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The cool air that blew through the Rik mountains was something of a marvel.
Mikey barely held himself back from a shiver, pulling his coat closer to his body in a vain attempt. The thought of the tempting fireplace in his room almost made him rush back.
Almost. The notoriously fragile Mangrole blossoms were at the ripest they could get right now. Leave them be for a couple of hours more, and they’d wilt. He’d learnt it the hard way—the nagging he had gotten as a young boy still echoes in his ears to this moment. There was little else that could possibly drag Mikey out of his cosy little room during winters, ever since he was a child.
The faint memories managed to make him forget the cold for a moment; the smile curled his lips warmed his heart and flesh for long enough to get started on the extraction.
It was only a little easier from there. Mikey found he had to tug harder—the Mangrole saplings he had brought from his home had grown well, proving to be surprisingly sturdier than he thought, almost to the point of difficulty. The only thing that stopped him from tugging harder was the fear of accidentally separating the delicate stamen from the petals. He had waited for weeks, and he wasn’t about to let all that time go to waste because of his haste.
His grip went lax in defeat and thought. He turned the flower to the side, inspecting the strangely strong stalks that bore nothing more than blackening cuts of sap from the effort.
Mikey’s sigh misted the air.
“Twist the base.”
Words that could be mistaken for the soft exhale of a small animal—Mikey was infinitely careful when he turned.
Cesair’s hair was in an unnatural ruffle, enough for the stray strands to be illuminated by the lantern light. His silk blouse bore creases, the navy blue fabric hidden by a shawl.
Cesair looked a mess by noble standards, but Mikey found the appearance pleasantly simple.
“Uh—“
Mikey tried to utter something, but ended up shutting his mouth. Cesair watched silently, patiently.
Mikey spared a glance at the blossoms he had carefully grown, and spared another one to his cold, aching fingers.
“…Are you sure?”
It may have been insulting for anyone else, to be doubted like this. Mikey wasn’t usually so tactless, but he was too fond of his plants to care about the social intricacies. Only after uttering those soft words did he realise how rude it was.
The silence stretched on long enough for Mikey to redden more than he already had.
“I didn’t mean—“
“I am sure.”
Mikey gulped his words, and nodded without much thinking.
The amount he’d grown turned out to be much more than he needed because of their excellent fertilisers, even when he didn’t want it to. Cesair was already kind enough to provide them with jobs and shelter, going a step further to let Mikey use as much of the garden as he wanted to grow. If that wasn’t the limit, the seeds for the exotic herbs provided to him were from the late Lady Hemharld’s vast personal collection.
If this method doesn't work, then all the hard work and investment will go in vain. But it was Cesair who had instructed him, and his conscience couldn’t ignore the advice offered so kindly.
In such circumstances, the decision would’ve been difficult. But it turned out to be surprisingly easy to make up his mind.
His hand slowly held the base, heart pounding.
The stalk gave way without much issue to the gentle twisting, even bleeding out all the unnecessary sap in one go. Mikey released a breath he didn’t even know he was holding.
He turned to look back at Cesair, only to startle when he felt something warm drape over his neck.
“Lord Hemharld—!”
“It is cold out here.” Cesair interrupted. A soft frown flickered on his face with the lantern’s flame. “Wear it for now.”
Mikey shook his head.
“I cannot!” Mikey would have returned the shawl if it weren’t for the mess of sap in his hands. “I—“
Cesair gave a look, one he had seen while standing on the sidelines that morning. Delphine had finally come to him for the blisters after that look and the following earful, didn’t even touch her sword for the whole day—something very unusual for the child. Mikey couldn’t possibly imagine that even he wouldn’t be spared.
“—ah.”
And since he wasn’t spared, he could only nod. Cesair unfolded the cloth in his hands, which turned out to be another scarf. It could only mean one thing—he had expected Mikey to be roaming around without a scarf.
Mikey lowered his eyes in embarrassment at the implication, but a familiar feeling warmed his chest.
They stood about in a minute of silence. The flicker of the lanterns, ever present, were like a heavy reminder of a presence on his shoulders.
No. Not on his shoulders—that’d make it seem like he abhorred it. Mikey would rather call it something similar to a heavy lingering of a sweet fruit on his tongue, weighing it down, rendering him speechless.
He had to distract himself with the blossoms to stop himself from turning around again.
“They’ve grown very well.” Mikey started, managing a laugh.
Cesair nodded, unsurprised. “Mangrole is native to the Rik mountains.”
What?
“My mother curated a herbarium with her personal notes. The Mangrole was imported to Mount Guanmar by the merchants who visited there, according to the notes.”
Mikey nodded.
“I couldn’t have possibly imagined.” The blossoms created quite the mess—the sap dripped onto his sleeves, just like the ones back on Mount Guanmar. “I’ve lived with these plants since I could remember, so it’s hard to believe they grew anywhere else.”
A ‘thank you for your help’ remained on the tip of his tongue, but there was something about the timing that made him swallow it back. He pretended to struggle to find the tip of their stalks, and Cesair shuffled closer, shedding better light on the flowers.
Had it been Marin, he’d receive a light hit to his head with a nag to spit whatever he had on his mind. But this was Cesair.
“Do you miss your home?”
Mikey’s hands froze. The burn on the back of his hand throbbed at the reminder. His skin itched, like it could feel the heat lick his skin. His ears tingled with the phantom echo of Marin’s hoarse cry.
His heart skipped a beat.
Cesair inhaled audibly at the silence. “I am sorry—I do not know what came over me—“
Once again, Mikey felt like that boy who had once tumbled down a hill to give a flower to his friend, to be spared only suffering. And yet again, he was reminded of how young and helpless he was. His eyes squeezed close, to shut out the pungent smoke he could still see on the blackness of his eyelids.
“It’s not your fault.”
It wasn’t. All Cesair did was ask.
“I still should not have—“ Something strange compelled him to turn around.
And it was unfair. Mikey wanted to be angry at the reminder. Wanted to cry. But the slight, trembling tilt of the lord’s head—hiding behind the little curtain of bangs, hiding—
“I am sorry.” Alerted, Mikey dropped the blossoms in his hand. Cesair didn’t notice.
“Lord Hemharld—“
“Please.” A soft exhale was the nearest he’d get to a cry. “Please do not call me that.”
The rumours floated in every corner of the palace. And it’s as they say—the most convincing lie holds a shard of truth. Cesair never hides his opinions; despite the passing days after the old lord’s demise, the white mourning robes were fresh—folded respectfully, but never worn. Not even during the funeral, if the maids are correct.
A son who did not mourn his father, thrust into responsibility he couldn’t even anticipate. Mikey could bet many others would give up before they even tried.
“…I don’t miss home.”
Cesair finally looked up. At a later time, perhaps in bed, Mikey would curse his loose tongue.
Now? He was simply too entranced by the unusual surprise on the other’s face.
“I don’t have to.”
Cesair frowned, opening his mouth to speak. Mikey finished before he could start.
“I’m home already.”
He had Marin, safe and sound and happy. Had a place he belonged. Had a place where he was treated kindly, where he could grow and study herbs as much as he wanted. What else could a person need?
The frown dissipated. Cesair’s eyes fluttered, a shadow of his lashes casted on his softening gaze. That gaze travelled down to look at Mikey, and he immediately covered his mouth with his hand. Even so, it was hard to miss the uptick of lips.
It was the moment Mikey remembered that there were more things a person could need.
Once, it had been a young boy with black eyes that glinted red in the afternoon. A boy who had once led him on numerous dusty paths with a bravado that never failed to make him comply willingly, who could use him thoroughly enough till he was drained and despairing. Who held himself higher than what Mikey could reach, who had left him behind and the lone flower in his hand and nearly took everything else.
This time, that need was much kinder. The kind that left him parched, to run a hand through those golden locks to see if this was truly real. That the silhouette who stood so proudly in the bleary white marble floor of the court without a second thought was the same person in front of him, smiling shyly behind his hand.
“Y—“ Cesair turned away, his reddening ears on show. “Your flowers—“
Mikey’s heart thumped, gathering some of the flowers before they spoiled any further. The dull thud of the lantern being placed down was followed by hands gathering the rest.
Oh, Mikey thought with something bordering a weird line of dread and anticipation, it’s happening again.