Chapter Text
“Who might you be, little one?”
A young, painted rose peers up at the queen, slate blue eyes filled with as much trepidation as there is curiosity. The queen only smiles, kneeling down by the young rose, his expression gentle as to not frighten the little boy. The rose fiddles with his own fingers, momentarily forgetting his mother’s lessons and punishments when he does so.
“A shy one, aren’t you?” The queen chuckles. The rose flushes an embarrassed pink, hiding his face in his red bangs. A beautiful color for a beautiful rose, the queen deduces.
“You needn’t worry,” He assures, offering a white gloved hand. The rose hesitates, placing his much smaller, bare hand in the queen’s. His mother taught him proper manners, he couldn’t very well ignore the queen’s invitation to shake his hand. He does exactly that, giving it as firm a shake as he can muster, pulling another amused laugh from the queen. What a giggly man.
“How precious you are, little rose,” The queen coos. The rose quickly removes his hand to once more hide his face in both tiny hands.
Despite the way he flusters over the attention, it fills his heart with an odd warmth. His mother’s love feels akin to a raging fire, whereas the queen’s affections feel like a warm campfire with roasting marshmallows and chocolate and graham crackers. It feels like those moments when his dear friend, the clover, gifts him tarts and macarons and many other sweets.
He finds he likes this warmth and sweetness.
“Riddle!”
It’s such a shame the young rose no longer gets to experience it as his mother storms up to him.
Truly, the red paint that covers his form is painful in its limitations.
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“Icabeth has a son?” Elijah questions, his striking white hair flowing in motion as he turns to face his dear friend, Cliff Sweet. Cliff nods, attempting to shove one of his many dalmatian dogs, Pepper, from his lap. His mistake was bringing her with him at all. His dogs are very used to him and his wife spoiling them rotten with both attention and care and take every chance they’re near to whine to them for pets and coos and treats.
The very thought makes the albino smile. What a sweet relationship that married couple has with their dogs. If he hadn’t seen the dogs himself, he would have assumed they were children with the way Cliff spoke of them as if they were his born kin.
“Yes,” He confirms, pushing up his reading glasses from where they’d fallen when Pepper got too particularly bold and attempted to pounce him. “I stopped by the Clover bakery in the east as both Annie and I enjoyed their sweets from the one time you brought us for a visit. I suppose we were feeling quite peckish after trying them.”
Elijah chuckles gently at his friend’s sheepish admission but does not interrupt him as he continues speaking.
“I encountered quite an odd scene when I’d entered,” Cliff admits with a frown, “I’d personally only talked to Icabeth once or twice since our school days, but from what you’d described, her temper hadn’t changed in the slightest. It seems you were right.”
Oh dear. He had hoped that separation from school, a place that pushes students to be competitive in order to be on top, would have helped his old rival calm down some. He had done her no favors by playing along with her rivalry in college, but he’d long since dropped it after he graduated, seeing no point in continuing and feeling shame for acting so childish and petty in his youth. He hoped Icabeth would have done the same.
It seems his hopes were all for naught.
“She was yelling at the Clovers, it was quite frightening,” Cliff shudders, sinking his fingers into Pepper’s thin fur, pulling a whine from the poor girl as she attempts to quell her owner’s distress. “There were two children present, the eldest Clover son and what seemed like Icabeth’s own child. They were obviously distressed, but Icabeth’s son seemed most upset of all. He was crying- worse, he was sobbing , begging his mother to quiet down and not take his friend from him.”
“Goodness,” Elijah holds a hand to his frown, picturing a young boy with Icabeth’s features so distraught over his mother’s anger and begging for his friend. He knew Icaabeth was strict on herself but it’s quite clear she’s holding her son to the same standard as herself, he must be perfect and follow her every whim, any less and he loses what tarnishes his “perfection.”
It’s a terrifying thought. What has she put that poor boy through for him to be so desperate when he is faced with the idea of losing his friend? What little does he truly have that makes him a human rather than a puppet doll to bend to his mother’s whims?
“Precisely my thoughts,” Cliffs nods in despair, “I never want to see such a young face twisted into such a nasty expression ever again, nor hear a voice so innocent begging and sobbing. I didn’t have the heart to stay any longer when they left.”
Elijah does not respond.
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It starts with a wakeup call.
“Riddle!”
Icaabeth stomps up the stairs within the Rosehearts estate, face flushed red with anger. Just how many times has she called her foolish son to come downstairs to begin their morning and been ignored?
Too many to count.
It’s enraging.
“Young man, if I have to come up there and drag you from bed, I promise it won’t be fun!”
There is still no response, not even a single noise to indicate Riddle may have moved. One could practically see the steam releasing from Icaabeth’s ears as she grinds her teeth.
Her fist pounds against the wood of her son’s room, a final mercy of giving him the chance to answer her before she enters herself.
“ Riddle!! ”
No answer.
The door swings open, banging against the wall with the sheer force with which Icaabeth opens it with. She cares little for the way it bangs against the wall, likely denting it if the crack that rings out says anything, and the way several of the nicknacks in Riddle’s room tremble or fall from the vibrations. It’s the boy’s own fault, she reasons, he shouldn’t be ignoring her or sleeping in so late. He can fix it when she’s punished him.
The room is empty.
Icabeth can see Riddle’s bed, blanket tossed aside as if he’d gotten up at some point in the night but never returned to it. But Riddle is not elsewhere in the house, she would have known if he was.
Feeling an odd panic rise in her chest, Icabeth steps further into the room, surveying the rest of her son’s living space.
Even checking under the furniture yields no results.
Riddle is nowhere to be seen.
“Riddle?” She calls, a tremble in her voice that hasn’t been present since her school years. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, one she does not enjoy. “You’re making mama worry, please do come out.”
There is no response.
“Please, Riddle, you-”
She finds the closet door left ajar.
Quickly whipping out her hand, she shoves the doors wide open.
The closet is empty. Not a single thing nor soul stored within.
And perhaps, that would not be so weird.
If it weren’t for the fact that Riddle kept his clothes hung in his closet.
Horror and dread fills Icabeth’s chest.
What happened to her boy? Where has he gone?
Surely he hadn’t run away, he was so well-behaved and such a good boy since she’d cut off all access to those troublemakers that whisked him away from his studies. They were such horrible influences on her baby. Her Riddle is a good boy.
Was he kidnapped? There’s no sign of a struggle, but with magic, anything is possible. For all she knows, he could have been casted or hit with a sleep or teleportation spell, maybe he’d gotten out of bed to go to the bathroom or for some reason or another.
Yes, yes that’s the only logical answer. Her Riddle wouldn’t dare run away. They must have simply taken his clothes with them, it’s too much trouble to get new clothes for someone you’ve kidnapped anyway!
Icabeth turns tail and runs out of the room, nearly hitting the damaged door on the way out.
Her rush results in completely missing the portrait of herself and Riddle that falls precariously onto the floor from where it was hanging on the wall, having been hit by the door.
The two stand straight, formal as ever, donned in attire to match. There is a distance between them, both emotionally and physically, obvious even through a motionless photograph.
The crack drawn between Riddle and Icabeth from the impact of the door is all more than telling.
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“Elijah.”
The messy, white-haired man snaps his head upwards, eyes manic and hair a mess. His tense form relaxes only minisculely upon meeting the horrified eyes of Cliff. Tonight has been a mess for him. The weights in his arms dragging him down and tiring him out. Just reaching his home had been a challenge, but managing to maneuver himself inside and call Cliff had been the biggest challenge.
“Thank goodness you’re here,” Elijah sighs, eyebags heavy with tirelessness. He wishes for nothing more than to pass out at this very moment. He knows even with Cliff here, he wouldn’t dare so. He still has much to do and he cannot bring himself to release the bundle in his arms.
Cliff does not seem to reciprocate the sentiment, form trembling as he eyes the mass within Elijah’s arms.
“Elijah Snowdrop,” He parrots, hands flying to his mouth in mortification, “What have you done?”
Elijah understands he did something he shouldn’t have.
Not only is it illegal, but it certainly makes him much worse than Icabeth ever could be.
And yet, not once did he hesitate as he went through with what he did. He couldn’t afford to. Elijah’s morals were at battle the entire time, but he did not allow it to falter his decision or already performing actions. Doing so could ruin everything. He would have to be flawless.
And flawless he was, he realized. Icabeth wouldn’t know any better and neither would authorities.
All the better, he thinks.
It may be wrong.
But he finds as he stares down at the sleeping Riddle in his arms, casted with a sleeping charm to remain in a peaceful rest even through the events of the night, that he still doesn’t regret his decision.
And yet, there is still so much more work to do for his new little rose. Now freshly cleaned of the red paint that limited his natural beauty.