Chapter Text
The hall was filled with flowers, arranged with such care that not a single petal seemed out of place. They were not meant to bring comfort.
They were chosen for mourning—white lilies and pale roses, their scent thick and unrelenting, clinging to the air until it became difficult to breathe without noticing it. The fragrance settled into everything, into fabric and skin and silence, as though it intended to remain long after the people had gone.
Among them were red roses.
They stood out, not because of their color, but because of what they lacked.
Their stems were firm, their thorns intact, yet their petals had not opened. Tight buds, unmoving, as though they had refused to bloom.
As though something in them had decided that this was not a moment meant for life, that there would be no reason to unfold, no reason to be seen in full. They remained closed, quiet in their refusal, as if they understood what the people in the room would not say aloud—that the one they had been meant for would never see them bloom.
Candles lined the walls, their flames trembling faintly, casting a soft glow that failed to warm the room.
Shadows stretched across polished floors and dark fabric, shifting just enough to make the space feel alive in a way that was unsettling rather than comforting. The hall was large, yet it felt confined, as though the air itself had grown heavy, pressing down on every breath taken within it.
People dressed in black gathered in small clusters, their movements careful, their voices lowered. They spoke in fragments, never loud enough to be considered disruptive, never clear enough to fully grasp.
“...such a tragedy…”
“...too soon…”
“ The young master…”
A pause, brief but deliberate.
“The Count has yet to…”
The sentence dissolved before it could be completed. Glances were exchanged, subtle and fleeting, shifting away almost as soon as they were made.
No one lingered.
No one wanted to be seen looking too closely.
At the center of the hall stood the casket.
Dark. Polished. Closed. Surrounded by flowers that softened nothing.
There was no movement within it, no breath, no sound—only stillness so complete that it seemed to absorb everything around it.
Near the front, placed where he could be seen yet not approached, stood the child.
He was dressed as he had been told, black fabric fitted neatly against his small frame, every detail arranged with precision. There was nothing out of place in his appearance.
Nothing that would draw attention. He stood exactly where he had been positioned, as though stepping away would disrupt something he could not name.
His gaze rested on the casket.
The voices continued, threading through the air without direction.
“…he hasn’t cried…”
“…does he understand…?”
“…poor child…”
A pause.
“…is something wrong with him…?”
Another voice, quieter, pressed beneath the others—
“…a monster…”
The words were not meant for him. They were spoken behind hands, beneath breath, shaped in a way that allowed them to disappear as soon as they were formed. And yet, they reached him—not clearly, not completely, but enough to exist somewhere at the edge of his awareness.
A servant passed behind him, her steps light and measured, so careful that even the sound of her movement seemed to fade before it could fully exist. She did not brush against him, did not let her presence linger near him for longer than necessary.
Another stood at the edge of the room, head lowered, hands folded, her posture composed into something practiced and deliberate. They were there, visible, moving within the same space, yet they did not touch him, did not speak to him, did not acknowledge him beyond what was required.
The child watched without moving, noticing without understanding. They moved around him the way one would move around something fragile or misplaced, close enough to avoid collision, far enough to avoid involvement.
No one approached him.
No one knelt.
No one asked anything of him, and no one offered anything in return.
He did not know what was expected of him.
Should he move?
Should he follow someone?
Should he say something?
No answer came.
His gaze returned to the casket, tracing its edges, the way the light settled across its surface, the way the flowers surrounded it too carefully, as though trying to make something final appear gentle.
It did not open.
It did not move.
It did not answer.
The murmurs did not follow him when he left the hall.
They remained behind, swallowed by flowers and candlelight. The scent lingered, faint but persistent, clinging to his clothes as he stepped into the quieter corridors of the estate. The halls stretched long and silent, their emptiness different from the hall—not heavy with voices, but hollow, as though sound itself had been removed.
Servants stepped aside as he passed.
“Young Master.”
Soft. Polite. Distant.
No one stopped him.
The doors to the study stood closed.
He had seen them closed before.
Many times.
This time, he did not turn away.
He pushed the door open. Inside, the room was dim. A single lamp cast long shadows across the desk where Deruth Henituse sat, unmoving.
The child stepped in.
The door closed behind him.
“…Dad?”
Deruth lifted his gaze. It reached the child and stopped.
The hair.
The color, the softness of it beneath the light—so familiar it felt wrong to exist outside of memory. It should not have been there, standing before him, alive, breathing, asking questions in a voice too small for what it carried.
For a moment, something tightened in his chest.
He could not look at him.
“What is it?”
“…Where is Mom?”
There was a pause.
Then—
“She has gone on a long journey.”
The child listened.
He did not question it.
“Will she come back?”
“…No.”
“I see.”
That was all.
The child turned and left.
The door closed.
Deruth did not look after him. Because if he did—
He would see her again.
And he could not bear that.
The corridors were the same. The servants were the same. The house remained unchanged.
The next day, the child stood before the study door.
He knocked.
“…Dad?”
“I am busy.”
The answer came quickly.
The next day—
He returned.
Knock. Knock.
“…Dad?”
“I am busy.”
Again.
And again.
The days passed quietly.
Measured not by time, but by repetition.
Knock. Knock.
“…Father?”
“I am busy.”
Knock.
“…Father?”
“I am busy.”
No anger.
No raised voices.
No rejection spoken aloud.
Only absence.
The child stopped asking anything else. But the word remained.
A journey.
If she had gone somewhere, then he could go there too.
The thought should have ended there.
But it didn’t.
If she had gone on a journey, then why hadn’t she taken him with her?
The question came without accusation.
Only confusion.
Had he done something wrong?
Had he not been needed?
No one answered.
The corridor was quiet.
The door remained closed.
The child lowered his gaze.
If she had left, and he had been left behind
Then perhaps…
He only needed to follow.
He stood there for a moment longer.
Then turned away.
And this time—
The thought did not remain a thought.