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Keng had grown up on stories.
They were the kind that settled into your bones, the ones his mother told low and warm beside the hearth while the house creaked and the winter wind scratched at the shutters.
About mountains that whispered if you pressed your ear to the rock. Witches in the deep woods who coaxed green miracles from poisoned earth to help starving farmers.
Princes and princesses with beautiful faces and sadder eyes than anyone deserved. Tales meant to be fanciful- until one of them began to follow him into waking life.
From the day he turned eighteen, the dreams started almost immediately.
At first they were like a single, delicate thread woven through his nights:
A beautiful man asleep beneath a ridiculous abundance of wonderfully blossomed roses, sunlight pooling on closed lashes, a voice whispering on the edge of hearing.
Night after night the picture sharpened until it felt less like imagination and more like a vision.
The man's face would turn clearer, looking the exact same way, over and over- features both foreign and unnervingly familiar, cheeks soft as if still warm with sleep, lips just a little parted.
Not the tidy set of notes a childhood tale would give, but fragments- an ankle caught in lace, the scent of rosewater, a hand half-hidden by petals, enough pieces to build a picture if Keng could rearrange them properly.
He tried, because once a thought starts nagging at your chest it becomes an ache you cannot ignore.
Keng slowly tried to remember paths, buildings and animals that he saw around the tower of his dreams.
He woke each morning and caught the remains of the dream, jotting details on scraps of paper, folding the pages, drawing lines that meant nothing until they slowly began to build a route. A map.
The boy in the dream didn’t have a name.. Keng recognized only the image and the voice that called, sometimes pleading, sometimes patient.
“I miss you,” the voice said once, soft as linen. “Please, come find me.”
As the months passed, the idea that it might all be nonsense felt less plausible than the possibility that somewhere, in one big forest between trees and stone, there was a tower with thousand roses and a sleeping beauty.
The more he tried to reason it away, the more the nights sharpened, and the more Keng’s waking life rearranged itself around that one stubborn compulsion: he had to see whether the dream was true.
He had to find the tower empty to stop his thoughts from spiraling.
He spoke of it to no one at first, but thought of his mother’s old myths and how they had been half-lie, half-prayer; he learned to carry both belief and skepticism in his heart.
Still, the man tugged at him like a magnet.
When he finally told his mother about him, he also decided that he would go to search for him.
She did what mothers do: she put worry into every word but tried to anchor him with practicality.
She packed a small bundle of provisions for him-water, salted bread, a wool cloak and pressed it into his hands more firmly than necessary.
“If your heart is set, my love, go, but go safe,” she said, fingers lingering on his cheek in a way that made him feel both young and utterly adult.
He promised, but promises are light; the thing pulling him forward was not logic but a compulsion that felt older than his bones.
He rode, and for days the landscape changed gradually: town to meadow; meadow to scrub; scrub to the first, dark edge of an old foresr.
The sun burned hot some days, and on others the sky steamed low and gray.
He stopped in villages and asked the elders whether they knew of any tower with roses scattered around it.
The answers were almost always the same: head shakes, shrugs, an uneasy dismissal.
Some people nodded in suprise and explained they’d heard it too- once.. like a ghost of a story.
Put as he traveled further, asked more and more a group of old men raised their brows and warned him away. “Don't think about it. Many have tried,” one with a scar in his eye told Keng, “and many came back injured. The forest does not give itself up easily.”
The warning that stuck with him came oddly from a child who had nothing to gain by lying.
She sat atop a woman’s shoulders at a market stall and, when Keng asked her mother if she had heard the tower’s tale, the little girl watched him as though she were peering for the truth of him.
“The flowers don’t like strangers,” she said simply, and then got away on her mother’s back.
The image lodged in Keng’s mind- flowers as guardians- then later, in the hush of his lantern, the child’s simple certainty took on a different weight.
By the time he had ridden near the mountain range the old stories had circled about, he had turned his dream-scraps into something like a map.
There were gaps, strange blank spaces where memory fuzzed, but the general pull was clear.
He told himself he needed closure more than salvation.
If the tower were only a legend, he would put the dream to rest.
If it were real, then he owed the man the mercy of saving him from his endless slumber.
His horse waited at the edge of the river, impatient to drink. Keng hugged the reins and, for a long moment, looked back over the wide swath of land he was leaving behind.
He promised the animal he would return for her, always thinking in the quiet places of his mind of small and practical things.
Then he left her with a tangle of ropes and a saddle and turned his face toward what the map suggested was the tower.
The forest first seemed like any other:
a thicket of trunks, leaves whispering through the silence.
But as he pressed deeper, a subtle wrongness settled over the place: an almost intentional pathway formed by nature.
Underbrush swelled in a way that suggested design, not neglect.
Vines coiled like sentries; branches braided into nearly impenetrable curtains.
The sun broke through in arrowed slits and the light there was fragile and pure, as if even the sun was being filtered by an unseen hand.
Keng tightened his grip on the sword at his hip, the weight both comforting and mortal, and walked on.
He had imagined fighting tumble- bruised animals in the forest: wolves, or twisted wood- creatures spun from old magic.
He was prepared for danger.
He was less prepared for the sensation that the forest was watching him as he pushed in, smelling his intentions as if it carried a scent.
Small birds flitted near but kept their distance, and now and then an animal would watch him from the ground and move away with a barely perceptible nod of head, as if acknowledging something in him and then choosing to let him continue.
At first he thought he was imagining it- but the animals and the trees seemed to guide him.
In his dreams, the wood was not wholly benign but now it was like they watched him.
What unnerved him most, though, were the traces he found of earlier passersby.
In the lower regions, he had heard the tales.
Men who had gone into the forest with torches and fierce courage.
The men that managed to come back seemed drained and changed, as if the wood had taken something alive and left their shell as a reminder.
He steeled himself.
He gathered the warnings like armor, because the possibility of reaching the tower became more urgent with each failed map and each sleepless watch.
He believed that the forest wanted to keep the sleeping beauty safe, the purpose was not to punish curious knights but to ensure the rest remained unbroken until a heart worthy came to wake him.
At the edge of expectation and exhaustion, the tower finally found him. It rose from the earth like a structure exhaled by the land itself: ancient stone threaded with living vines.
The sunlight pooled and softened against its walls. There was a single heavy door, and the path leading to it was choked with brambles that had no reason to grow so thick around a threshold.
Keng’s muscles tautened the way they did before a river crossing; the air around the tower hummed like a held breath.
He remembered the warnings: about men who had tried and returned maimed or not at all, and he felt a shiver of fear through his spine.
Everything in him wanted to step boldly forward and hack the brambles away, to prove himself the hero of the tale.
But the way the forest folded back and opened a narrow path when he approached, branches parting like drawn curtains, shocked him into stillness.
It was as if the forest itself had deemed him worthy enough to pass so he walked forward into the thorns with trust blooming in him.
The brambles opened and closed again like an embrace, sealing his back right after he entered.
Keng’s chest was a net of nerves and hope as the tower door stood before him, unlatched. He pushed it open and peeked inside.
Every footstep making him feel more wary as he climbed the spiral stairs. The stone seened untouched and almost ancient.
Petals floated down from above. It was beautiful, it seemed almost unreal. As if he was dreaming of this like he did many nights.
Keng could smell the roses.
At the top, beyond a threshold that seemed to breathe, he found a room painted in muted daylight.
The smell of roses was thicker here, and in the center of the chamber lay a bed- a kind of altar- drowned in flowers.
And in those lay the man.
He stopped.
For a long, stunned second, Keng could do nothing but look.
His face was more beautiful than the dream had ever allowed: lashes heavy against his skin, cheeks rosy and warm, lips the soft shade of the roses blooming around him.
A crown of loose roses had threaded themselves into the curve of his hair.
He looked exactly as the dream always showed- but because a human was different from a vision, seeing him in person made Keng’s chest break open in a new way.
The man seemed to be made of resting peacefully, an emblem of a gentleness the world rarely permitted.
Keng knelt at the bedside like a pilgrim, breath held, hands suddenly overly tense and unsure.
He wanted to do everything right- wake him gently, ask permission, be brave but tender.
He settled for a simple act: he brushed a tentative finger along the brown hair, when nothing happened, he remembered what the boy had asked of him in many of his dreams:
"Kiss me awake."
So he did just that.
He leaned down and pressed his lips on his with a courtesy that felt suddenly very sacred.
He had rehearsed the moment of waking in his head and expected something dramatic; bells, a cry, a burst of light.
Instead, when the drowsy eyes fluttered and the lashes lifted, it was simple and small: a yawn, a blink, a slow glance around.
The boy looked at him in surprise, sat up, and something in him unfolded the moment he laid his eyes on Keng.
He murmured, searching the air, and when his eyes found Keng, there was a realization that knocked Keng sideways.
He looked exactly like the man from the dream- yes.
But in a way that made him more whole.
“You-” the boy began, then stopped.
“You came.”
Keng’s heart pounded so loud he almost didn't hear what he had said.
“I dreamed of you. I dreamed of you a thousand times.”
He did not know how otherwise to explain the devotion that had brought him here, the nights spent mapping out everything in his head.
"I know." The boy smiled, a little shy and said simply.
The sound of the name unfurled inside him and seemed to anchor the moment as if labeling something real for the first time.
They talked in a hush, as if the tower didn't grant them privacy with its thick stone walls.
They exchanged names and awkward politenesses- until Namping blinked, a look of dawning realization flitting across his face.
“We kissed,” he said, and then clapped a hand to his mouth as though in shock at having spoken aloud.
He looked embarrassed at his own words; Keng couldn't help but laugh and nod.
Their first kiss had been shy and gentle, a peck given with a nervous sense of restraint.
Namping’s sleepy bewilderment dissolved into awkward joy; he flushed, then relaxed, and the room broadened into a space that could hold two beating hearts.
“May I help you down?” Keng asked with a small, gentle formality, because something about this new tenderness rendered him clumsy and sweet at once.
Namping nodded slowly, rubbing his eyes.
He looked at Keng with a gratitude that was almost religious in its sincerity.
“Yes,” he said, accepting the offered hand. Together they stepped away from the bed of roses-hands brushing, giggles small and bright in the hush of the tower.
They left, hand in hand, the world outside somehow less forbidding than before, because what the dream had promised had proven true:
The air outside the tower was lighter than Keng had expected. After the stifling climb, after the heavy press of curses and flowers, stepping back into the forest felt like breathing for the very first time.
Yet what made the moment dazzling was not the forest itself, but the way Namping stepped carefully down the final stair, his hand in Keng’s.
The forest stirred.
Birds burst into song as though a conductor had lifted his baton.
The branches that once tangled in warning now bent aside in greeting.
Tiny beams of sunlight, fractured by leaves, fell in soft golden patches across Namping’s face, and it was as if the whole world had decided to celebrate his return.
Keng tightened his hand around the prince’s, his chest swelling at the sight.
"The forest loves you," he murmured.
Namping blinked at him, then looked around. Rabbits peeked out from burrows, deer stood unafraid between the trees, even the foxes lingered at a distance, tails swaying.
His lips parted in wonder. “It’s as if they.. recognize me.”
Keng chuckled. “Not just recognize. They protected you.”
The expression on Namping’s face deepened. He ducked his head, though his free hand brushed the back of Keng’s lightly in gratitude, a fleeting touch that made Keng’s heart beat quicker.
It was sweet.
⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚
They soon reached the place where Keng had tied his horse before venturing further. The mare lifted her head at the sound of his boots on the path, nickering warmly.
But when Namping approached, the horse reacted immediately- it pressed its nose against his shoulder and stood perfectly still, ears flicking forward like it was welcoming back a long-lost friend.
Keng tilted his head in astonishment.
“She normally hated everyone and everything, are you a fairy?” he said with a laugh.
Namping stroked the animal’s muzzle gently, smiling in that soft, luminous way he had. “She must know I’m grateful. She helped you find me.”
Keng swallowed. There was something about the way Namping said 'find me' that left him fuzzy inside.
They rode together on the horse, Keng in front with reins in hand, and Namping seated behind him, arms looped carefully around his waist.
At first, Keng was tense, every brush of Namping’s breath against his back set his nerves on fire.
But soon, Namping leaned his cheek against Keng’s back with a sigh, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
“You won't fall- I promise,” Keng offered over the rhythmic thud of hooves.
“I know,” Namping replied, and there was a smile in his voice. “I trust you both.”
⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚
By the time they reached the village, word had already spread. Perhaps the forest itself had whispered the news, or the wind carried tales faster than men ever could.
Whatever the reason, the people rushed out to greet them. Children ran with flowers in their fists, eager to put them into Namping's hairy. Eldery women clasped their hands together in disbelief.
“Is it true?” one of them gasped. “Has the sleeping prince finally woken?”
Keng helped Namping down from the horse, steadying him with strong hands.
The crowd murmured with awe.
“Look at him,” someone said, tears in her eyes. “Just as the tales promised- so beautiful, so gentle.”
Namping blushed furiously, bowing his head, but when he glanced up at Keng, his shy smile was like a secret shared only between them.
He stayed close to his knight as the villagers gathered, his hand brushing Keng’s arm whenever he felt flustered.
“Do you need a healer?” another asked. “You’ve been asleep for so long, dear boy.”
“I’m alright,” Namping said softly. His gaze flicked again to Keng, and this time he didn’t look away.
“The curse is broken,” someone announced on the nearest watch tower. “The prince has returned!”
⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚
Time Skip: 3 months
Time passed, and with it came new rhythms. Namping and Keng settled into a life together, not in palaces or golden halls, but in a shared home at the edge of the village.
It was small, but it was theirs.
Keng, tall and broad-shouldered, took it upon himself to fix the roof tiles and chop the wood, always protective and strong, a wall between Namping and anything that could harm him.
He was a knight not only in name but in the quiet way he held his love’s hand crossing muddy roads, or the way he carried him across streams rather than let his boots get soaked.
Namping, brought warmth to their day.
He cooked meals that filled their home with the scent of herbs and broth, always scolding Keng for sneaking bites before he served them.
“Keng!” Namping would protest, smacking his arm with a spoon.
Keng only laughed, leaning down to kiss his cheek in apology, and Namping’s pretend-pout would melt into helpless giggles.
There were mornings when Namping woke first, planning on sneaking off to prepare breakfast, only for Keng to pull him back into bed. “Five more minutes,” he’d murmur into his hair, holding him tight.
Namping would sigh, pretend to whine, but in truth he loved the feeling of being held.
And there were evenings when Keng returned from errands, tired and dust-stained, to find Namping waiting with a tidy table, a soft smile, and the simple words: “Welcome home.”
It made Keng feel as though the battles he once fought were nothing compared to the quiet victory of this domestic peace.
The village noticed, too.
They often spied the pair walking hand in hand through the market, Keng carrying baskets heavy with items, Namping tucking flowers between the straps of his knight’s armor.
“Such a pair,” the villagers whispered with fondness. “The knight and his prince.”
⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚
One day, Keng disappeared at dawn, leaving Namping to worry. But when evening fell, he returned, dirt on his boots and a mysterious gleam in his eyes.
“Keng?” Namping asked, brows furrowed. “Where have you been all day?”
“Come outside,” Keng said, taking his hand.
Behind their house was a small patch of earth, now alive with something very familiar to him: flowers of every shade of pink and red, climbing in soft tangles up wooden frames.
They glowed faintly in the twilight, just like the enchanted roses that had cradled Namping in his slumber.
Namping gasped, his hand flying to his lips. “These… they’re the same…”
Keng nodded, his voice gentle. “I grew them for you. So that even far from the tower, you’ll always have the flowers that kept you safe.”
Tears welled in Namping’s eyes as he turned to his knight. “Keng…” His voice trembled, but his smile shone brighter than the moon above them.
He flung his arms around him, pressing his face into Keng’s chest. “I don’t deserve you.”
Keng held him tight, lowering his lips to Namping’s hair. “I am just embarrassingly in love.”
Namping pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. “Atleast you aren't alone with it.”
Keng tucked a piece of hair behind his ear, a love sick smile growing over his entire face.
"I love you Keng-"
The kiss that followed was not one of a curse broken, but of a promised future.