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In a silent tradition, the first prince of Obsidian goes to sit by an unmarked grave - its appearance simple and easy to miss among the various tombstones of Obsidian’s past soldiers. His steps are firm, crunching against the snow littered around the castle. Wordlessly, he brushes the snow off the grave, dutifully falling into a routine. Clean, sit, contemplate, speak.
Once settled on the ground, he lets out a heavy sigh, looking up at the snowflakes gently swirling about.
“You always hated the cold.” A murmur amongst the soft wind. A shuffling to extend his cloak a little further to cover the dirt beside him. As if the little warmth could be felt six feet under.
He rationalizes to himself that deeper into the ground, it should be warmer. That it had latched onto the sun rays from days ago, harboring.
He understands that logic is false, but he clings to it, helping him speak further through the chill attempting to seep into his skin. He lists off, in broken code and covered words, how things have improved in the last seven months. Despite his routine visits, he goes over already spoken words. How strong the will of the first prince has continued - corrupted towns have begun to flourish, their outreach encouraging those nearby to follow their lead. While grief still remains, they trudge towards flourishing on shaky legs.
He pauses then, his breath visibly mingling with the cold in a quiet exhale. All of this information is stored in his mind. There are no further reports to write; no longer a secure way to relay them through paper and looks. And somehow, it’s harder to put into words.
These reports of the unforgotten labor of love put into these bloodstained lands. When they’re words on paper, he could absorb and echo the information without emotion. But pulling them from his mind tugs at memories, tendrils of emotions he’s tried to rebury.
An unsteady sigh. Then, he continues in a low murmur.
“She is safe.”
The ‘Little Rabbit’ of Rhodolite, far stronger than her nickname suggests. After being plucked away from her safe, quiet life and thrown into murky waters, witnessing fearful glimpses of the sour underbelly of nobility, being unknowingly targeted repeatedly, her smile still glows. She continues to remain oblivious to the way she woos the hearts of others, even his own.
She’s contagious. Unable to be contained.
“There are less coming after her. I’ve continued to keep my distance to ensure that while keeping tabs. A new interest of hers is…”
In detail, he goes over each little hobby she has picked up recently. Which ones she gave up on. How his previous guesses of what she would be fond over turned out as accurate as ever. Her daily habits have changed due to the swing of weather - her favored lunches on a nearby hill have dissolved into securing herself in the warmth of her home, cozying by the window to leisurely eat and read. She’s safe. Secure from the rot edged around Rhodolite.
The cold bites at his fingers, but he informs nonetheless. Slowly. Attentively. The chill has soaked deep into his arms, beginning to breach his torso.
“She loves the book.”
He’s greeted by silence. A wintery gust of air.
“I’m trying to discover her thoughts past that. I’ve gathered that she’s seen with it often. During the first week she received it, she came to work every day with bags under her eyes, unable to stop reading it. Again and again.”
The sequel is unfinished. Notes were left within the manuscript, made up of code for his eyes only, detailing how to complete the novel. A mixed difficulty. He’s analyzed the writing before, his confidence on mimicking it to a similar level was sure. But each time he found the time to do so, he sat at the desk for hours. Afraid to touch what wasn’t his, filled with an ache that had become far too familiar.
“... She’ll have more to read soon. I’ll see to it.”
There’s nothing further to report. Truly, there isn’t. He’s covered the usual basis with unasked attempts to segue subtle praise towards the one who started the refinement of these lands.
But still he sits. Leaning against the unmarked grave. His mind flits memories with unresolved desires - an urge to commission a more fitting tombstone for the one resting below him. For different circumstances to have befallen him. To be back in the comfort of two years ago, when the disease still festered, but relented far more easily.
He squeezes his eyes shut, holding his breath as he calms his racing mind. With a slow exhale, he’s back in the present. Cold, chest aching less. Stiffly removing himself from the ground, fluffing dirt and snow from his clothes. He stands with one last look at the simple wooden cross, unwilling to part so soon.
Against better judgement, Roderic allows himself one further transgression, mouth opening before his mind can catch up with the action.
“I miss you.”
His jaw clamps tight, and slowly, he steps back. And again. Until he turns his back towards his master, trudging slowly towards the castle. Each movement closer, his familiar slouch begins to straighten, until he walks with mimicked purpose, once more embodying the first prince of Obsidian.