')

Something clicked, slotting together, merging until indistinguishable from the other—and Jesse felt himself grow a little more complete.

Smiling, his lips wavered, almost fragile, heavy with foreign emotion, and Jesse felt with his soul the large presence that was Cédric Riester.

"As you wish, my Prince."

The pieces moved across the board once more, and consumed each other whole, one by one, like the infernal licks of intoxicating embers.

"I heard you have been playing frequently with my godson, lately."

Jesse slowly blinked, swallowing down the biscuit in his mouth before gently correcting.

"We are merely duelling, Your Eminence. Grown men such as us do not play."

"Of course, pardon me." Cardinal Boutier's voice took on so much mirth, Jesse was unable to keep his own smile from surfacing. "Two young men who have not even thrown gloves, often meeting to play chess and engage in other various games that are no different than what is enjoyed by children—all of which is merely duelling."

Jesse felt his cheeks flush, though his small grin still played delicately on his lips.

"He is a very commendable opponent."

He could hear Aurélie's smile in the way she huffed—endeared, fond and amused.

"Then, I suppose since you both are such well-acquainted rivals, you wouldn’t have any qualms attending the Spring Ball?”

Jesse nearly choked on his tea. “Your Eminence," he deadpanned, coughing once as the older woman sympathetically sent over some ether to soothe him. “... Did Dame Moutet tell you about this? No—Benjamin? Or was it Ganael?” 

“My, so quick to jump to assumptions. Is it so wrong of me to want my dear godson to enjoy himself in the presence of a friend?” She coughed lightly, a smile playing on her lips. “Pardon me— A rival.” 

"We are very much— rivals." Jesse's cheeks felt warm, but he calmly confirmed what was nothing but the plain truth. "Friends is a bit… much." Not that he was an expert in knowing what could be deemed as friendship, of course, he was someone who could only make friends when the other party initiated contact first—something that Cédric Riester was very clearly not intending with their frequent bets and wagers.

"Besides, I find it hard to even imagine the Prince thinks of me in such a manner..."

"Little Prince," Aurélie softly interjected, and the warm way in which she addressed him never failed to make Jesse's heart feel warm.

"Yes, Your Eminence?"

"The Spring Ball is coming up soon. I would like it if you showed up."

The request was so surprising it nearly made Jesse's drop both his teacup and its saucer.

"Madam Boutier, I don't think I…" He hesitated, a wave of emotions overturning the insides of his chest. He had thought to refuse, but he remembered how much he dreaded yet enjoyed parties, the ambiance from the balconies, the sound of music and lively chatter muffled through the door as the evening breeze felt through his hair.

Jesse thought of the last dance he never got to have with his sisters, then of the acquaintances who used to be his eyes and feet during social events—how he had left all of them back in Venetiaan.

"Is it really proper?" he finally said, his voice feeling oddly thick. "For Your Eminence to personally go around inviting a mere hostage prince..."

Besides, he knew what was really going to go on during the Ball. The only daughter of Duke Sarnez, finally having miraculously awoken from her mysterious coma—there would be no event better than this to reintroduce her to high society, and, if the rumours were to be true... announce the noble young lady's engagement to the Imperial Prince.

With such an important announcement, Jesse didn't feel it would be right of him to intrude on the precious ducal princess' spotlight.

"The Empress has extended her invitation to you, so why can't I?"

The Cardinal's hand gently fell over his.

"You are the dearest little rival of my cute godson," she smiled, softly squeezing his hand. "And I have good reason to think you are good for him. That child hasn't had many opportunities to make friends growing up. He had always been rather frail and sickly as a young boy, so he has never had the chance to properly develop close relationships with others his age."

It wasn't the first that Jesse has ever heard of such a thing—gossip in the Holy Kingdom was very popular, after all. And it didn't surprise him as much as it probably should have, not when Jesse knew firsthand how that man treated others, his attitude rather brutish and arrogant—though befitting of a member of the imperial family—and while aware of etiquette, he was still somewhat awkward if one knew what to look out for in his rather stoic attitude.

"But did you know?" Aurélie whispered, almost conspiratorially. "That very same child’s health and disposition has been endlessly better since your arrival."

As much as he felt like releasing a chuckle, something about those words also made Jesse feel like crying—frozen in place, something right making itself known in both his throat and chest.

Ever since he was young, Jesse has wanted to do good.

He had once wanted to please his mother, until he found out from her tearfully yearning words that he shared the same smile as the commoner priest who she fell in love with; he had once wanted to please Werner, as well, until he found out that man wouldn't be happy with him in any way other than by making him miserable. And naturally, Jesse had wanted please his older sister, though only ever managed to make her guilty in an incomprehensible way, and so he found in his numerous acquaintances other older sisters of whom he hoped he'd managed to make happy with their mutually beneficial arrangements, but never quite managed to make up for the pain he frequently caused Elise.

And then when Cornelisse was finally born, her arrival had nurtured an endless hope within him that led him to believe that he could finally, finally have another opportunity to do the good that he couldn't give Elise—only for him to break his little sister's heart in the end as he left for Riester.

Cardinal Boutier gently rubbed her thumb over his hand at that moment, grounding him back in the present moment.

Something crashed down at him, just then—all at once. Waves upon waves of something, powerful and warm and cold and strong, like flames and oceans and gravity as a whole.

"It is almost as if he has been waiting to meet you his entire life."

The words were nearly enough to make Jesse burst into tears.

(The eve before his sixteenth birthday spun around him like an endless red thread—the distant memory of his words and pleas wrapping around his neck and choking him up.)

(It was in the confessional booth that Jesse met him.)

A noise on the other side of the wooden panel startled him lightly, very much different to the polite inquiring and push of the door that most penitents announced themselves with.

"Hello..?"

The situation was alarming. The last time this had happened, Jesse nearly got assassinated—but somehow, for some reason, Jesse couldn't find it in himself to be alarmed, because beyond the wooden panel of the confessional booth that separated him from the penitent's compartment, Jesse could feel a small lingering flame.

A small thing it was, so fragile it felt almost as if it could be snuffed out by the wind.

Jesse knew this warmth—the sensation familiar to him after several meetings with the Imperial Prince, respective to that unique man alone.

Wordlessly, he stood up, pushing open the door before feeling the walls with his hand, leading himself to the other door of the confessional.

Upon opening the door, he could hear light panting, stifled as if trying to not show signs of exhausted weakness, and Jesse felt worry furrowing his brows. Tentatively, he opened his mouth to call out,

"... Prince-nim?"

There was no answer—instead, there was a hand that tightly grabbed at his wrist, stopping it in motion when he reached out to touch the other man. It was odd, however, because he had felt the man's hand before, when they accidentally overlapped during some of the chess matches. Sometimes the other prince even had to guide his touch when he forgot where he was planning on moving a piece.

The Cédric Riester that he knew had large, warm hands.

The one before him, however, was small.

"How… How do you know it's me?"

Even with such a youthful sounding voice, the tone was very much the Imperial Prince's, and so Jesse was unable to help his exasperated smile, despite his confusion.

"I would recognize that haughty tone of speech anywhere, Prince Cédric."

He didn't need to see the man's face to know he irritated him. But before Cédric could angrily shoot a retort, Jesse channeled his lessons with Aurélie and sent gentle waves of ether through their connected touch. Immediately, the growl at the back of the Imperial Prince's throat  died down, reduced to nothing but a simmer—placated and tamed, though still unwaveringly wary.

Kneeling, Jesse slowly lifted his other hand towards the other prince, but didn't dare touch him just yet.

"May I… feel your forehead?"

It was silent for a while. Face burning a little with the extended quiet, Jesse was just about to awkwardly retract his question before he felt skin brush against his palm.

Hot.

"Oh—" Jesse winced, lightly brushing the prince's hair out of his sweaty forehead. "You're burning up…! Isn't this ether depletion? How can it be this severe? Or- are you just incredibly feverish…" That couldn't explain the supposed physical age regression, however, so it was definitely not just a simple fever.

Cédric groggily pulled his head away, but his body swayed, as if everything above his shoulders weighed a hundred pounds, and his head bobbed back against Jesse’s palm, before he snapped back—forcing himself to straighten upright.

"What's it to you?" 

"Do not be stubborn." Frowning, Jesse put his hand back to the boy-prince's forehead, sending a cool stream of ether to soothe down his body temperature. "Do you want me to call for help—?"

"Don't," Cédric all but growled, his hand tightening over Jesse's wrist, still weakened, but steadily gaining some strength the more his ether replenished. "Do not, or else I'll… I will…"

"Alright, okay…” Jese appeased, backtracking at once. “No one will be called."

Instead, Jesse slightly shifted on his knees, trying to make himself comfortable on the fabrics of his robes. Lightly shaking the hand around his wrist, he rearranged the grip so that he could hold Cédric's hand in his, carefully interlacing their fingers together. It was a little ridiculous, because he had learnt from the books that Aurélie lent him that it wasn’t necessary for priests to initiated physical contact in order to issue ether, but something in Jesse was compelled to do it nonetheless, a small tug at his chest inexplicably drawn towards the other prince’s warmth. Cédric didn’t seem to complain—not that Jesse would be able to tell if the Imperial Prince’s face was displeased or not—but he was certain that if the prince didn’t like it, he would’ve long aggressively shaken off Jesse’s touch.

A twinge made itself known in his chest, at that. Jesse inwardly sent the other man his apologies for the transgression—for wanting, for yearning to touch and cradle this bright presence in his own two hands. The Imperial Prince’s hand was so small at the moment, and Jesse could only dream of how the man’s palm would feel in his true form, large and all-encompassing.

Almighty God, forgive him for being selfish, for once in his life.

Jesse felt like a starving, deprived man, and it was terrifying, yearning for something so very much it felt as if his own soul was crying out.

Slowly lifting his other, Jesse moved to wipe the sweat off of the Imperial Prince's face with the wide sleeve of his priest's robes, softly murmuring light scoldings when Cédric tried moving out of the way, habits from whenever he had to care for Cornelisse overriding his actions almost subconciously. His forehead was so damp, the heat condensed into the now-small body working in overdrive to regulate itself through his pores.

Feeling the boy-prince's cheek with the back of his hand, Jesse felt the frown on his face loosen, even if just the slightest bit. Much to his relief, Cedric’s temperature seemed to finally be cooling down.

"If this happens again," Jesse softly started, moving to take both the other prince's hands in his. "You can…" 

He hesitated. 

"I will always be happy to help you, Prince Cédric."

"... What are you trying to gain from this?"

"What? I just…"

Jesse's eyelids felt heavy, all of a sudden, eyes itching, and his head ultimately succumbing to tilting towards the ground.

I just thought that we could maybe be called friends.

Instead, he smiled, huffing a small breath of a laugh.

"... Admittedly, it would be beneficial to have some leverage over you."

"You—"

The words halted right there, falling off slightly near the end. It was a little hard registering his anger when he sounded like a small, petulant boy—a far cry from the fiery anger he was capable of as a full-fledged adult. 

"..... You were—joking."

A quiet chuckle escaped Jesse. "You grow so quickly. I'm glad you are able to tell that, now."

Cédric scoffed, sounding endlessly irritated by his antics, and it never failed to hurt, knowing the possibility that their relationship might never truly pass this stage. "It's not hard to, when you look like you're—"

He fell quiet yet again, and Jesse could only wonder how it was that he looked, in the eyes of the younger prince. He hoped he didn't look miserable, at the very least, because Jesse’s first impression had already been stolen from him, given to the Riester prince under the form of gossip tabloid rumours, fanned by his own hand and making. He didn't need that image to worsen out of his control.

Jesse inwardly shook his head. Irrelevant. All that mattered now was making sure that the Imperial Prince wasn't going to succumb to ether depletion. Jesse would gladly help him, even if the man decided to forcefully extract his ether from him, instead of sitting by his side, waiting as Jesse milked the moment as much as he could, just so that he could indulge himself in feeling that large presence in his otherwise empty, sightly world.

And after that?

After that, they could go their separate ways.

“You should be all good now,” Jesse softly confirmed.

They didn't need to be so close. Jesse was already content meeting up for their spontaneous "duels", sitting across from the other prince, separated by a small table, chess pieces clacking on the board before them.

Relationships have never lasted with him.

And that was fine, Jesse smiled.

Just like that, he heard faint shuffling, before a latch akin to a trapdoor of some kind unlocked above him in the confessional, and before he knew it, Jesse felt the small, steady flame of the Imperial Prince's world-encompassing presence drift away.

The next day, a cup of tea with a fragrance curiously much different than what he was used to made its way to his table.

"Dandelion tea from his Imperial Highness, Prince Jesse," Benjamin dutifully reported, his hands quick and elegant as he served him. "He sent over quite an abundance."

Jesse blinked. "An abundance of tea… from the Imperial Prince? Have we been bestowed with a national treasure?"

"Your sense of humour is amusing as always, Prince-nim."

Lightly smiling at Benjamin's exasperate but fond tone, Jesse reached carefully towards the tea.

"Please be sure to distribute this gift to everyone else, as well."

"As you wish, Prince Jesse."

Soon enough, Jesse's hands found themselves warmed from the near proximity of his saucer, tips tingling with immense feeling as he brushed them over the porcelain cup.

... Cornelisse loved dandelions.

She often compared them to him, expressing her love excessively towards all things she told him were as yellow and bright and as golden as his hair. 

But the dandelions she held in such high regard were merely plain weeds. They were merely weeds, and yet—

The aroma of dandelions surrounded him, engulfing him whole.

(For a moment, Jesse felt that they, too, could be something so very lovely.)

"Please send my kind regards and gratitude to the Imperial Prince."

"Of course, Prince Jesse. Would you perhaps like to send something in return?"

Jesse paused for a second, contemplative, before a tiny smile helplessly bloomed on his face.

"Lavender tea."

Eyes crinkling delicately at the corners, he relayed his thoughts back to Benjamin.

"I would be very happy if… he could enjoy a cup of lavender tea in his palace, this fine morning. Even if just a little bit. It would be a much more pleasant post-training drink than his usual black coffee."

He didn't have to see the man to know that Benjamin, too, was smiling.

"Of course, Prince Jesse. Our Juliette Palace will send back our finest caddy."

"Thank you, Benjamin."

With a faint chime of the bell on his wrist, Benjamin left with a curt bow, leaving Jesse alone on the balcony of his chamber.

Revelling in the aroma and warmth of the dandelion tea, he felt himself heat up pleasantly from the extremities of his fingers to the very center of his chest, contrasting against the fresh breeze lightly fanning against his cheeks.

Smiling faintly into his teacup, Jesse found solace in the faint sounds of clashing swords resonating from the training grounds between the two palaces, mentally watching over the presence of the tiny sun running up and about so early in the morning as he sparred with the soldiers.

The wind continued ruffling his hair faintly as if he were sunbathing near the cool seaside.

For a moment, Jesse felt himself become just a little more whole.

Chapter Text

“So, have you met your fiancée yet?

Had Jesse been able to, he would’ve noticed the look of complete and utter annoyance that Cédric had sent him upon hearing that much too-imposed question. Cédric had never thought much about the foreign prince's blindness, but just this once, and as petty as it was, Cédric found it incredibly unfortunate that Jesse could only let the most evident of physical social cues fly right over his head.

”—What is the esteemed young lady like? Is she nice? Pretty?” Jesse rattled on, oblivious of Cédric's stance on the matter. “I've heard many rumours about Young Lady Sarnez’s beauty, but I will never be granted the honour of bearing witness to her myself, you see, so I am rather curious.”

Cédric let out a disgruntled little sigh, though if Jesse heard him, the foreign prince showed no sign of noticing.

“Well, if she is being paired with Your Imperial Highness, then I suppose she must be a good person if she is to be dealing with you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

A small grin immediately graced Jesse’s ever-serene expression at the near-immediate response. Upon seeing that expression, Cédric felt a small inexplicable urge to throttle the man sitting across from him, no matter if it would perturb the pieces on the chess board they were currently engaged in a match in. It didn’t help that it was a little infuriating how the other prince was still somehow able to stay focused on their game while simultaneously prattling off about complete and utter nonsense, able to multitask in astonishing ways.

”What I mean, Prince-nim, is that surely her Imperial Majesty would want only the best of spouse candidates for her beloved son."

His explanation was calm and steady, almost as if he had spent a great deal thinking about this subject in careful detail. If he had that much free time to come up with ridiculous thoughts, Cédric considered forcing the other prince to meet with him more often, if only to ensure the man's thoughts would not be further led astray with odd things.

"Young Lady Sarnez hails from a good background and is the beloved daughter of a duke renowned for his loyalty to her Imperial Majesty. She is also said to be reserved and soft-spoken, and due to her introverted nature, she hasn’t been known to cause a ruckus or inconvenience to her surroundings, kind to those of more humble status and anyone she meets. With her background and her personality, it is a relief to know that even if your union may be of a political note, the two of you might become good friends eventually and live a harmonious union. The both of you are also relatively close in age!”

Jesse smiled a pleasant little thing that only made the mild annoyance and exasperation spike further in the pits of Cédric's stomach.

"It sounds rather pleasant—being able to become friends with your political match. I am glad for you, Prince-nim."

A muscle in Cédric’s forehead twitched at that wistful look on Jesse's face, and he found himself frowning. “Do not concern yourself so much with my engagement.”

At his words, Jesse couldn't help but lightly huff. “It is not my fault that the approaching joyous affair has been pretty much the only thing my usual news pamphlet has been talking about. Did you know that the only rise-printed columns available in the capital have tendencies to obsess over anything related to the Empire’s beloved imperial son?"

The closest word one could use to describe Jesse's face at that moment was that he was pouting—an absurd expression to see on someone of his standing, but the more Cédric came to learn about the man, it seemed that Prince Jesse was actually a rather eccentric person underneath all his reserved formalities. It was almost a little shocking to know how far they'd come since their first initial meeting, when the foreign prince was nothing more than a reserved, quiet man.

"Prince-nim, please take responsibility. The gossip has been stale lately because of you.”

… To think that he was actually capable of being quite the cheeky bastard.

“Ridiculous,” Cédric scoffed. It wasn't as if he had a say in what was published in those silly gossip tabloids. The only time that the imperial family intervened in what content was being put out by newspaper houses was a few years ago, when Sarah Belliard dared to bring up speculation regarding Cédric’s poor health. Such a publication had greatly stirred up controversy about bringing in a new potential heir to the family, which had naturally garnered the ire and affront of his parents and godmother at the time, as well as the people, adoring of their country's only prince.

Barely holding back the urge to roll his eyes, Cédric pushed those useless thoughts aside. “Knight, C6,” he murmured after pushing one of his pieces up the board.

“I know that I am ridiculous.” Jesse paused at his signal, feeling around the board before making his move—a Bishop to E3.

"But I truly am excited, Prince Cédric."

At those softly spoken words, Cédric looked up from the board to meet the other prince's aimless purple eyes. They trembled faintly, just as they always did. After spending countless hours in the man's presence, it was inevitable for Cédric to notice the prince's curious eye condition in addition to his blindness.

"... For what?"

"To attend a national wedding, of course." He spoke those words so naturally, Cédric couldn't help but be transfixed by his dreamy excitement. What other expressions could this person make? "It will be a grand thing, will it not? My older sister hasn't even gotten engaged yet, but I know that should the day come when she wishes to get married, the entire kingdom will rejoice and celebrate, with the streets decorated with the colours that she favours, and with Cornelisse making her a beautiful flower crown to match her pretty veil, while I.. will…"

Jesse's words trailed off into silence, expression dimming at the thought of a future royal wedding he might not even be able to attend.

Cédric watched at the golden lashes before those purple eyes fluttered, batting in quick tangents as if they had suddenly grown too heavy to support themselves. He had never seen a wilted sunflower before, but at this moment, it felt as if he had just watched one shrivel right before his very eyes.

The sight annoyed him.

Why did they have to bring up such a troublesome subject during a simple game of chess?

The Venetiaan prince recovered quickly, however, and a gentle smile swiftly made place where it was previously crestfallen.

"... I wish you happiness on your engagement, Prince Cédric. This is truly a joyous affair worthy of celebration."

"Knight, F6," Cédric pointedly announced his next move, ignoring how the muscle near his brow faintly twitched.

"I'm serious." Jesse felt the board again at Cédric's cue, taking note of some pieces' positions, and finally moved his King to D2. "And if ever you need relationship advice, hyung will always be just a minute away in Juliette Palace"

Orange eyes immediately narrowed. "You dare call yourself hyung?"

"—Ahjussi will always be just a minute away in Juliette Palace."

Cédric levelled him with a hard, flat stare. Jesse couldn't see him at all, but the earnest, gentle smile that was perpetually on his face gave off the mocking impression that he somehow could. His cheeky expressions always managed to spur something hot and wild within Cédric, irritating but either way, he couldn't find it in himself to wipe it off the other's face.

Clicking his tongue, Cédric crushed down whatever it was that he was feeling. "... Knight, E4, capturing pawn."

Jesse allowed his piece to be taken before moving his own Knight to claim Cédric's in return. “Become good friends with your fiancée,” he then said, and truly, Cédric wanted to shut him up.

“Do you think of me as the type of person who would mistreat their own fiancé? Dare insult the Imperial Family one more time, Prince.” And before Jesse could even answer, Cédric clicked his tongue, averting his gaze to immediately follow up. Prince Jesse, for all that he couldn't see, always felt as if he could look straight through him, his amethyst eyes gazing far and deep from behind his perpetually closed lids. “I haven’t even met the girl. Whether we will get along well is irrelevant. We both have our duties to accomplish, regardless of feelings.”

“That’s.. a noble, yet sad way of thinking, Prince-nim.”

“Pawn, D5."

The words lingered in the air minutely, simmering in the silence between them before Cédric's brows furrowed deeper, the words still clouding his thoughts even as his fingers left his piece.

"What’s so sad about it?”

“Hmm, well, for one, I don't think your happiness doesn't not matter. And it's nice to get along well with others. Like…”

Jesse's move.

Knight, C3.

Silence.

“Like… you and I.”

Cédric’s hand paused over the board.

The words registered themselves slowly in his head, twisting and turning, all corners examined before he resumed his play, quietly murmuring, “... Pawn, C4, capturing bishop.”

“Would…” Jesse quietly moved one of his Rooks. “Would you consider us friends, Prince Cédric?”

It was silent for another short moment.

Then, the sound of two chess pieces moving.

“... Kingside castling.”

Cédric didn’t answer—didn’t want to or know how to, the words bubbling at the back of his throat tangling themselves in his vocal cords and choking him up. It was such a simple question that needed only a simple answer in return, but for some reason, it felt like the most difficult arithmetic equation had been asked of him to be solved by one of his childhood tutors.

The smile on Jesse's face, however, as pretty and infuriating as it was, made it seem like he understood everything he needed to without anything having to be said. The sight of it was enough to gently hush away the calamity brewing within Cédric like a blazing forest fire with a single quirk of those pink petal lips.

His soft smile, the slight crinkle near his eyes, the dip of his golden lashes casting over amethyst eyes, perpetually trembling—an unnamed condition making his pupils seem as if they were always dancing, swaying back and forth to a tune none other than the prince himself would know.

Cédric couldn’t find it in himself to tear his eyes away.

(He lost that chess game in the end, as always. Rook to B7, cornering Cédric’s King. He was never really able to understand how Jesse was so good at chess.)

“Please relay my greetings to your fiancée, whenever you meet her,” the foreign prince said before he stood up to leave, needing to go back to attending the confessions of penitents for the rest of the day. His gentle smile never once left his face, lingering even in the whips of memory left behind in Cédric’s head.

The thought of getting engaged to a woman he had never even been acquainted with beforehand felt a little sour, now.

Cédric didn't know what to think of it.

A duty was a duty.

He needed the Sarnez Family’s Blessing of the Azure Ocean, and the addition of him acquiring a Political Companion in the process was merely hitting two birds with one stone. Both he and the Sarnez ducal princess would benefit from such a union, and Cédric wasn't raised so poorly as to act discourteously towards any noblewoman set to meet him in political matrimony.

He always knew he was going to have to marry for the sake of the throne, of his duty and Imperial bloodline. Being a prince didn't exactly offer one the luxury of love, but Cédric's parents and the ruling couple before them had always had unions based upon mutual favourable feelings, with his own parents pretty much eloping and making out for themselves a love story well-known throughout the Empire—so if Cédric ever were to fall in love, surely his parents and his godmother would encourage his feelings if possible.

His father, in particular, has always wished for him to be happy, and that his marriage would be an affair that would've been just as equally happily arranged. Alexandre Riester, formerly from the household of Blanquer, had been disowned by his own family for marrying the Empress against their blessings, after all. And yet, Alexandre not once showed a sliver of regret for marrying the one he loved, and who loved him back just as, if not even more fiercely.

And after Prince Consort Alexandre dared attempt to meet with the Almighty God to discuss Cédric's fate—losing a significant amount of his vision in the process for having caught a glimpse of Her celestial body—Alexandre would always smile at him cryptically with newfound relief, as if having obtained divine revelation at the cost of nearly losing his life, and say,

'One day, Sadie, you will meet part of your soul, and they will feel as if they have been waiting for you their entire life—just as you have them.'

That was love, according to his father.

But Cédric didn't know what love felt like. The fierce love of Emperor Romero, the one that caused him to wage war in madness across the continent following his lover's betrayal. The romantic kind, the one that was deeply and profoundly shared between his parents and Aurélie; the one that made his imperial grandfather Stanislas leave the palace, if only because a place full of memories of the former deceased Empress Céline made it unbearable for him to remain. The kind of love that would make pain bearable, love that made separation excruciating, love that made your soul feel complete.

Complete like… Like the pure ether running through his every extremity, soothing the cracked plate of his soul.

The seat before him was now empty, but Cédric could still feel that guy's bright presence engulfing him whole, spreading warmth throughout his every vein, pulsing with every step the prince took further away from him.

Blinking once, it was only then that Cédric realized what the prince had just done to him.

The sneaky little thing—passing him ether knowing that Cédric wouldn't refuse, subconsciously or not.

(Brilliant golden hair and dancing amethyst eyes. Soft laughter and a gentle voice. A soothing presence that he wouldn't mind feeling for a long, long time.)

(Something within Cédric burned.)

"Wait."

Jesse's steps abruptly halted at the call of Cédric's voice, before he tentatively turned around, gently letting go of Benjamin's guiding arm.

"Prince Cédric..?"

Standing up from the table where their chessboard still remained, Cédric made his way over to where Jesse was about to enter his carriage to return to the temple. The old servant beside him seemed to have quickly gotten the memo that Cédric was going to prolong their talk, and quietly stepped aside to give them a semblance of privacy.

In the middle of the gardens, they stood before each other; toe to toe, face to face. There was no table between them, no chess board, no excuse for meeting other than Cédric's own impulsive desires and turbulent thoughts, and the impulsivity made him want to burst.

"You…"

Up close like this, even if the Royal Prince was nearly half a head shorter than him, Cédric could tell he was pleasing to the eye. Prince Jesse Venetiaan had always been renowned for his gentle beauty, and now he could say for himself that the man was indeed almost otherworldly. Cédric felt as if he was going crazy looking at him, drowning in the presence of his pure and noble ether, basking in the sound of his pleasant voice, becoming addicted with every passing second.

The words he wanted to say caught in Cédric's throat.

"If you wish to meet my fiancée,"

Blond lashes fluttered at the unexpected words, and the look of curious anticipation made something complicated squeeze in Cédric's chest.

"—I will introduce you at the Spring Ball."

"... Really?"

"You dare to question the sincerity of the Imperial Family?"

Jesse blinked rapidly at those words, face slightly contorting as if he wanted to sigh in exasperation at Cédric's face, but only held himself through the sheer force of will and his own manners. In the end, however, it seemed he lost whatever internal battle he was up against in his head, breath helplessly pooling out into small chuckles.

"Thank you very much, Prince Cédric. I will be sure to attend with your kind invitation."

It felt as if a thousand knots had been loosened from Cédric's chest, unravelling with each of Jesse's chuckles, disappearing completely with only the sight of his pure smile.

"How could I not, after being threatened by Imperial law? As a diplomatic hostage, I feel it would be difficult if, on top of everything, I ended up imprisoned just for doubting Prince-nim's honesty."

… Nevermind.

What a menace, this man was.

Whatever expression had previously been on Cédric's face immediately fell, and without even thinking, he reached out to pinch the Royal Prince's soft cheek.

The touch as such was already electrifying. He couldn't imagine how it would have felt had he not been wearing his gloves, magical tools keeping his fire in check. He felt tempted to pull harder, for a second, but his dignity as a swordsman would have shrivelled at the thought of hurting such a defenceless priest, and as an Imperial descendant of the Sun, he had his own honour to maintain.

"That hurt," Jesse lied, and Cédric knew for a fact that the man was lying because of the wide smile still present on his delicate face, cheek sheepishly being rubbed with slender fingers as if to soothe nonexistent pain. "Prince Cédric, I thought that you would've learnt how to take jokes by now, but it seems I was mistaken. Should I start making more of them so that you may acclimatize?"

"You're ridiculous."

"Ah, I know that I am ridiculous, you've told me that plenty of times before—"

A strangled little sound escaped Jesse's lips just then, right as Cédric slowly reached out towards his sleeve. Cédric had barely even grazed Jesse's arm when the man's form shuddered with a full-body twitch, so violent it was a little startling, as if he had not once ever fathomed the possibility of anyone other than his attendants—of Cédric—ever touching him, the thought so impossible he never could have imagined it.

It occurred to Cédric just then that it was probably unwise to suddenly reach out to touch someone who was blind and thus couldn't see and expect such advances. His godmother had sagely advised him of such a while back over tea, once she found out the two princes had been meeting up more frequently. Both his father, but mostly Aurélie, still took it upon themselves to drill it into him that to treat a blind man the same as one would any other was less than desirable, gently reminding him that the foreign prince would need—not special treatment, no, because that would most definitely irk him—but considerate treatment; thoughtful but not coddling.

No one wanted to feel as if others were treating them like glass, or worse, if they were inadequate in some way. Cédric, of all people, could understand that sort of feeling, having been subjected to unappreciated and overbearing—though well-intentioned—attention when he was a sickly child. The feeling of being coddled to the point of suffocation was one that Cédric had grown up with, unintentionally made to feel helpless and incapable when he wanted to be anything but.

Only now just recalling her advice, distantly, Cédric could see Aurélie's disapproving face appear at the back of his mind, shaking her head at him while his mother cackles at him by her side. His father, at the very least, would be more sympathetic, though he had always been a little peculiar after meeting with the Almighty God, and would probably be smiling at him in a mysterious, vague way, had he been watching this scene.

Quietly, Cédric apologized under his breath, the words stiff and unusual on his Imperial tongue that lowered to none but his own elders. Jesse's tense form halted for a split second, before his shoulders loosened, so very slightly that Cédric had barely noticed it, if only because he was so intently watching Jesse's every move.

Looking into wide eyes, marked by the surprised raise of delicate brows, Cédric waited for a second to see if the other prince would reject him, only for a short moment to pass without Jesse inching away—a silent approval of his touch.

Carefully stepping up to where he could walk side by side with Jesse, Cédric lifted his arm so that he could guide the prince's hand around it to grab.

The look of astonished, perplexed surprise was a gratifying reward. He could feel the Venetiaan Prince faintly trembling from where their arms were connected, as if every additional second of prolonged contact between them was provoking thunder and lightning to scatter into his veins. The rapid fluttering of his lashes only served to further illustrate how absurd of a situation Jesse found this current moment, as if he couldn't wrap his head around the fact that such a scenario was now playing out—as if it was odd, perhaps, that Cédric Riester was capable of treating him delicately in any way.

It occurred to Cédric in an odd, startling way that he wanted to do that more often. To treat this man delicately, if only it meant he could continue feeling this way— whole.

Perhaps in that same way his father said he would one day feel, without fail. Whole and entire and complete, just like his parents were together and with Aurélie, a special relationship that only the three of them would fully understand the depths of.

"I will escort you back to the temple."

"... Yes?"

"During that time," Cédric spoke, voice low and tentative. "You can continue telling me your jokes, since you seemed so keen on my 'acclimatization'."

"........... Huh?"

Jesse was so flustered that his face had turned bright pink. It pleased Cédric to see Jesse so stunned, and he couldn't help but smirk—the expression so mean and ill-fitting on his face it made his attendant, David, quickly look away in a cold sweat, sharing incredulous looks with Benjamin as the two princes walked towards Jesse's awaiting carriage.

"Do not trip."

"Don't walk so— quickly! Is this how you treat the blind?"

"... You have short legs."

A hand impulsively shot up, only to smack into the side of Cédric's face before clumsily reaching the top of his head, brushing against wavy dark hair to measure his height.

Jesse's face was bright red when he finally hastily retracted his hand, so abruptly it was as if he had been scalded. Frustrated, flustered too, perhaps, for daring to lay his hands so brazenly on the other prince's imperial body—so many scattered emotions he hadn't ever felt in his life.

".......... Pardon me. It's a little unfair how tall you are. Had I been able to see you, I don't doubt your height would drive me away at first sight."

He was truly a ridiculous man. In no way could Jesse Venetiaan himself be called short in any way, though his slender form made him look delicate compared to the inches and muscles that Cédric had over him. If anything, Jesse should be more aware of their difference in muscle mass rather than height. Cédric had the urge to flex the bicep that Jesse was holding onto for guidance, but the mocking laughter of his mother lingering in his head reeled his impulsive thoughts back. It would be unbefitting for the Empire’s only heir to behave in the manner of a child.

"..... Hey, tell me this… Could it be, perhaps, that I am just short..?"

For a second, Cédric contemplated lying, but that would have been unfair.

"... Barely taller than average."

It then occurred to Cédric that the other man possibly didn't even have a proper concept of "short" or "tall", when all he could ever have known about it was his own self as reference.

Perhaps everything felt 'large' to a blind man, though Cédric would never know. If he were to close his eyes and navigate the world without having to rely on his sight, Cédric would definitely gain the impression that the world was large—but to attempt to place himself in Jesse's shoes to try and fully understand his point of view was difficult. Being completely blind apparently wasn't the same as a sighted person closing their eyes.

According to his father, who had lost a significant portion of his sight that fateful day and who had consulted with many doctors and other blind individuals, it was in the similar vein as attempting to see out of your elbow; you just couldn't—an unfathomable concept. After all, how could you even begin to understand something when it had never even existed in the first place?

Remembering his father and his own predicament, and how his mother always patiently walked with her consort, guiding him like a steady flame, Cédric slowed his steps a little, now feeling a sense of duty to be a little more considerate towards Jesse.

Jesse, on his part, hummed, a little surprised and a little pleased at the revelation. "I have to reevaluate my whole worldview now—this is important information, you see. Will Young Lady Sarnez be alright? How tall is she, compared to Prince-nim?"

Cédric fell quiet for a bit at the mention of his future possible fiancée's name, before he huffed.

"... At the Spring Ball, we shall see."

Cédric ignored Jesse when the foreign prince mentioned flippantly that he wouldn't be able to, pretending not to feel the quivering of Jesse's laughter from where they were connected by the elbows.

The Venetiaan prince’s sense of humour was, as always, an odd and surprisingly crude little thing.

The ride to the Temple was surprisingly rather pleasant.

Jesse never would have imagined the day where he'd find intrigue and comfort in the presence of the opposing country's prince. The course of events that had led up to their unlikely relationship almost seemed to blur with how unfathomable of a notion it should have been—and yet, there they were.

Jesse Venetiaan didn't have many friends. And even less so, friends whose bond hadn't been forged underneath the desperation of wanting to escape the Prince Consort's thumb, mutually beneficial in every way.

And so Jesse could only conclude one thing:

Cédric Riester, for all that his attitude might have issues, was a kind man.

There wasn't a reason in all the lands that Jesse could use to explain why the Riestan prince seemed to be so taken with a mere diplomatic hostage, other than his use as a recently awakened Holy Priest. Cédric could simply discard him after having replenished himself on ether, but for a reason unfathomable to Jesse, the man decided to stick around.

It was hard to understand why—Jesse wasn't a particularly fun person.

It was annoying, trying to think about it. Jesse would almost rather Cédric view him as an etheric replenishing tool, just so that he wouldn't have to deal with all these complicated emotions. But Jesse has grown rather greedy these past few weeks, and the part of his soul that called out to Cédric's only grew stronger each day.

This precious, noble person sitting before him—Jesse could only wish him happiness, and especially so, now that rumours of the prince's future engagement to the recently awakened Young Lady Sarnez were starting to run rampant.

Marriage had always been something fascinating to Jesse, who had always been on the receiving end of unconditional love and affection that he had always doubted, never comprehending. He’d always found difficulty in understanding how a person such as he could garner such pure attention. He has experienced firsthand how a marriage had panned out; a courteous yet distant wife who had already given her heart, and a husband who was toxically desperate for her recognition. Affection poured in all the wrong places, leading to an unhappy political marriage and a bastard son who was so out of place.

"Prince Jesse," Benjamin spoke once Cédric had carefully helped Jesse off the carriage. "Her Grace, Duchess Isabelle de Sarnez officially requested an audience with you while you were away."

Duchess Isabelle… de Sarnez?

What a coincidence, Jesse couldn't help but think, especially when, after his usual training session with Cardinal Boutier, he spent the rest of his morning and lunch break 'duelling' with His Highness, Prince Cédric, prodding him about his engagement.

Hand still holding Cédric's as he stepped off the carriage, Jesse tried searching the other's touch for any sort of reaction. Typical of someone as stoic as Cédric, there was none as far as Jesse could tell.

"—Since your schedule for the whole day was full, however, I told Duchess Sarnez that it would be difficult to speak with you at the current moment."

Jesse nodded thoughtfully. Ah, well… It was a bit of a shame. It would have been interesting to talk to the mother of the person Prince Cédric was going to marry. Perhaps the young lady herself would have accompanied her as well, though the reason for Duchess Sarnez's request to speak to him was what intrigued him the most.

Why would the esteemed Duchess of Sarnez want to speak to a mere political hostage such as him? Did she have something to confess to him as a penitent? The family of Prince Cédric's future fiancée's family was rather peculiar. And while he was minorly disappointed by having to deal with his unquenched curiosity, Jesse only thought it natural that he would end up meeting them at the Spring Ball, where dozens of noble families would be gathering up to attend. If Duchess Sarnez had anything to say, she could probably find him hanging around one of the ballroom walls.

He nodded to himself. Meeting Young Lady Christelle de Sarnez, as well, would have to be postponed until then. A patient who had only just recently recovered from an unknown ailment after three whole years would surely not be running around freely at the moment, after all.

"Good luck, Prince Jesse," Ganael and Benjamin wished him well before leaving to wait in the priests' office until his work was done, once they had greeted Prince Cédric, as well.

Ah, no matter. Right now he should only be concerning himself with the troubles of penitents.

Turning to the warmth by his side, Jesse lightly tilted his head.

"Prince Cédric, will you be…"

A small flicker of light appeared out of the corner of his eye, however, disrupting his train of thought.

… Huh?

Jesse had only ever felt such a presence near the Imperial Prince, with his all-encompassing fire that swallowed Jesse entire and whole—and yet a near-identical thing was now gradually approaching him, growing larger and larger and oh-so overwhelmingly similar to His Highness and yet completely different at the same time.

The flame of Cédric's presence by his side felt all too hot—the other, all too cold.

Together, and all too closely, it felt so perfect.

—Who is that?

It was so fundamentally different in nearly every aspect, yet not any different at all. A shade completely unlike that of Cédric's blazing presence, a colour he would never be able to name in his life because colours had simply never existed for him until just very recently. Colour wasn't a feeling, but in a sense it was all Jesse could ever know it as, and the one before him felt cool against his skin, refreshing and soothing as it washed over him like an approaching wave.

The faint shuffling of cloth and the echoing of steps against the temple’s marble flooring soon approached, and Jesse felt as if he was drowning in this cool presence—floating in the middle of the ocean that Elise once told him was vast, deep, and blue.

Blue.

This person, whoever they were—They felt like what his sisters had told him was, and how he would imagine blue to be; like oceans and tides, like grand icy glaciers in the high north, like the vast limitless sky that hung above him.

"... You," Cédric's deep voice spoke up warily before him, apparently having stepped forward to place himself between Jesse and the stranger. His presence flared up, forming a wall that only Jesse could see, but even so, it was unable to completely block out the tugging of Jesse's soul that drew him to the person behind it.

"Hello," came a clear and lovely voice of a young woman; mist and dew, snowflakes and rain. "I am Christelle Olivier de Sarnez."

It was perhaps the clearest sound Jesse had ever heard in his entire life.

Standing before him, she felt large—when had Jesse last been to the ocean?

Was it when Mother was still healthy and decided to escape the castle to bring both Elise and him to the coastal shore? Or had it been the short apology trips that Elise had whisked him away to after finding out all the atrocities her father had let happen under his nose without her knowing, and the many others that followed?

Perhaps it had been that one time Jesse had stepped into the water, listening to the tides draw back and forth, washing over his bare feet as if to comfort him. He remembered basking in that overwhelming yet painfully simple moment, lost in his own mind and the calling of his soul before he had ended up walking too far deep without even knowing—compelled, for a reason unknown to him, towards the direction in which sea breeze flowed, even as the saltwater stung at the cuts behind his calves. He would have let himself drown in the moment had a wave not toppled him over, swallowing him whole until Elise had to fish him out in a concerned panic.

In a fit of wonder, Jesse realized he had always been meant to walk towards this sensation of cool wind and ocean tides, guided to by the warmth of a sun so bright and so warm.

The wave stood before him, wide and wide and so very wide, a large wall that toppled him over with only a single push, squashing him down like a weighted blanket, gravity condensed into a single point, an apple falling directly onto his heart.

Christelle Olivier de Sarnez washed over all the remnant cracks of his soul that he had always known were missing, filling them in like the soldering iron of Cédric Riester's sunset fire.

"I…" he started, the words catching in his throat.

His knees felt heavy—a sensation akin to the eve he once spent kneeling, praying and praying the same desperate words on repeat, not for a moment actually speaking the words that truly needed to be said. But now it felt as if She had gently pried Her divine fingers into his throat, plucking the cords of voice until it sang a tune he could now eternally commit to heart.

There were so many things Jesse could have let escape, flooded with a sense of completion that he had been subconsciously waiting for since the day he could remember.

It’s you?

Is it really you?

I barely know who you are, and yet—

He was struck, then, with a startling but natural realization.

I think I have been waiting for the two of you my entire life.

His soul knew much more than he ever could dream of putting into coherent words. So instead, Jesse says this:

"My lady should take care to not recklessly be revealing her middle name to strangers."

Cédric scoffed at once at those words, and he could hear Young Lady Christelle mutter out a strangled curse unbefitting for someone who the papers mentioned was introverted and reserved. The dichotomy was slightly hilarious in its own right, but who was Jesse to criticize? His own name and image had been slandered dozens of times over in his homeland, a bit of mischaracterization mattered little to him who was intimately aware of the inaccuracies of column writers on the reputations of real people.

Reaching out, Jesse soon found Cédric's arm, and wordlessly asked him to draw back with a light tug.

Though he evidently hesitated, Cédric was quick to reevaluate the situation and determine no more threat of danger. So, with Cédric no longer standing guard before him, he could feel Christelle a little more clearly, hear the hesitant shuffling of her feet and the tugging of her sleeves. Her breath hitched, then, and Jesse realized in that same breath that he had opened the eyes he had opted to keep closed for so long.

"Beautiful," Christelle said, unabashed and without even thinking, as if it only took a single look for her to bestow upon Jesse a compliment he had never once genuinely taken to heart. But for some reason, the way she spoke that tiresome lie of a word made him want to believe, even if just for a second, that Jesse was as beautiful as Christelle's breathless gasp made it out to be.

The sincerity of her voice sent a hot flurry of warmth spread from the center of his briskly mended chest to the whole surface of his face.

"I don't—" Jesse cleared his throat, feeling so flustered for someone who was supposed to be the Paramour of the Venetiaan Kingdom. "I don't believe it is proper for the fiancée of His Imperial Prince-nim to be complimenting other men."

"Fiancée?" Christelle squawked, as if she had just reeled away. "Wait… No. It's this guy?!"

"You do not even know the face of your country’s Imperial prince?" Cédric immediately glowered back, sounding mildly irate.

"Fuck. You're also handsome? What is this…"

The ripples of Cédric's soul quivered at those words, sparking in frizzled ways. "To think that a noble who uses such foul language could be considered as candidate for consort of this Empire..."

"???? Hey, did I ever agree to marry you? Who are you to dictate whatever comes out of my mouth when we've only just met?! I think I'd be better off alone than with someone like you!"

"Acting so treasonously against a member of the Imperial Family—"

In hindsight, Fire and Water naturally made for a terrible mix.

And yet, it only felt so right.

"Ha… Hahaha!"

Jesse couldn't help it, and laughed the loudest he ever had in his entire life.

“—Thank you for visiting, Young Lady Sarnez,” Jesse smiled, noticing just briefly that quite a while had passed since they’d been conversing. “Though I hope we will be able to meet next time outside of my work hours.”

“Then,” Christelle spoke up, not even questioning for what reason and why a prince like Jesse might ever have to feel thankful for someone like her ever visiting. “May I see you again tomorrow when you are not busy? I’ll bring a picnic!”

Cédric scoffed immediately. “Without permission?” 

“Whose permission do I need to get if the person I am visiting is Prince Jesse?!”

“Isn’t the owner of Juliette standing before you?”

“Wow, you’re really so stubborn!!”

“If Prince-nim desires it,” Jesse interjected, his smile never leaving his now grin-sore cheeks, “Then I will be happy to have you over as well for a cup of tea. Having two guests over will make me happy.”

Cédric’s answer remained struck with silence, but from Christelle’s incredulous muttering and the feel of the imperial prince’s contently swaying flames, Jesse knew he had spoken the right bait.

“Then,” he smiled, gently triumphant. “We shall see you tomorrow, Young Lady Christelle.”

The waves of Christelle’s soul brushed against his, curling around him as if not wanting to part. For a second, Jesse had a hunch she knew exactly how he was feeling, and the knowledge that he wasn’t alone anymore in this yearning that had plagued him for so long was shared by another.

“I’ll see you soon, Prince Jesse,” Christelle said sweetly, and he was stunned to feel the strength of her smile just through her voice alone.

It turns out that the Blessing of the Azure Ocean that was supposed to have been delivered to Cédric as a marriage gift had been used by Isabelle de Sarnez in a desperate attempt to help her comatose daughter.

What that meant for Cédric and Christelle's engagement no one could say for sure, but deep down, Ham Ga-in—now Christelle—was relieved. Having just woken up in a brand new world and body, the idea of marriage felt a little too overwhelming at the moment—even more so when she discovered her ability to control water thanks to having absorbed some sort of cheat item.

Christelle wouldn't have faulted Jesse for feeling some level of affront at the fact that a precious divine item had been used in the blink of an eye, but when it had been brought up, it barely phased him despite the man being a priest.

‘The bestowing of the power of water is an authority of the Almighty God, as well as a holy blessing. Madame Sarnez simply prayed for the well-being of her daughter and the Lord responded as such. If I may interject my own opinion…’ Jesse had smiled, when Isabelle had come to find him to confess what she thought was blasphemy. ‘Her Grace has not committed any such sin that the Almighty God cannot forgive.’

(‘Your daughter is not cursed.’)

Though her body's mother did initially seem to think so, Christelle didn't think she was cursed either. But there was something about that special person reaffirming her existence that felt good.

Jesse Venetiaan.

For some reason, Christelle wanted to be around that man.

The moment Ham Ga-in woke up as Christelle de Sarnez, her new appearance and surroundings weren't the only thing out of place. The most gaping thing, in fact, was the incessant tugging at her chest that seemed to draw her towards some unknown place. It didn’t take long for her to piece together that the Blessing of the Azure Ocean did something that changed her on a fundamental level, outside of bestowing her the ability of water.

Christelle could feel it in the way some people looked brighter, while others appeared more dim, like the vague appearances of side characters in a visual novel.

At first, Christelle believed it had something to do with her mother's light green hair, soft and vibrant amidst the brown and neutral shades of their estate's servants. But next to her husband, who had colourful hair that was closer to Christelle's own, it was evident that Isabelle just seemed to appear just a little clearer than anyone else.

It was odd.

Ham Ga-in never had any particularities with her eyesight until now, but even so, when Christelle gazed upon the passersby around the Sarnez estate or at the Imperial palace, it never felt like her vision was blurry in the way one would expect from astigmatism. She could see just fine, both from afar and from up close, but if she stood quiet for a little longer than normal and let her gaze drift, the world would flicker, translucent like smears of thinly coated watercolour, enough to give off solid impressions but never so much that it stood out any more than it needed to.

The world was so different from the urban greys and fluorescent artificial lights of modern-day South Korea—colourful in ways that were mildly similar to storybooks, though there was always a particular direction she was drawn to that just seemed more vivid than others.

So when the doors to the banquet hall of Stroda Palace opened up, Christelle could do nothing but watch as the watercolours that filled her eyes bloomed like sunflowers petals no different from the sun, spreading like mist and dripping from every inch of her vision.

The Blessing of the Azure Ocean wrapped around her heart and tugged, and without even trying, Christelle was immediately able to point out where Prince Jesse was, even amidst all the other guests, with the flame-like being that was His Imperial Highness Cédric being the second next most eye-catching. Suddenly, she wasn’t all that nervous anymore being introduced into Riester high society with a face and name that weren’t truly hers, comforted by the golden whisps and warm embers of two presences that were way too large for something only she seemed to see, the Blessing coating her vision in a divine sheen.

Resting her gaze in Jesse Venetiaan’s direction after she had bowed before the Imperial Family, she felt as if she had just been showered with tulip petals of the most vivid shade of amethyst, washing over her in golden dust as brilliant as his hair and the candlelit chandeliers.

Something, everything, had snapped into place that day, back at the temple.

True to its namesake, the Blessing of the Azure Ocean was no different from a wave. And if such a wave drifted her at the feet of the Venetiaan’s prince’s golden sands, what was Christelle to do but stay? And even if Imperial Prince Cédric had an annoying attitude, he held her hand firmly as they stepped up to face each other for the first dance of the Spring Ball, the warmth seeping through the fabric of his gloves scraping a part of her soul in a peculiar itching way.

They danced well together, she found. Though their eyes often strayed towards Prince Jesse’s direction, they did not forget the attention on them and quickly learned to hold each other’s gazes as per etiquette. There was an almost maddening freezing burn-like sensation between their hands and where their bodies touched, and whether it be the steadily growing orchestra tempo or the continuous rhythm of their movements, heartbeats were quickening regardless. Christelle didn’t know what to make of it, but it was enjoyable in its own odd, exhilarating way.

The world burned brighter when she was near these two princes’ sides, even if one was more annoying than the other.

And in a world where she couldn't even be sure of her own identity, that was enough of a reason for Christelle to stick by the people who made life all the more clearer, like gravity being pulled at axis and poles.

Bowing to her partner at the end of the first song, Christelle almost rolled her eyes when Cédric appeared to have shared the same idea of joining the Venetiaan prince near the sidelines of the ballroom. She couldn't blame him, however, because whether it be the slight nagging of the Blessing of the Azure Ocean or her own volition, the foreign prince’s side was where everything felt the clearest, and his ether, the most soothing.

I wonder, she mused, curiously shooting a look at the raven-haired prince, if His Imperial Highness feels the same way I do, too.

“You,” Cédric spoke first, and though Jesse didn't seem at all startled by the other prince’s sudden presence, Christelle couldn't help but balk at the crudeness of such an abrupt call, lacking in finesse. “Will you not dance?”

It certainly didn't feel like Christelle’s imagination when Cédric momentarily stiffened, as if just then realizing how unfitting of a question he had just asked a blind man. It was nice, however, seeing a streak of awkwardness on the handsome face of such a stoic person who appeared as if he could commit no wrongs, and Christelle wanted very badly to laugh in his face, but held back due to her own sense of awareness and manners, not wanting to be insensitive.

“I would love to,” Jesse smiled, and from the tone of his voice, Christelle knew he had also picked up on Cédric’s fumble and didn't appear slighted by the comment; more amused, than anything. “But alas, I wouldn't be able to see much, and I’ve only learnt Venetiaan-style dances, so I doubt I’d be a good partner should I step on your feet.”

“....................”

Jesse gasped lightly, as if having realized something. His face was sparkling with such a cute amount of mischief that it made Christelle want to snicker. “Do you think I’d be able to dance with my cane?” he said, as if Cédric and Christelle weren’t fully aware that the nature of Riestan ballroom dances meant that a partner was sufficient enough of a support.

“—I will lead,” Cédric immediately jumped at an opportunity to correct himself, looking almost pained by what was no doubt teasing.

Christelle clicked her tongue. “Oh, how stubborn. Just admit you were wrong…”

“Anyone could dance if given a good partner,” Cédric glared in rebuke, and from the way he said it, it almost felt like it could pass as a direct jab at Christelle. Though her body seemed to naturally come with a rather decent skill set of ballroom dance moves, partnering with Cédric was enough to notice the small disparities in their abilities. Though she only had a few days to really practice, it was still annoying that this imperial prince might be alluding to her being bad at it!

Christelle bristled. “Prince Jesse, if you’re uncomfortable, I will report this man to the authorities.”

“Are you crazy? What authorities will dare to—”

“But! If you are comfortable,” she paused, before cheekily taking the chair nearest to him, inching herself closer to his side. “I will be a better dance partner than this guy.”

The offended look on Cédric’s face lit up like a forest fire, and Christelle was in no way dousing the flames.

Prince Jesse had chuckled before politely declining both of their dance offers. And after one thing led to another, soon enough things led to Christelle piling food onto all their plates, taste-testing any snack and dessert she could get her hands on. She made sure to feed the ones she liked best to Jesse, and the ones she didn't appreciate as much were placed on Cédric’s plate, and she dutifully ignored the irate glare that combusted on his face once he had caught on to what she had been doing. Naturally, another verbal fight began once his realization had kicked in, though it wasn't actually as hostile as it might have felt, a type of bickering that felt more enjoyable than actually irritating.

All around them, Christelle could pick up on the sneaky glances being thrown their way and the small mutters. There was no way she could blame them, now that she thought about it—the Imperial prince, the Spring Ball’s main character of the night, and the foreign Venetiaan prince-now-diplomatic hostage, huddled together on the sidelines squabbling like children who had known each other for more than just a few weeks or days, monopolizing the food tables like seasoned gourmet critics instead of taking to the dance floor.

Perhaps it would have been wiser for Christelle to go about and properly socialize, but she couldn't find herself to part from the gravitational force that was Jesse Venetiaan. Imperial Prince Cédric Riester didn’t indicate any desire to leave, either, and Christelle continued to wonder if he was sharing the same pull that she was, drunk on that special unknown something alongside Jesse’s pure ether.

Ah… she knew that this year’s Spring Ball was supposed to be Christelle de Sarnez’s high society debut, but right there and then, in this very instance, she couldn't find it in herself to care. A whole little bubble of brightly painted colours that Christelle could hold in her arms if she chose to so much as reach; the Blessing of the Azure Ocean around her heart thrummed contently in the presence of the odd two people who seemed to satiate it at once, resonating with her in ways she could only wonder was mutual. These two individuals were the most important people here, both Cédric and her gravitating around Prince Jesse—the closest existence to a protagonist in this fantasy novel-like world, the center of the world.

Standing by his side was one of the very few things that made Ham Ga-in’s presence in this world make sense, sharpening reality with a sense of clarity even she couldn’t quite understand.

Laughing at something she had said, Christelle caught sight of Jesse’s famed purple eyes that had squinted carelessly with mirth, peaking through the golden curtains of his fringe.

For the life of her, Christelle didn’t have a real clue as to why he would ever choose to wear his hair in such a manner, brushing over his lashes and habitually keeping his eyes closed. He had once mentioned that he had zero sensitivity to light, it appeared, so she wondered if it was for protection against the UV rays of the sun. Prior to the Spring Ball, Christelle had always found him walking through the gardens with his attendants carrying a parasol, especially on the days when it had been too sunny.

When was Prince-nim's birthday again? she wondered briefly. Christelle would buy him the best pair of sunglasses she could get her hands on, what with being a duke’s daughter with plentiful pockets. And if sunglasses didn't exist yet in this universe’s unique time period, Christelle would take it upon herself to find the best artisan in the city to make him a parasol the same colour as his brilliant eyes and maybe even find a magician to coat it with some sort of sun-repellant. Honestly, she’d use any resources and her modern knowledge to help pitch the idea of glasses that could protect the prince’s eyes from the sunlight, if that was something that bothered him.

He has pretty eyes, Christelle reasoned naturally, and she wouldn't want any part of this precious existence to be harmed.

“—Oh my. Young Lady Christelle, did you taste this one yet? It’s really good.”

“Too sweet,” immediately came Cédric and his furrowed-brow, disapproving input.

“Ah, Prince-nim, then try this one instead, I found it a little more bitter.”

Neither Christelle nor Cédric would know if Jesse had purposefully picked up one of the sweeter desserts on his plate or if he had mistakenly chosen the wrong one, but Cédric swallowed it down either way without pointing it out, grunting out a vague enough sound instead of any other plausible form of expression.

Taking a bite out of the snack she hadn’t-a-clue-what-its-name-was that Jesse recommended, Christelle soon lost herself in the taste.

It was soft and light and so very sweet, creamy on her tongue and easy on the taste buds.

Christelle had to wonder if it was the dessert that she was tasting that affected her mood, or the pleased flow of Prince Jesse’s ether as he took in all their reviews.

He didn’t eat much, she noted, and it crossed her mind as Jesse’s fingers brushed gently across his plate that it was probably troublesome for him to pick out what to taste when he couldn't even see the menu—not to mention, risk the possibility of his skin getting messy, or knocking something over. He looked so happy, however, hearing them voice their appreciation or displeasure of the various appetizers, and enjoyed it even more when Christelle carefully directed anything she thought he would like into his hand, face blooming with a small curl of a smile, and satisfaction making his fine lashes flutter.

“Not to say that I haven’t been enjoying your generous company,” Jesse softly spoke up at some point, slowly, as if behind that smile of his he was hiding something more solemn than the bright existence that he was. “But I do feel a bit guilty if both Prince-nim and Young Lady Sarnez are missing out on experiencing the rest of the Spring Ball on my behalf.”

Peaking over in Cédric’s direction, she could spot the Riestan prince briefly glancing over to where his parents and godmother were enjoying the Spring Ball from the high end of the hall. Empress Frédérique was casually chatting with Cardinal Aurélie over glasses of red wine, and while observing them from a distance, Christelle was slightly taken aback to notice Prince Consort Alexandre’s deep blue gaze catching her line of sight.

Before she could hastily bow her head in greeting, Christelle paused shortly after sorting through her startle, curiously noting with an odd sort of inexplicable feeling that the Prince Consort seemed to rather be staring through them, rather than at them. From the sight of the cane with the beautifully carved pommel, Christelle remembered just then that His Majesty was also partially blind. Though Cédric was a bit of a bastard, he never once treated Jesse too roughly, and she had to wonder if his special kind of attentiveness, whenever he escorted Jesse by the arm, was a byproduct of growing up watching his parents.

A gentle smile was curled across said father’s lips the longer she found herself staring, rendering his beauty even grander that was clear to her even despite the distance between them. He looked happy in a way that Christelle didn’t know how to interpret, as if thousands of knee-bruising prayers to the Almighty God had just been answered in this single evening, relief painting him to the point where it looked like his foggy eyes could have been glossed over with tears, dripping with reverent delight.

What could drive someone to look like that? Christelle wondered, half in awe, half in befuddlement, because never in her life had she seen a person take on such an expression.

Cédric, however, seemed to have perfectly understood what his father’s smile was meant to be conveying, and all at once it appeared that he crumbled, a tower of ashes chipping away to soften into a docile candle flame right before her very eyes, in a way she never even imagined he could ever do.

“... It’s fine,” he said in response to Jesse’s worries, curt and quiet and yet so firm, following with nothing else as if those two words alone were enough to convey that, if there was anywhere he needed to be in the world, it was right here.

Briefly, he met her eyes.

And briefly, Christelle felt a clear stream of realization sweep over her, a shared understanding.

… He knows.

She was certain, just then, that they were feeling the same odd little clarity that came with facing the moon.

Ham Ga-in thought back to fathers who were no different than trash, mothers who soon took up bags and never came back, and older sisters who sacrificed their youth for younger siblings, leaving behind notes that talked of finally chasing after overdue happiness—a perfect ending that had no place for another stray factor.

A shitty childhood and shitty company and shitty existence flashed before her eyes; the gesso to a blank canvas, now prepped and stretched and stapled and primed, so much work having been put into a battered being before finally being allowed to start anew.

Ga-in didn’t contact her sister ever since she left abroad to marry her foreign husband. Her only hill and rock, who Ga-in never had a chance to repay for all that she's done, her older sister who loved her despite all the pain that came with raising such a mean, difficult child.

If my unnie were here…

"It's no trouble for me, either," Christelle found herself saying in agreement with Cédric.

Her body's parents were dancing to the next song of the chambre orchestra, and she didn't have to look to know that they were sending curious glances in her direction. The duke looked a little pleased, however, seeing her mingle so closely with the Imperial Prince who would have been her fiancé under different circumstances—but Christelle wasn't talking to these people for the sake of network socializing.

Thinking back to one distant summer that had been marked by a single note, Ga-in wondered what her sister felt, writing that letter; why she had flown away across continents to follow her happiness in Germany, not even an ocean away and yet so very far, if there was anything else she wanted to say but couldn't put into written words.

"Ah, well…” Jesse murmured almost awkwardly, soft and stunned but undeniably pleased. His expression was slightly defeated, as if there wasn't any other way he could think of to get rid of them for the remainder of the night and he resigned himself to indulging them. “If you say so."

“I’m a very fun person to be around, you know? I’ll keep the Prince-nim company~”

“Haha, thank you, Young Lady Christelle.”

Jesse’s laughter was sweet and light, as inviting as his demeanour and as all-encompassing as the feel of his ether.

Unnie, just as you did…

There wasn't a force on earth that could have torn Christelle away from the sweet invitation of the Venetiaan prince's gently curled smile, sheepish and clumsy and absolutely perfect. And though she still had many doubts about her own existence in this fantasy world where she was occupying a body that wasn’t even hers, Christelle found her mind settled just by being near this person’s side; glue binding together all the doubts that she consisted of.

… I hope that

I’ll be able to find purpose,

here, in this new,

far away land.

Fighting futilely against tides her entire life, Ham Ga-in finally found herself gently washed ashore, dreaming of a letter and a response never sent.

There are people who seek out a new family. They seek them out somewhere more peaceful and relaxing than their own home.

('My dear little sister,

I know that one day, you will find

your own happy ending, too.')

“So,” Alexandre asked him, a soft glow in his eyes. “How was it?”

“.. Father.”

Once the visitors had started excusing themselves to the guest bedrooms in Stroda Palace or had taken their carriages back to their home estates, Cédric himself found himself joining the rest of the nobles in bidding an end to the night.

The Venetiaan prince and the Sarnez ducal princess were some of the last to go, actually. Though before that, at some point during the ball, Christelle had even scooped up a few more plates of food before dragging them over to one of the terraces, ordering for some chairs to be placed so that they could continue talking without having to concern themselves with any more wandering eyes.

It was a rather intuitive move, as Jesse seemed to feel more comfortable on terraces where the evening wind could softly brush through his hair, looking more at home under the moonlight glow than anyone else. One could only wonder how many of the parties he had actually taken to spending the rest of the time on balconies, showing his face just enough so that gossip columns could pick up on his trail before disappearing behind curtains. And having gotten to know him fairly well by now, it wouldn’t be surprising if it were many, if not most.

And before he knew it, he was seeing Christelle de Sarnez out as she left off with her parents, and bidding Jesse goodnight after several hours. Vaguely, he realized he would have ended up escorting the Venetiaan prince to Juliette Palace, had his father not found him before he sent Jesse off with his attendants.

“Where is your guide cane?” Cédric immediately noticed, stepping by his father’s side to escort him by the arm, much like his mother frequently did—a routine he just then realized he had taken to mirroring with the neighbouring prince.

“Why would I need it on a fine night such as this? I have my cute son by my side to be my eyes.”

“... Do not tease.”

His father laughed, gentle in a way that reminded him of Jesse’s, whenever he sought to tease him.

“So,” Alexandre hummed, his blue eyes resting upon him in that all-knowing familiar way. “Was it anything how I told you it would be?”

Yes, Cédric's heart immediately voiced. The pure and plentiful ether running through his veins that had been wafting around him through the entire evening made him feel lively, betraying none of the exhaustion any other person might have felt after such a long party. And I think I understand what you meant.

None of this ended up being said aloud, however, because though Cédric Riester had been in the lands of the Rising Moon for twenty-four years, three-quarters of his childhood had been spent asleep, and words have never come easy to him even after all this time. But Alexandre has always known him the best, and from the gentle curl of his lips, Cédric knew that his father would understand him, words or not, ever so in-tune with his soul as if that day twelve years ago had allowed him to gain clarity on his son’s entire soul and being.

“You have always longed for Her mercy,” Alexandre softly murmured, reaching out with half-blind eyes to run his fingers through Cédric’s hair. His sight came better to him in the dark, but even so, Alexandre never failed to find him—his son always leaning in. “There has never been anything wrong with you, Sadie. You’ve only ever just been waiting.”

(‘Waiting for what?’ a younger Cédric once would have grumbled, the vagueness of his father’s revelations too cryptic for a child to understand.)

I have, Cédric quietly agreed, standing beneath the subtle shine of the Moon, finally having experienced its glowing revelation.

And just like they said they would, the three of them meet up the next day.

And the next…

And the next.

Jesse wondered if they would still flock to him, in another world where he didn’t have any ether.

He wondered if they would still even be friends.

Sitting in the gardens between Romero and Juliette and eating lunch with Cédric and Christelle, taking strolls on palace grounds, inviting an orchestra and listening to music for a whole afternoon… Jesse couldn’t imagine being a different version of himself that wasn’t constantly by these two precious being’s side—more of a friend, than a diplomatic hostage.

Otherworldly and full of life as they were, would they have run around the continent chasing adventures and solving territory problems, leaving him behind in the Cold Palace that was Juliette? Would they see the world and take in its vastness with comfortable silence, not having to describe any of its vast splendour to the him who could see none of it?

Would Christelle de Sarnez still be the recipient of the Blessing of the Azure Ocean who was as free as an oceanside breeze? Would Cédric Riester still be a Holy Knight, wielding the brilliant black blade that was the Sword of Wisdom and appeased of his cracked plate?

In his dreams, Jesse doesn’t quite understand what occurs, but he falls asleep to the sound of almost mechanical tapping, before his head gets filled with several different versions of the people around him in just as many different lives.

Three women watch over him as he observes these different stories, threads and threads of string pooling around them in a wide open slate of never-ending white, so blinding though not once did it ever hurt his eyes.

Jesse’s footsteps leave marks like graphite as he walks on the groundless floor, and they stare as he goes, watchful, as if reading his every movement like a cautionary tale. Their figures are elderly and frail and youthful and strong at the same time, imposing in this space where reality works under its own special will—Jesse is sure that should he actually walk up to one of them, they might actually appear very tall or very small, contrary to any human perception.

‘Oh…’ he says aloud, stopping at one of the visions on the ground like a mirage. In the distance, the three women never stop sorting out their threads. ‘I think I died in that universe.’

His abdomen hurts, as if he had been impaled right through by a mournful spear, ears ringing as though someone was wailing his name like a shriek in the distance. Still, no answer comes to him despite his various aloud comments, but the eyes perpetually on him are almost as omnipotent as the Moon herself.

‘And here,’ Jesse gasps quietly, moving on to the next scene with gently squinted eyes. ‘Haha, I’m glad that he took good care of my body in that world. ■■-ssi, thank you for keeping your promise, but… it would have been fine if you chose your own happiness, too.’

He looks over to the three sisters.

‘Did ■■-ssi give you a hard time?’

They do not answer as always, mouths stubbornly sewn shut. Jesse chuckles, because in some way, they look like they’ve been reprimanded and have long learned to keep their tongues. There is a story behind their silence, one that he doesn't know.

Sighing, Jesse sits—or he floats, or he kneels, or he stands. It’s hard to tell, in this vast emptiness where there is no ceiling, wall, or floor, only a stretch of paper-white space. Outside of the Interstellar, Jesse Venetiaan would not know to make such a comparison, but here, he is merely a concept, written words come to life under Her watchful eye and all-powerful hand, and so Jesse Venetiaan does not exist and yet he does all the same, anywhere, everywhere, just for this moment.

And before his eyes, different versions of Ham Ga-in Christelle meet different versions of Cédric Riester, and in each world he sees, he is there and sometimes not, at times not even for that long. A variety of both happy and tragic endings flow through his mind, and Jesse watches them all pass like a slow-flowing river. If there are any universes out there where he never meets them at all, Jesse doesn’t know, but he can think of thousands of different reasons as to how it could have happened.

In most of these hypotheticals, Jesse finds himself wishing he would, regardless.

By his feet, three animal-like creatures with fluffy tails and triangle ears brush against him. He knows not what type of species they are, having never heard anything of their kind ever before, but he can feel their names on the tip of his tongue, beckoning like a distant memory. Yet despite all this innate familiarity, this has only ever been their first meeting, and so he gently runs his hands through their fur, calling their names in a silent voice that speaks little but so much.

‘I don’t think I was ever meant to see this.'

The words fall gently from his lips as he muses to beasts in this deafening quiet, tone peaceful, as if having come to terms with simple facts. It is more of an innate realization, than a question, and the three children's fur is soft as they tickle against the skin of his hands, and it almost feels like comfort.

An overwhelming sense of multiplicity washes over him as this sense of awareness seeps in, stinging his eyes.

It hurts, a bit, but not at all, an omniscient hand as large the Moon lifting over him to brush against his hair, and then—

He blinked.

“Did you have a good dream?” Christelle cheekily grinned, the curl of her lips audible in the upturned cadence of her voice. “Prince-nim looked so peaceful while he was sleeping, I couldn’t dare wake him up~”

“... Young lady Christelle,” Jesse chuckled, stretching up from the picnic blanket laid down near the training fields. It was cool beneath the shades of the tree, and the wind comfortingly swept through his hair, as if beckoning him out of his slumber. “I’m sorry, I didn't mean to sleep on you like that.”

“Do your attendants not get you to bed in time?” Cédric scoffed, but his bark remained mostly unnoticed. These days he was beginning to show more and more of a surprisingly bratty streak, though Jesse never condemned him for that, because it only proved how comfortable the Imperial Prince was able to be in their company. He sounded slightly off-breath, however, and Jesse noted that the two of them had finished sparring. Practicing together was a bit of a norm, these days—at least, until the Holy Knight instructor sent by the Vatican arrived to take over their lessons.

“I had a nice dream,” Jesse mused. “Well, I think it was a nice dream. I don’t think I actually remember it that well.”

“Oh? What a coincidence! I also had a nice dream last night.” Christelle immediately took a seat by his side on the blanket, excited to start any type of conversation with him that she could. Immediately, she jumped into a story with a bright tone, and Jesse felt his fondness for her gently trickle into a comfortable buzz around his heart. “It was a quiet, peaceful evening, and Prince-nim and I were having a lunch date by the sea.”

“Only you and I?” Jesse smiled indulgently.

“Hmph, of course, there was a black pig with orange eyes running around, too.”

Hearing her squawk and a flick of fabric not long after saying that, Jesse could only assume Cédric had thrown a towel in Christelle’s face.

Chuckling, Jesse easily ignored the sounds of their scuffling, long too used to it by now to intervene, knowing that any fight the other two engaged in was never truly serious. “I’m honoured to have been allowed to take such a noble and pretty lady on a dream date.”

“I could look like an ogre, for all you know,” Christelle’s voice smirked, but she sniffed soon after, evidently proud. Cédric made a vague sound of disgust in the distance. “But I am not, hehe. I’m very pretty, I’ll have you know—of course, not as pretty as our Prince-nim~”

“...” It was honestly a wonder how Christelle de Sarnez was still able to make him flustered, even when he should be used to it at this point. Remaining quiet, he could hear her snickering, fully aware of the effect she had on him with her words.

“It’s true, you know. I believe that Prince-nim is the most beautiful man on the continent!”

“That’s a title already taken by Prince Consort Alexandre,” Jesse protested with an involuntary stammer, and the sudden mention of his father’s name made Cédric huff by his side, almost amused.

“Public opinion has no sway on my own," she shot him down. "Prince Jesse, you shouldn’t always believe what your pamphlets say.”

“... The Holy Kingdom’s pamphlets often called me beautiful.”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Christelle scolded him, and something choked up a bit in Jesse’s throat.

Realistically, if Jesse shed off all the layers of trauma Prince Consort Werner had left him with, Jesse knew that he was on some level of good-looking. His many acquaintances back in the Holy Kingdom told him so, and his sisters always sang his compliments.

The only people that outright called him ugly was Werner and his loyal servants, and upon entering the Empire, he had never once heard anyone say anything outwardly negative about his appearance, other than the occasional snide comment from the nobles who did not look kindly upon him being a political hostage from the neighbouring kingdom. The condition of his eyes was also a quiet topic of conversation for the few worse gossipers out there, but Jesse didn’t allow most people to see them, anyway.

“Your Highness,” Christelle complained over to Cédric, who was happy enough to leave them to their own squabbling. “Isn’t Prince-nim beautiful? Ah! But mentioning his ether is cheating, we all know his is the best.”

A long, pensive silence washed over them, and Jesse felt his face burn at the suspense. “Young Lady Christelle—”

“... Eyes.”

Something in Jesse’s head came to a standstill.

“His eyes are the most beautiful.”

All at once, it occurred to him, then, that Cédric Riester was the type of punk that never praised anything or anyone in his life.

Cheeks burning, Jesse remained quiet, falling back onto the blanket as he covered his face. He had no clue what sort of expression might have been fitted across his face, but he knew enough to the point of wishing for the ground to swallow him whole. Thankfully, his two companions also decided to say nothing of his current state of mind, with Christelle humming a triumphant little song that was slightly off-tune, sounding pleased for who-knows-what reason.

“Prince-nim, your birthday is tomorrow, right?”

Jesse blinked, brows lightly furrowing. “... Is tomorrow already the 31st..?”

Christelle snickered, before clearing her throat, her words taking on a more serious tone. “If it’s alright… Can I show you my gift now?” A thud could be heard soon after, followed by Christelle grunting, sounding purplussed beneath quiet grumbling. “Tsk, our gift.”

“... Huh?” Wait. “What? A gift?”

The notion of a gift was something Jesse was never really used to, as most of his, he learnt later in his childhood, had more often than not been redirected to the Royal Family’s vaults. This was all under the pretence that Prince Consort Werner wished to put them away for safekeeping so that his useless blind son wouldn’t lose or act recklessly with anything valuable. Of course, if Elise’s guilty appearances with special trinkets or the occasional rare trips outside the castle were anything to go by, he knew that was just an excuse for the Prince Consort to take most of the gifts that he could for himself.

Dazedly, he allowed Christelle to gently help him up before she carefully led them over to more solid ground, off of the grass and onto garden pathways.

His head felt fuzzy with a sense of surrealism, but it didn’t take long for him to snap out of it, once he noticed the trembling in Christelle’s forearm, buzzing in what felt like a sort of anticipation. A surge of exasperated fondness welled up inside of him, sending a wavering curl to his lips because oh, how silly was this friend of his, being more excited than him to be giving a gift he was supposed to be receiving?

“We’re here,” Cédric grunted, before murmuring something over to who Jesse assumed were attendants.

“I’m putting it in your hands, Prince-nim,” Christelle announced, and once he nodded, she shuffled so that she was standing before him, and guided his hand to something that felt like a thin stick, sturdy and long. It was straight instead of curved, and in the place where his hand was supposed to go, the simple grip gave off the impression that he was wielding a comfortable downward sword, if anything.

“Is this a cane?” he murmured, a bit surprised.

“Yes!” Christelle grinned, before quickly composing herself, as if physically having to reign in her energy. “Um. Ganael once mentioned that you had comments about the walking cane you used, so I went around asking for Marquis Duhem and after talking for a bit since I had a bunch of different ideas running around in my head that you might like and in the end, we managed after a while to come up with different designs and models for you to test out so that you find one that feels the most comfortable to use! Oh, His Imperial Highness even managed to get some technical and creative input from Prince Consort Alexandre!”

Slightly taken aback by her rambling, Jesse dazedly realized he didn’t even know there could be different designs other than the ones he already knew, like the ones were hooked at the handle for his hands to rest, which Cornelisse often compared to giant candy canes; or the models that were straight and staff-like, that often allowed for more decorative pommels. Though, upon reaching out to feel everything that Christelle was presenting him with, Jesse soon noticed what she meant when he touched the bottom ends of every cane, where he found different sorts of tips on each framework.

From what Jesse was able to make out, there was one that was vaguely reminiscent of a solid marshmallow, one that had a strange shape that felt circular, and another that was like a ball, amongst a few others.

“Besides the pencil tip which is mostly meant for tapping, each one can roll,” Christelle dutifully explained, once she noticed him spinning the ball-shaped cane with vague awe. “So it’s good for constant walking without you having to lift it all the time. Ah, I recommend gliding it slightly from side to side as you walk instead of just letting it roll in front of you. It would work better in detecting potential obstacles!”

“I want to try it,” Jesse said, more quickly than he intended, but he didn’t have it much in him to feel embarrassment at the moment with how much his body was brimming with—with what? Excitement? Anticipation?

Suddenly, Jesse was a child again, having to use the walls of the castle to get around while watching his every step, having found his guiding cane broken for the dozenth time, an accommodation he had never been allowed.

He understood, now, why Christelle couldn't wait to show him this, and it made something fiercely warm and appreciative bubble in his chest.

Fidgeting with the handle, he assumed from her words it was meant to be pointed at the ground at an angle, instead of held with a fist-like grip. “Should I… Is this how it should be done?”

“You got it right, Prince-nim!” he heard Ganael cheer from a slight distance away, ringing like the faint jingle of the bells that all Juliette attendants wore. His voice had taken on a tinge of awe, and it was a sentiment that Jesse could greatly share when faced with such contraptions that were unthinkably, impressively innovative. “I didn't know that Young lady Sarnez was such a pioneer, I have never seen anything like these in my life!”

Christelle sniffed, sounding happy. Only she would really know where she managed to get such ideas from, and she was glad she was able to use otherworldly knowledge to benefit a friend and many others.

Taking a test spin around, Jesse felt wonder well up within him upon feeling the ball-tip of the cane glide over the ground, faint vibrations of the texture of bricks—(bricks! Weren’t these bricks? Jesse hadn’t known the walkway of the gardens was densely lined with them before this, assuming instead that it was some sort of square stone tiles, like the ones of the Venetiaan castle)—running up through the cane and into his hand. It was only when he began to feel his head start to spin that Jesse realized all this moving was making him dizzy with how taken he was with the feel of the cane.

With cheeks flushed with both surprisingly delighted excitement and embarrassment, he settled back into a more reserved posture with a clearing of his throat. Christelle, however, seemed to have noticed his expression, and barked out a good-natured laugh, and Jesse reoriented himself towards her direction with a shuffle.

“Prince-nim, that’s not all! Actually, it was the trickiest part, but in the end, we managed to embed it with magic so that it can signal should there ever be anything obstructing your way! His Highness Prince Cédric even suggested placing preservation magic so that it doesn't deteriorate over time with use.”

“... What?” Jesse gasped. “Doesn’t— Doesn’t that make this no different than a magic tool?”

“Try it out,” Cédric spoke, sounding a bit as if he had just rolled his eyes, but something in his voice was very soft and indulging. It was annoying, but Jesse wanted to both grab him by the collar to shake him fiercely, but mostly to hug him tight. So, what else was Jesse to do but comply?

Though a bit hesitant at first, Jesse soon began walking towards them while gliding the cane in the way that Christelle told him to, hearing the sound of bricks and feeling the ground’s texture with every sweep.

Jesse felt his heart race faster with each step he took.

He felt a bit silly, being so excited over this. But could he be blamed? Never in his life was he able to easily tell if something or someone was standing before him, having spent most of his life hoping his hands were enough to guide him away, or that any person standing in his way would be kind enough to move before he could hit them.

Then, after a few steps, Jesse felt the cane slowly start to tremble in his grip, giving him a slight sense of bewilderment as he came to a stop, the vibrations only ceasing once he stopped rolling the ball.

“Am I right in front of you?” he asked, feeling himself engulfed in the purest aura of water and flame, swimming in hesitant awe.

“You are,” Cédric spoke first, his voice soft and with a lift to it that sounded almost as if he could have been smiling, no matter how small. Testing his reach, Jesse felt the ball lightly roll into Cédric’s shoe and a wide grin bloomed across his face, exhilaration buzzing through every vein of his entire being. The force of his astonishment was enough to send a jolt of energy within him to the point where it felt like his body was going to implode with the force of it, and Jesse soon began feeling restless.

“I’m going to run.”

“... What?”

“I,” Jesse said, laughably the most giddy he has ever felt in all nearly 29 years of living, “am going to start running.”

“No.” Cédric immediately protested, a scowl no doubt marring his face. “Are you crazy? You might tri—”

Without even waiting for Cédric’s bewildered words to finish, Jesse spun on his heel, dragging the ball-tip cane with him, and launched himself into the first run he has ever done in perhaps forever, legs clumsily moving before finding the right pace.

“Ah—!! Prince-nim, Prince!!!” Christelle shouted, wild laughter in her voice as her footsteps chased after him, soon enough catching up enough to take his side. “Turn to the left a little, you’re gonna go off path— Hahaha!!! Yes, that’s it, you got it!!!!”

Jesse’s chest was tight and slightly burning. He didn’t quite know what the cause of such an ailment was, whether it be joy, thrill, or exertion, but whatever it was, Jesse could find nothing to criticize about the wind whiplashing his face or the stinging of his lungs. He hadn’t even been running for long, but he was already feeling a little overwhelmed—he had never known that his stamina could be so bad, but likewise, he never once had the opportunity to find that out until now, in the first place, and the thought sent a grin so wide across his face that his cheeks began to sting.

“Run as much as you want, Prince-nim!!” Christelle cackled by his side, sounding much less out of breath than he was. What Jesse thought was a sprint ended up reducing to a jog, and to Christelle this surely must have felt no different to a walk in the park. “The path is flat here, and I can catch you before anything happens, I swear on the Blessing of the Azure Ocean!!”

Jesse was too breathless with joy to say anything back, but her promise felt like wind behind his legs, propelling him to chase without hesitation the unknown before him.

The movement of his running was enough to make his hair fly with his momentum, and for a moment, Jesse thought about the braid in his hair that he finally allowed Ganael to redo for him each morning, just so that he could have even the smallest additional reminder of his sister. It was probably dishevelled by now, no doubt undone by the breeze, but there was no sadness felt in that realization, his body encouragingly thrummed by the texture of the ground resonating into his hand through the cane. Biting at his cheeks and wrapping around his body, it evoked a sense of nostalgia—the impression of Elise’s ether, familiar to him even a country away.

Sister, he smiled, something that felt like tears dripping from his lashes and into the wind, so fast they might as well have dried. The day we meet again, will I be able to run like this into your arms?

In the end, Jesse did end up tripping, his shaking legs not accustomed to that much movement to the point where they ended up collapsing onto themselves. True to her promise, Christelle’s laughter caught up with a startled gurgle, cursing wildly as she lunged to catch him before she cushioned their fall with her water abilities.

It was silent for a bit, as he caught his breath alongside a Christelle who had probably lost some years off her life despite having anticipated it. But not too long after, Jesse soon found himself breaking into more softer pools of mirth, the hilarity of the two of them sprawled bonelessly across the ground making no doubt for a funny image, on top of everything else. He could hear Christelle muttering regrets about encouraging his running, but soon enough after she heard his chuckles, she let out a loud, laugh-like sigh. Despite her anxiousness, the mirth she couldn’t resist letting out was just as welcoming as the feeling of her aura circling him in a protective embrace.

(Later, he would be scolded by Aurélie who had come out just in time to hear and witness all the commotion in the distance, but even she couldn’t remain stern in the face of Jesse’s rosy-cheeked, sheepish smile.)

"I.. don't think anyone other than my sister has ever caught me before, when I tripped," Jesse spoke, melancholic at best when thinking about his childhood, but still running on the high of this day, his grin never wavered from his face.

"I'll always be here to catch you," Christelle immediately reassured him without even missing a beat, as if making such a significant promise was the only natural thing she could have said in response. The sheer confidence in her voice was so touching it nearly could have brought him to tears, and Jesse wondered if there was a time limit to ‘always’, because when did anything ever last forever?

The sound of Cédric's fiery chastising and Ganel's worried yelling in the approaching distance sent another wave of breathless joy through Jesse.

"Thank you," he murmured softly. Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you.

The wind swept over their prone bodies on the ground like a wave, wrapping around them in a gentle embrace.

Jesse hoped that ‘always’ could mean forever.