Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

On a spring day

because of your love

I saw the pleasing sight of sunlight shining

into my shadowy backyard.

Out of darkness to the fireside of love

you gently called me,

and smiled as purely as a wildflower,

standing in front of me in the bright, shining light

that only someone who has passed through darkness can make.

Ah,

just to think of you–

you

are

so

lovely.

— Kim Yong-taek

Throughout the majority of his life, Jesse heard whispers—voices muttering low and echoey around the palace, so often that sometimes he wondered if people forgot that out of all the five human senses, it was only his sight that he lacked, and not his hearing.

"His Majesty the Prince Consort feels threatened by the Prince," was the thought that Jesse overheard the most, uttered by servants who were under the daft impression that he couldn't hear them gossiping just a little further away.

He's always wondered what they meant by that. As a young child, it wasn't surprising that he couldn't understand the weight of the stare the prince consort regarded him with, still oblivious to the several nuanced shades that separated love, tolerance, and hate. But with how frequently the servants talked, it also came to no surprise that Jesse eventually began to piece the picture together himself:

Jesse Venetiaan was a bastard child, born between the love shared between his mother the Queen, and the commoner priest she fell in love with, despite her being legally married to the current Prince Consort.

His existence should be a curse to the Royal Family, he often heard the murmurs say. And yet, one night, when the whispers had been particularly bad, when Jesse came crying to his sister after dragging his hands across the sides of the walls to where he memorized was his sister's room, Elise had assured him that he was loved and he would always be loved.

But not even those sincere reassurances were enough to complete erase the sting of the few stray murmurs that claimed his lack of sight was a punishment for the Queen's infidelity—a ridiculous notion, Elise repeatedly told him with her young yet firm voice, because he was a child blessed with gold and amethyst, and she always reassured him of that when they were children.

Getting cursed was a terrible thing.

There were many things that the Almighty God was capable of, and snatching children whose middle names weren't properly able to protect them was one of those many apparent curses—

But being blind was not one of them.

Regardless, Jesse was blind and not deaf, and he knew that despite his sister's attempts of protection, he would never truly be able to ignore the whispers about whatever was written about him in the deeper corners of the gossip paper columns.

Jesse had only been a child when he realized that people liked to talk. They talked and talked and talked, and eventually, he came to the realization that the one who talked the loudest was none other than his mother's husband, the Prince Consort.

For all that Elise could give her soul into pouring him with her unwavering reassurances, even they couldn't help but sound weak before Werner Venetiaan's harsh words.

"An ugly nuisance," was the other comment that Jesse heard quite often, amidst all the love he received from his older sister.

Growing up, the words that the Prince Consort threw at him only became more vile and harsh, and in the way that naive children did, it wasn't surprising that Jesse eventually began to believe that the words Werner Venetiaan threw at him might've been true.

He was a child whose life had been affirmed by the love of his sister, after all, and the love that she showered him with was always so overwhelming there was nothing he could do but remain hopeless in the face of it. The tides reversed whenever Werner scorned him, however, tormenting him over the table when the man called him over for tea, berating his every fumble, his lack of manners, the odd way his eyes shook—rapid, minute circular motions that Werner constantly compared to the movement of flies—Jesse found that all the words of Mother's husband stung, and Werner told him plain and simple that it was because the truth stung and that his sister's love has made him blind, blinder than the state of his eyes made him, blind to the reality of his dirty little being.

"Your dear sister is too kind," Werner crooned at him, and for all that Jesse found his voice so very gentle and beautiful, it was one of the most terrifying sounds he had ever heard in his life.

"She doesn't want to hurt you, so she feeds you those lies to make you believe you are more special than you really are."

Jesse's hands shook as they held his cup—too large to properly fit his hands, the scalding tea burning his skin as he struggled to drink it. With Werner watching him, he knew he couldn't refuse it, lest he be disrespectful to his esteemed stepfather.

"You know that you are not supposed to exist, don't you, boy? That your existence is a curse upon this kingdom."

"But—" His voice quivered. "But noonim said.. she says—"

"I do not remember allowing you to call her Royal Highness, noonim." Werner laughed, everything but kindly, and Jesse promptly shut up—ice filling his veins and freezing him on the spot. "I told you this already. My dear Elise is too kind; Her Royal Highness does not understand the differences between your positions. Or are you hard of hearing in addition to having those useless horrid eyes as well?"

Jesse felt tears prick his eyes at those words. He wasn't sure as to whether or not they were due to the undrinkable burning tea in his hands, or from the harsh words of the prince consort sitting before him.

"Do not stare at me like that," Werner snapped, and lowering his head, Jesse chewed at his lip; he didn't even know he was looking at the man in the first place.

"Listen here," Werner roughly spoke through tightly gritted teeth. "You do not have golden hair. Your eyes are the furthest things away from amethyst, and they constantly shake around like disgusting little flies. The only reason why your attributes are associated with precious gems is that the people have nothing else to praise you for besides overglorifying the first things they see upon laying eyes on you."

Hands grabbed suddenly at his chin, and Jesse stifled back a yelp. He made sure to keep his eyes tightly shut, because he knew that if he opened them, Werner would only get angrier.

"Your hair is bland like dirty barn hay and your face is disgusting. You stupidly trick yourself into believing all the delusions being fed to you is because your useless eyes are unable to see the plain truth—but worry not, my dearest son."

Werner's gloved hand squeezed him harshly, skin never ever touching his, while his other brushed the fringe above Jesse's tightly shut eyes—a cruel mimicry of tenderness.

"I will be here to make sure you do not grow too conceited."

As the days passed, Jesse heard less and less of his sister's voice.

Ever since Werner had assigned him a new tutor after firing his former one for incompetence, Jesse barely had any time to try seeking her out.

He had been devastated that day, because Jesse had truly liked the gentle old man that was previously assigned to teach him, and the instructor Werner sent as a replacement was so much more harsh and cold, never sparing him any sympathy.

She read too fast during her lectures, and in geography, she reorganized his carefully constructed image of the continent into a jumbled mess of countries, so different from what his previous tutor taught him. When it came to his etiquette lessons, there wasn't a moment where Jesse could go without feeling afraid and on edge, because the governess had a habit of correcting his posture and harshly prodding him with a stick, so suddenly and without notice, and never told him when he was about to walk into the walls when they practised his strides, always placing so many heavy tomes onto his head it made his neck creak.

"That is because she is not there to coddle you like your old tutor," Werner told him, words icily spat when Jesse dared to voice his timid thoughts. "You are not a baby. Do you need someone to hold your hand whenever you walk, too?"

"But I- cannot see where—"

"How hard is it to follow a single old woman throughout the palace? Ha! Truly, you are so useless..."

And just like Werner was, his new tutor was just as harsh. Not once did she ever hold back, and everything was so different from what he had previously learnt, so different from what Elise used to read for him whenever she had free time and wanted to help him study.

And Jesse didn't know what to believe anymore, when he heard all those harsh words spill from both Werner and his new tutor's lips. Everything his sister told him contradicted their words, and all he could do was live in a constant bubble of confusion, never quite understanding what was right and what was wrong.

He never left the palace, and he was barely able to get around without the help of his sister or a maid, and to that, Werner only called him a nuisance for bothering the servants like that when they clearly had better things to do.

"... But, what... what if it's Her Royal Highness?" Jesse weakly asked, erasing the habitual noonim for Elise's more formal title, because Werner always got mad at him when he called her sister.

Werner scoffed. "Elise is going to be the Crown Princess one day. Her Royal Highness can't be wasting her time escorting you like a common maid, reading to you when she could be studying for her own future, instead. This is why I got you that tutor. So that Her Royal Highness won't have to waste her precious time on filthy bastards like you anymore. Are you trying to say you would rather sabotage Elise's bright future with your selfishness?"

"No! No, Your Majesty, I- I—"

"Then stop," Werner snarled, the sound of his breathing frighteningly deep and careful, bottled up rage that only filled up the more time he spent with Jesse, "taking my kindness for granted, and listen to your tutor so that your stupid brain can finally develop."

Jesse held back his tongue when he wanted to spill about how different his tutor's teaching was from Elise's patient textbook readings. He didn't know what to make of it, either, knowing that one of them was wrong, because how else could teachings differ from each other so starkly? 

And when Jesse was finally left alone at the table, Werner's words bouncing around the inside of his head, he wondered if the man could really be telling him the truth.

All the insults, all the sneered words. Jesse was slow, Werner often reminded him of it, but he knew that words often came from truths.

Your eyes are horrendous, Werner often jeered at him. Always shaking so stupidly—just like flies.

("I love your eyes, Losna," Elise would always tell him, her voice in his head, softly chiding him because "no matter what you may think, they are beautiful because they are yours.")

But when Jesse met up again with his tutor, the answer she gave upon his asking her was the same as Werner's.

His Royal Majesty the Prince Consort only ever speaks the truth.

She didn't say anything about flies, but Jesse knew they were insects, and what they were, and that Werner hated them—hated them enough to associate them with the pupils Jesse had often been told were always squirming.

He never noticed it himself—couldn't feel it, nor control it, but Elise always told him that his eyes were fine as they were. He didn't know how he looked at all, however, and so he was never able to find it in himself to fully agree.

(At night, he often wondered when his mother would heal from her broken heart enough to leave her chambers, and reassure him with her gentle voice that he was as beautiful as the kind commoner man who she loved so dearly.)

But Werner once told him that his cursed existence was the reason for his blood father's death, and so Jesse couldn't find it in himself anymore to try and visit her anymore—and risk permanently nailing the hammer into her shattered soul.

The next time they met for tea—and Jesse didn't know why they still did, when it was clear that Werner thought of him as nothing more than filth beneath his sole—Jesse made a habit of keeping his eyes closed.

Werner sounded happier in the days following that, even as he laughed over how Jesse burnt his tongue on the scalding tea he had been served, or when he took a bite out of what he supposed was a cookie, only to find it salty beyond belief—but still forced to eat it.

(He always ended up vomiting everything he had eaten, whenever he was invited to have tea with the Prince Consort.)

It was when Jesse was sixteen that Elise finally found out about his tutor—and only because he hadn't noticed it when the wounds on the back of his legs had begun bleeding through his white pants.

After a particularly harsh session where Jesse failed to properly recite scriptures past the two hundredth mark from the Church's holy texts, it wasn't out of the ordinary for his tutor to tell him to place his hands on his desk, or to lift up the bottom ends of his pants whenever he failed to reach her standards.

His mother had high hopes for him, when he was younger. The Queen had hoped that he would become a strong priest so that he could become Elise's partner, and Jesse barely remembered that but Elise had been firm when she told him, with a large, gentle grin in her voice, that it was the truth.

Jesse had a feeling that there was the truth. Maybe not the one Mother and Elise thought of him, but a truth to his existence—whether it be as a partner to Elise or as something, someone else.

Since he was young, Jesse had always felt as if he belonged somewhere. Small, invisible threads tugging at him in several directions, begging him to follow an unknown destination.

Elise said he was special. She had always meant it kindly, but Jesse was never truly able to feel like how she saw him.

And now that many years have passed, with Jesse now having turned sixteen, he was legally considered an adult.

He had not a single trace of Divine Power within him, despite all the blessings of the Almighty God and wishes of his Queen Mother, and he had remained a normal priest all the way up to this point.

Un-special, un-extraordinary. A compass turning on its head without even knowing where its purpose was pointing to.

(Somewhere. There was somewhere out there calling for him, reaching. Jesse couldn't help but mourn his inability to know where to even begin his own half of the search.)

And having finally arrived at adulthood, he thought things would've at least changed.

He didn't feel like one—an adult—but he was, and his tutor told him that he would soon become an honorary bishop, now that he was of age, but she told him he wasn't worthy at all, yet.

So she made him study.

Study, study, study and study, so that rules, essays and scriptures engraved themselves into his head like a second skin and on-call instinct, because he wasn't special, and so there was nothing else he could do but try his best and pretend he was. But it was difficult, however, because Jesse couldn't read, and the looming threat of his tutor slapping his palms and fingertips whenever he did something wrong was ever-impending—like vultures always preying upon his every flaw. She rarely ever broke his skin there, right where anyone could see if he didn't wear gloves, but she never hesitated to have them be chafed raw and rendered so very numb whenever she could. It often got to the point where he could barely even feel the raised print letters that had been embossed into the books especially made for his use.

But he had to work hard to earn that title of bishop.

If he couldn't be, then he would just be a pitiful charity case, wouldn't he? Bestowed a title he didn't deserve only because he just so happened to be born a bastard into the royal family.

So he worked hard.

So very, very hard.

(The very night before he turned 16, he knelt at the royal family's chapel on bruised knees and prayed before the beautiful statue of the Almighty God—marble fabric cloaking Her face, never resting her eyes upon the boy She supposedly favoured, in Her own way as blind as Her golden-haired boy.

'Almighty God, what is my purpose?' he asked—perhaps foolishly, because never once had he gotten an answer.

Though sometimes he comforted himself in the delusion that maybe he had felt a hand gently caress his head, that night.)

But one day everything had gone just a little too far, and his fingers had gone so numb he couldn't even have felt the wetness that came with him leaving trails of blood across the paper while he had been studying.

His tutor screamed at him.

Not only because the book was expensive, but because it was a holy text, and Jesse had dared to sully it with his filth—the vile, dirty blood of a commoner.

Jesse couldn't even have known what he was doing, and he had sworn at the embroidered hems of her dress that it wasn't his intent to commit such blasphemy. But a mistake was a mistake, and he had also dared to bloody the fine silk and fabric of his tutor's dress when he had been begging for her mercy on bruised knees.

Very soon after, Jesse had to kneel on his chair and pull the ends of his pants up to his knees, and she would hit him with that thin, whip-like stick of hers, and he would bite at his lip to do his best to avoid crying.

He was going to be a bishop—honorary in name, but still a bishop.

He was also sixteen, and so Jesse wasn't going to cry, because he was officially an adult, and adults didn't cry.

Werner once told him that he deserved all his punishments for all the trouble his existence had caused, and his tutor was only doing her job in helping Jesse realize his transgressions—helping him become a person worthy of his sister's love, of the people's apparent adoration. And Jesse believed it, because Prince Consort Werner was Elise's honourable Royal Father, an adult that Jesse should respect and get in the good graces of, because Jesse didn't know what he would do, should the man one day decide that Jesse wasn't worthy anymore to even breathe the same air as his precious only daughter.

Jesse had no one but his sister, and he needed to be worthy of her love—as worthy as Werner said he would be, if he continued to stay quiet and took all his punishments like an obedient boy.

But Elise thought differently.

Elise always thought differently.

In no less than five minutes, Jesse heard her unleash her fury at his tutor before roaring down at the guards to have the older woman be thrown out.

For what felt like an hour, he listened to Elise scream at her father—wondering why why why and 'How could you? He's just a CHILD!!' until Werner merely broke down into abundant tears, crying for his daughter to 'Please calm down, I was not aware that old woman would do that to the poor boy! Your Royal Highness, you do not think your father would ever do something so terrible would you? Besides, he's sixteen now, he's already an adult, how can Your Highness continue coddling him like this!?'— spewing word after word after word until Elise could only grit her teeth, helpless love for her father conflicting with protective love for her younger brother, and she finally turned around to go back to Jesse's side, muttering quiet apologies over and over as she carefully led him away to treat his bleeding legs.

Jesse had never heard his sister this angry in his entire life.

Jesse has also never once seen her tears.

At nineteen years old, Elise silently cried as she cleaned his wounds and bandaged him up, hands treating him so gently, as if anything she did could hurt him even more than what had already been done.

At sixteen years old, Jesse wished his eyes weren't so useless so that he could've seen his sister's sorrow and known how to comfort her, instead of helplessly crying before her.

(Later, after they properly visited a healing priest, when he quietly told her that with a guilt-ridden voice, she let out a single, stifled sob, before she pulled him into a hug—her love, all-encompassing, yet tinged with so much sorrow it was almost suffocating.)

"Jesse…"

He was eighteen when he heard his sister gently, yet hesitantly, call his name, one day as they were drinking tea.

He knew his sister had prepared a whole assortment of sweets for him—she always did, whenever she freed herself from her training and duties, and had managed to escape from Maartje and Janine's capable eyes.

But the lingering ghosts of salt and pepper tinged the tip of his tongue, mouth burning from the memory of scalding tea, and he barely found it in himself to reach out to take anything more than just a couple small bites—harsh critiques about his unrefined manners and excessive gluttony tugging his arms and appetite down like heavy chains, the aftertaste of bile choking down at his throat until his saliva felt too thick to even swallow.

Nearly startling out of his seat when he felt fingers lightly brush against the side of his cheek, Jesse snapped out of his thoughts.

"... Noonim..?"

He hadn't even noticed when she got closer.

"Losna, why…" she started, gentle and cautious and tinged with the same emotions she always wore when speaking with him. "Why don't you ever open your eyes when you're with me, anymore?"

The sadness in her voice was heavy and laced with a feeling of sorrow that he was all but familiar with.

Jesse blanked for a second, unable to respond—unsure of how he was even supposed to.

But in the end, he merely smiled, slowly reaching out his hands. It came to no surprise when he failed to find hers on his first try, but Elise was quick to realize his intentions, ever so astute when it came to his every action, and carefully made sure to place her hands right where he could easily find them.

And Jesse eventually did, because Elise always let him. Her hands were warm, calloused from weapon training and from all the administrative writing Janine couldn't help her with. They were warm, so very warm when Jesse held them, gentle when he knew and heard so much of the strength they were actually capable of holding.

She was the rising Sun of the Holy Kingdom. Jesse felt it in the way her personality was; how she treated him with those scarred hands of hers that were so warm and gentle, embracing him with the same warmth he felt on his skin whenever mornings came through the curtains of his bed chambers.

He didn't know what expression his sister might've been wearing. He didn't even know what she looked like, to begin with.

Only once had he felt her features, tracing his fingers delicately over her face when they were children, to construct an image he couldn't even be sure of its accuracy.

He'd never know how she looked like—would never know the colour of her hair, nor how she looked with love pouring from every inch of her body when she stared down at him in his crib on the day they first met, only three years older than him. He'd also never know if she still, to this day, looked at him with that same affectionate gaze that he, in another universe, would've been so familiar with it wouldn't even take him eyes to feel its effects.

He loved her, and she loved him.

They didn't share the same father, but they both knew it didn't make them any less of the pair of siblings they considered themselves to truly be.

"... Losna?" she called his name again, softly, hoping for an answer he wasn't sure he could give. She sounded afraid, as if she knew what was wrong but could only hope reality wasn't as bad as she was thinking.

Elise always made sure to tell him that she loved him—that in itself was so very clear—but nothing would ever truly be able to conceal the familiar sorrow she always cloaked herself, never seeming to ever leave her voice.

"Please," she murmured, barely a breeze and almost desperately. "Could you look at me?"

… Jesse's chest twinged, and he didn't have the heart to tell his sister that she might be even more blind than he was, for loving a pair of eyes that he knew could only be ugly.

All that he could muster up was a smile.

Ever since that hectic day teo years back, when Elise finally managed to stand up to her father about Jesse's treatment, Jesse had begun growing out his hair—just enough so that he could feel his fringe falling over his eyes.

It was a messy look on him, Werner frequently told him with what was undoubtedly a mocking sneer on his face, but Jesse felt more comfortable that way because ever since he had started, Werner hadn't outrightly called him ugly as often anymore.

And so, Jesse convinced himself to believe he was finally doing something right.

Elise, however, often tried coaxing him into cutting his hair—if only just a trim—but he never gave in.

Eventually, all she could do was accept it; the fact that her brother would never show her his eyes, that he would rather hide them behind the thin curtain of his gold-strung hair.

"At least let me braid the side of your hair," she murmured a little broken; so very lovingly. "Then, we could match."

"Match?" her Losna voiced back curiously, and Elise hummed in affirmation, fondness dripping from every inch of her voice.

Gently, she helped bring his hand to feel her own hair, how it also wrapped around her head like a crown and where the length fell all the way past her back, braided all the way down.

"... I wouldn't mind matching," Jesse grinned after a minute of running his fingers over the intricate bumps of her braided crown, his awe prevalent on his face—hidden at the eyes he always kept closed, but always so expressive.

And Elise smiled back, so very brightly, even if she knew he would never be able to see it.

With careful fingers, she twisted the strands on the side of his head into a braid, never once touching the bangs that purposefully brushed over his eyes. Jesse's hair only went a little past his ears, but it was enough. In the end, the braid was just loose enough so it didn't feel tight against his scalp, but strong enough so that it wouldn't undo itself when he slept.

And at the end of the day, they were more or less matching.

Elise always had attendants and maids to style her hair, so she wasn't exactly the most skilled—but the soft grin Jesse wore on his face for the rest of the evening, gently feeling his fingers over his new braid, could've convinced her that she was the best in the entire kingdom.

Jesse had no allies in the palace beside his sister.

He used to have his first tutor, but that old man had long been ripped from his side. His mother, the Queen, also loved him very dearly, but she had never quite left her room these days, said by physicians and priests to still be mending the fragments of her broken heart.

… Jesse didn't know how it was possible, for someone to love someone so dearly they'd lose their mind upon finding out they were suddenly gone forever.

Deep in his heart, he felt a little like there was someone out there that would love him—someone besides his mother, besides his sister. Someone he had yet to meet, leaving something hollow in his heart that only that unknown someone would be able to fill.

(A voice from the past: 'Almighty God, what is my purpose?')

He wondered if it was possible to miss someone he's never met. But he hadn't gone mad yet, not like his mother, so Jesse liked to pretend whatever it was that he was feeling was nothing other than his mind's own making, desperate for something as romantic as a fated partner, a soulmate.

He only had his sister, and that was alright.

But he couldn't help but wonder how Elise would feel, if Werner decided to rip them apart. He wondered if she would lash out, if she would become like their Queen Mother, or if Elise would come to accept and understand the will of her Royal Father.

Jesse wasn't sure if he would ever like to know.

He's never really had someone break his heart, and being familiar with the state his mother was in, he didn't want to ever find out—not that he had anyone that would take up that hammer to smash him into pieces themselves.

The servants he grew close with all eventually switched out for ones who were unfamiliar and distant. A young maid who once gently helped tend to his wounds never had her voice heard again in the halls. The librarian who kindly enjoyed narrating storybooks for him was one day abruptly replaced. The guards who would kindly escort him wherever he pleased were gradually assigned to other parts of the palace, or sent away to different outposts entirely.

Everyone who ever seemed to look at him favourably always ended up leaving him.

Not even the walking canes he had requested from servants stayed with him long—always disappearing or found broken whenever he was lucky enough to even find the remains.

And so Jesse learnt rather quickly, that it would impossible to have either anyone or anything to support him.

(But then—)

"His Royal Majesty, the Prince Consort, thinks of you as a threat," the voice of a young woman told him one day.

Jesse had been sitting in the gardens, until she suddenly showed up, unannounced, and sat just a little further away from him.

"... I would never take my honourable sister's birthright from her," Jesse countered, feeling both defeated and tired. "Who would ever want a blind king?"

"If I may, I don't think people are interested in you just because you could possibly take the crown from Her Royal Highness."

"Ha," he smiled faintly, amused. Cocking his head, he allowed her the opportunity to converse. "Then what else could there possibly be?"

"I do not mean to be rude when I say this," the young woman said, "But if you were to look into the mirror, you would easily know why His Royal Majesty the Prince Consort is wary of you."

"My Lady," Jesse smoothly interjected, his insides souring, but never revealing themselves—years of dealing with his stepfather ensured him that skill. "I am afraid I cannot see into a mirror at all."

And she laughed, then, and it was so startling to hear a voice giggle in gentle amusement, without any apparent hint of the mockery he was so used to hearing.

"Is that not why I said I had no intention to be rude before saying that? I have eyes of my own, Your Highness, which means I am able to see what you are not, and it appears to me that you are not aware of quite a few things."

"..... You…" he paused. "Are you not rather bold?"

A smile could be heard in her elegant, youthful voice. "A young lady has to be calculating and forward in such a way, if she wishes to gain what she wants in high society."

It didn't take Jesse long to pick up on what she was trying to allude to, and very faintly, he frowned—just enough to show his wariness towards her, if she were to look at his face.

"Do you wish to use me in some way? I'll have you know, my Lady, there is regretfully not much I can do for you."

"That is where you are wrong," she interjected, and with such certainty Jesse almost found himself believing he could trust her. "We can be beneficial to each other, I swear it."

Jesse's mind drew blank.

He really couldn't grasp how odd of a situation was now playing out. A few people have tried, before—though never in a manner as forward as this. It was aristocratic culture, after all, to proceed in sly roundabout ways in order to get what they want. Jesse, blind and with no allies, learnt the hard way that he had to be picky with who he let into his life.

But still, he conceded, allowing himself to humour this girl.

So they sat together, for a little while, discussing some things about high society. He learnt that the young lady was of decent standing, but not as high as she wished. He learnt that she was the youngest daughter in a family primarily of sons, with her only eldest sister being the next family head.

"I wish to marry someone of higher standing in order to help my family, but I am not seen as very desirable as opposed to some of my other peers. Not that I am ugly, of course, I am very beautiful. There just so happens to be quite a few other beautiful girls amongst our peers, as well."

What she wanted was clear and worded simply on paper: she hoped to use Jesse's popularity to boost her own.

The Royal Prince of the Holy Kingdom, infatuated with a certain young lady—what could be so special about this girl that even a blind young man could find interest in?

"That will not work," Jesse hesitantly shook his head—hesitantly, because he considered the alternative where it would but voices within him, weighing his esteem down, said it would never. "You will only get insulted for associating with me."

The girl was silent, for a second, before she spoke carefully, almost as if she had begun to realize something a little shocking. "Your Highness, who put those ideas in your head..?"

Jesse ignored her.

"I am blind."

"You are a Royal Prince," she retorted pointedly perplexed, naturally, as if that was enough to make up for his lack of sight.

"I am— useless."

"Wh... Certain you are not, if I am here talking to you!"

And before Jesse could open his gritted teeth to throw in more cards, hoping that he could finally be left alone and at peace, the young lady immediately put her foot down.

"Your Royal Highness is handsome and so incredibly beautiful, that His Highness the Prince Consort himself cannot help but be threatened by your mere existence."

That is absurd, Jesse would immediately retort, whispering sharply, because for a mere noble young lady to speak such words in compounds of the royal palace might as well be treasonous slander.

Your golden hair and amethyst eyes draw the attention of everyone in any room the very moment you walk in, she would then tell him in her own whisper, and Jesse would cut her words off with a lift of his gloved hand, whip-scarred fingertips tingling beneath the thin fabric.

"There is no way His Royal Highness would feel threatened just because…"

Something soured squeezed at his throat, and Jesse wished he could ignore his feelings that knew—always knew—deep down, that the lady before him was saying nothing but the truth.

Fatigue that had accumulated over eighteen whole years weighed down on him all at once—heavy, not unlike that of books balanced atop his head.

".... I do not wish to be a threat to him," he finally whispered, his voice weak, defeated, and so very, very tired.

"And yet, you are."

The weight of the silence was heavy. They sat together in that very silence for a little longer, and Jesse had a hunch the young lady was perhaps being considerate, at that moment, for letting him organize his thoughts.

Cupping his head in his hands, he lightly rubbed at his eyes, before finally releasing them, mind renewed.

"Tell me more," he murmured, gears and cogs that have been forcefully frozen over time, slowly thawing out to begin spinning in the threads of desperation, "About how we can be useful to each other."

And Jesse couldn't see her, and never would he be able to—but for a second he was certain that she had been smiling.

("To start off, you must call me noona!"

Her voice was sweet and made purposefully low just then, tinged with tease as she placed her hand over his.

Awkwardly, Jesse slowly pulled his hand away.

"Why...?"

"................... I will forgive you just this once, Your Highness. We shall have to work on that."

"Ah— Yes?")

At eighteen, Jesse could finally say that he had a friend.

… He… had never had friends before.

The young lady—two years older than him, he would later learn—eventually managed to achieve what she wanted, somehow. Jesse didn't know if he would ever find out how she managed it, exactly, but whenever they met, tucked away in the shadowy darkness of the verandas during big parties, she always felt to him a person that knew how to carry and navigate herself particularly well.

She was charismatic. The type that was louder than his sister's, but more modest than the Prince Consort's excessive flair. A good sort of charisma, one that he admired, because he knew he wouldn't ever be able to achieve that level of likability, himself.

And, oh, how very easy to like, that young woman was.

Jesse laughed, exasperated but glad for her, whenever she slyly told him that she had a boost in suitors that were curious as to how interesting she might be, for the only Royal Prince of the Holy Kingdom to be infatuated with her upon only a few meetings.

She cackled in turn at his awkward face when he told her about how Elise had carefully approached him a few weeks into their scheming, wondering if he had gotten himself a lover she didn't know about.

(Jesse didn't know he was capable of feeling as flustered as he had felt, when his sister had asked him that.)

"There are other young ladies I know that would benefit from the attention you would bring them from the gossip tabloids, Your Highness."

"I thought you wanted to outshine your peers?"

So why share him? went unsaid, but he knew very well that the young lady was smart enough to pick up on the small things he frequently left out.

She was quiet for a second, before her hand lightly, softly fell over his.

Her touch was gentle,

—and it was so very startling.

"... You always look so lonely," she said quietly, carefully, and Jesse could not gor the life of him understand why she sounded so sad.

Sad in the way Elise always felt. Sad in the way both women's voices sometimes softened whenever they spoke to him—a pitiful, wounded animal that they felt the need to coax out less they frighten it.

"During parties, always leaving after showing up for a mere few minutes... Always staying on the balconies…"

Her hand gripped at his a little tighter.

"Your Royal Highness, you may not be able to see yourself, but I can. I see how loneliness wears on your face, I can see how much you—"

Jesse smoothly interjected, the trajectory of the conversation drawing from him something that felt a little like shame, a little like exhausted resignation.

"It is hard enough trying to blindly navigate the royal palace's ballrooms—not to mention the manors of other nobles. Besides," he shrugged, dismissing her concerns. "I do not have many friends. It is better to avoid making any with other influential households, anyway. It would be bad for me if it looked as if I were trying to make allies… supporters."

"But—"

"But," Jesse smiled, a tired, little thing, frayed at the edges. "I would hardly mind it, if you were to introduce those ladies to me. It- would be beneficial for my image."

She hesitated, just then, even if only for a second.

"You know… when we talked that day… I never would've expected you to end up doing something like this."

"What do you mean?"

The response was lightning quick.

"Because you're terrible at flirting."

Jesse weakly huffed.

"Hey…."

"Well, it is difficult to say terrible when there is nothing to judge. There is never any flirting coming from you in the first place."

"Noona…"

Laughing, she lightly hit his shoulder. "Do not only call me noona whenever you feel like having your way!"

I'm sorry, he would then say, grinning clumsily from ear to ear, and she would scoff and pinch his cheeks at his weak attempts of placating her, before she would finally, unsurprisingly, forgive him.

It had been a long time since he had someone else other than his sister to laugh with as freely as this.

A friend.

The word lingered around in his head as he was once again left alone on the terrace.

Young lady Fientje Bolhoeven eventually became that sort of person to him.

At nineteen, Jesse had gotten to know quite a few people.

Several young ladies who adored the attention they received from the gossip columns, and a few madams whose businesses barely made them rich enough to be considered part of the bourgeoisie. Sometimes he met courteous, though rather flirty young men, but the only man Jesse had ever known was the Prince Consort, and so he was infinitely more comfortable with women, in the end.

Young Lady Bolhoeven made sure to only introduce him to ladies of lesser status but of still relatively good names, and he was thankful for that, because he hadn't a clue what he would do if he had to one day chat with the beloved princess of a dukedom, or the precious young lady of a reputable marquisate. He had studied the names of every single person in high society, though being blind meant that he wouldn't ever be able to recognize them by face, and so young lady Bolhoeven and her many connections, in a sense, became substitutes for his eyes.

But it was nice, he smiled, submerging himself in the light, excited chatter of three young women he had been whisked away to meet with, on one of yet another party's veranda. He hadn't known how comforting he would find being amongst a lively group of people to be—he wondered if he only had this late realization now because he had found people who he could finally lend part of his trust to.

Jesse didn't know when the people he frequently met up with shifted from enjoying the gossip tabloids' attention to actually enjoying his presence—accepting him in their fleeting little bubbles—but it made him feel a little warm inside whenever he thought of it. A dam he hadn't even known had been constructed had finally burst, overflowing and spilling everywhere, messy and desperate, but so very welcome.

He came to understand, eventually, that these women somehow came to care for him, all in their own ways. A lot of them were lonely, he eventually understood, as well. Some liked attention, others had personal ambition, and some merely liked the company.

And so there they were, several people who were at various levels of lonely or desperate, clinging to each other in a makeshift bubble of comfort and protection.

But they weren't just lonely. Not all lonely.

Some were just genuinely kind, kinder and more considerate than Jesse would ever be. Teaching him the diverse vocabulary used amidst social circles, and how to recognize certain roundabout ways of speaking, since he couldn't rely on the secrets of visual gestures. They were all things his tutors never taught him, and the girls always laughed and cooed at him whenever he mentioned it—treating him like a sheltered young prince that they had to acclimate to the more backhanded side of high society.

He felt bad, using them like this. For using the protection and information they so earnestly gave him.

And when he would tell them that, guilt gnawing away at him at the edges, they would always smile, or scoff, and hit his shoulder—but their touches were always so very light, and for some reason that made it hurt even more.

Then, they would always say it was their pleasure, because they were friends—

Always in voices just faintly tinged with the sort of sadness Jesse was so used to hearing, when it came to the now-countless amazing women in his life.

(At nineteen, Elise's knight had taken an arrow for him.

It had apparently been dipped in poison and demon blood, and Jesse felt his heart freeze—knowing that it had been directed at him, and that someone close to him, to his sister, had gotten hurt on his behalf.

He hadn't known he was crying until Maartje laughed between pained gritted teeth, and gently, sadly, placed a comforting armoured hand on his trembling, frozen shoulder—as if, between the both of them, he had been the one in pain.)

"Hmm…. So even after all that, the filth is still alive."

There was a sharp silence, then. Jesse's closed eyes felt dry and heavy, and his voice strangled him as it pinned his tongue flat in his mouth.

He wanted to retort—to ask if his existence was truly as disturbing as Werner always made it out to seem.

(Jesse thought of Maartje, who said she was alright despite being damned to never being able to use magic tools ever again; of Elise and her despair, who cried in fury and anguish when two of the people she had cared for the most had been targeted, now more aware than ever that even if she placed herself and a knight at his side, nothing would be able to keep Jesse safe.)

(The eve before his 16th birthday flocked his dreams once again—'Almighty God, what is my purpose?')

As soon as he could, Jesse shakingly, discreetly called for some of the women he was acquaintances with, and asked if they could meet.

He had so much work to do.

At twenty years old, Jesse's carefully fabricated image of a playboy started to more concretely solidify throughout the kingdom.

At twenty, he had to reassure his sister that he was alright, and that he wasn't sacrificing anything when he decided to tarnish his own reputation in such a manner—and of course, Elise managed to find out about his plan eventually, he smiled helplessly, because of course she did.

"Have you ever even properly held someone's hand?" she murmured, her familiar sadness dripping from her every word.

And Jesse would smile a little sheepishly, a little wobbly, when he admitted that he couldn't even dare—not if it wasn't for the sake of public appearances. Though his grin became a little more fond when he told her that his acquaintances were smart people, and that they knew how to manipulate the media more than he could ever begin to understand. Sometimes, they would present themselves as nothing flirtatious bubbly women who knew nothing more than to cling to his arm, disguising how they carefully guided his blind steps throughout the many gardens they walked through with calculative eyes, passing by as many known gossipers as they could to effectively sell their performance.

But then, Jesse would stop, noticing his sister's growing silence as he fondly retold the many stories he had to share of his many acquaintances, and would ask her what was wrong.

And that was when Elise would hug him, apologizing and apologizing and apologizing that Jesse had ever felt the need to do this in the first place, and he could only hug her back, smiling when he reassured her that he was happy—happier than he had perhaps ever been.

"The young ladies and madams all treat me nicely, noonim."

He was genuine when he said that, fondness coating his words as they hung around him like stars.

Still, Elise only hugged him tighter, apologizing and apologizing—weighed down by the knowledge that despite all her best efforts, her protection alone couldn't ever have been enough to help him.

"A scoundrel."

What felt like what seemed to be a pamphlet slapped itself across his chest. Jesse merely kept his eyes closed as he heard it fall to the ground with a dull twack.

"That is what they are calling you," Werner said, and the delight and hilarity in his voice were so apparent, Jesse found it hard to believe that he had once thought anything this man did for him had ever been for Jesse's own favour.

"I have not a single clue what any of these daft women see in you. Perhaps they took pity on you for all your defects." Werner smiled, sounding almost as if he pitied them. "But I suppose it makes sense for women who can barely even call themselves aristocrats to be interested in filthy commoner blood like yours."

"... Your Majesty, I.. I can tolerate insults towards me, but for you to smear the honourable names of my acquaintances—"

The shoulder of one of Werner's guards roughly bumped into him as they walked by. As expected, the prince consort didn't want anything of Jesse's touching him.

A strangled cry left his lips as the sole of a foot stepped over his fingers.

"To think you would dare speak so brazenly towards me. It seems those harlequins you have been associating with have had an effect on your character, my dear son."

The edge of what felt like a scabbard pushed at his chest, crumbling Jesse's form further to the ground.

He didn't know how long he spent, laying on the floor like that, muscles tense and locked frozen in the fear that has been drilled into him since childhood.

But still, Jesse fumed. Fumed in anger that he had frozen up—that his tongue had felt too heavy to throw back a retort after a mere push and shove.

For all the protection the countless women in his life had given him, up till now, he couldn't even spare the energy to properly defend them back.

Ah... he smiled, curling up from where he had slowly fallen to the ground, hands lifting to cover his stinging eyes. How truly useless.

(But his plan was working, and that, at least, he could claim as one of his scarce few successes.)

"—Are you alright, Your Highness?" the madam and owner of a relatively renowned tea house softly cooed as she escorted him by the arm around the gardens—carefully, so that he wouldn't trip.

Jesse had almost forgotten where he was, so absorbed in the memory of what had occurred just a little earlier today.

"I am fine, madam," he smiled, a little tiredly, letting her concern wash over him like a warm blanket as they continued their performative stroll.

(Word of the Scoundrel of the Holy Kingdom continued to spread, and Jesse told himself he was happy.)

('Almighty God, what is my purpose?')

(Finally, at twenty-one years old, Jesse's youngest sibling had been born.)

Hearing his mother's pained screams down the palace corridors throughout the whole process was nerve-wracking—though when it finally stopped, Jesse had to refrain himself from following his sister when she rushed after her father to check on the state of their Queen Mother.

Soon after, the cries of a healthy newborn baby filled the hallways, and he heard the excited gasps and cries of the servants around him.

And Jesse was twenty-one, still, when, a few days later, Elise carefully escorted him by the elbow to the room of the newborn baby he had yet to actually meet. He was always under the impression that he wouldn't have the chance to meet the child until much later on, but Elise made sure that Werner wouldn't know he would be visiting. And so, the room was peaceful and empty, only the two of them present to visit the small bundle of life Jesse could vaguely hear breathing within the crib.

He wondered if he could love this baby—this child, born from the mother he loved and the husband he feared.

Elise encouraged him to reach out, excitedly murmured words spilling from her lips in hushes, and so Jesse finally, carefully, cautiously did.

A second later, small fingers found themselves wrapping around his index.

A second later, Jesse found himself flooded with adoration, one that overwhelmed his entire being to the brim for the sister he now knew was named Cornelisse.

(A second later, and for the few minutes following that, she absolutely refused to let him go.)

Jesse couldn't see her at all, but he could tell, deep down in his soul, that his new baby sister was beautiful, and that he was going to love her forever.

"Amie—!" Jesse coughed out his sister's middle name in a rather punched out wheeze, and he knew immediately that the small weight thrown into him was Cornelisse from the distinct expensive floral aroma that the servants washed her hair with.

The only reason he hadn't died from the sudden shock, these past few years, was only because Cornelisse knew, at least, to announce herself in advance to give him warning before she would go tackling him.

"Big brother!!" she grinned, her entire small body flung into his side. Her voice was swimming with mirth and joy, and so full of unconditional affection. Jesse, to this day, still hadn't a clue on how she was able to adore him as much as she always proved she did.

Elise would laugh if she heard what went on in his thoughts.

She would laugh and laugh and laugh, and then she would finally calm down, amusement fading into a sad little smile. Then, she would remind him that he was loved and deserving of love, just as she so often did ever since the incident of ten long years ago.

Elise made sure to remind him that he was loved whenever she could. And after Cornelisse was born, his sisters had both taken it upon themselves to share the task between themselves.

He heard the reminder when Elise would carefully run her callused fingers through his hair, fluidly, gently, reverently—as if handling silky threads of gold, always treating him like something precious whenever she wanted to braid it. To this day, Jesse still hesitated to believe he could consider himself to be even a sliver as beautiful as his sister so often fondly told him he was.

And again would he hear it, whenever Cornelisse found him hiding away in his room where she would then curl up beside him, small body warm as she snuggled up to his side, lively but still so careful, as if to not startle him with her sudden presence. And then she would begin to talk about whatever came to her mind, and so often would end up comparing his features to anything flattering she could think of—as if Jesse would eventually come to understand just how lovely and highly she thought of him, if he had a point of reference.

But he wouldn't, because never would he be able to see whatever it was that she saw.

He couldn't see the golden wheat fields that she talked of, nor the fine jewellery that her father the Prince Consort gifted her—worn around her neck and wrists, decorated into her fine hair.

Jesse didn't even understand what colour dandelions were, but he had felt their petals between his fingers before, soft and delicate whenever Cornelisse passed him carefully twisted flower crowns, and as such, yellow became associated with that. But then she would sing him even more praises while she compared him to all the other yellow flowers she could possibly think of—unaware that, in the end, her favourite dandelion flower was in reality just a simple common weed.

Jesse couldn't understand the beauty that Elise saw in him, nor could he ever begin to comprehend the loveliness of nature that Cornelisse frequently said he shared—but he could feel, and he could always feel, so very strongly, just as he did with the warmth of the sun that he could only ever be able to feel by the warmth of it on his skin.

And so, that was what he did.

He felt the warm fondness and sorrow of Elise, who whispered promises of protection when she thought he couldn't hear her.

He felt the blazing adoration of Cornelisse, who showered it at him without hesitation, overwhelming him in all his other senses as if to make up for it in everything that he couldn't see.

Elise often told him that the people didn't find fault with him for being blind. She told him that they adored him, revered him, and celebrated his existence unconditionally, because he was a child blessed by the Almighty God, and they were their devoted believers.

And Jesse liked to think he could believe her, because she loved him so dearly and so very clearly, and he would like to think that she wouldn't lie to him.

(At twenty-six, Jesse Venetiaan began to wonder—just a little. Slowly, and eventually, surrounded by his sisters, surrounded by the other women who provided him with their protection—if he could truly be someone worthy of all this love.)

"Have you read the papers?"

"They say—"

"Apparently the Crown Princess crossed the borders—!!"

"—broke the agreement!"

"Diplomatic hostage? Our prince—?"

"But the Riester Empire is so far away….."

(At twenty-eight years of age, Jesse tightly covered his ears—habits from his childhood coming back full circle.)

Cornelisse was crying.

She was crying so much, and Jesse didn't know what to do besides kneel and try to follow the sound of her heartbroken cries, avoiding the toys thrown and tossed onto the ground.

"Cornelisse…" he called, and it came to his surprise to find his voice warbled, slightly knotted within his throat, words heavy and coiled around his tongue. "Cornelisse, please—"

"I don't want you to go!!" she wailed, and Jesse finally found her—his fingers brushing against delicate silk, and he knew with certainty that she was there when he felt his sister throw herself into his arms, latching on as if to make sure he would never be able to escape her. "Why do you have to go?!!"

Jesse was familiar with love. Love that was all-encompassing and that left no room for refuting—that was the love that Elise showered him with, and one of the only few types of love that he had ever truly known.

But this time, he then came to know sorrow— sorrow that was different from the one Elise always cloaked herself with whenever she visited him, full of regret and affection and that was so gentle it almost hurt.

In contrast, Cornelisse's sorrow was wild and fierce.

(Once, Cornelisse had told Jesse that she found him as warm and gentle as the sun.)

He had never quite understood what she meant by that, when the people frequently bestowed him the nickname of Moon. The title of Sun was always reserved for Elise, after all, who was brilliant and who could command silence and attention with just her presence—everything that was fitting for a crown princess, grand and imposing and as amazing as Jesse never was, only a mere small moon hovering around her esteemed existence.

But faced with Cornelisse's anguish, Jesse remembered just how much the sun hurt and scalded him in the blazing summer, searing on the back of his neck— the same sensation he felt when Werner had invited him for tea when he was younger, still a little naive, only for Jesse to end up standing underneath the sun for hours, holding up the prince consort's parasol when Werner realized Jesse wasn't eating anything offered on the table anymore.

("Ungrateful," Werner had called him. "At least make yourself useful, for once."

His head had been overheating and his skin felt as if it was being scorched over an open fire, but Jesse couldn't dare refute—a heavy saline taste crushing his throat and tongue at the thought of eating even a single bite.)

The memory burned him, and the sorrow of his sister burned just as much, because Cornelisse was never supposed to cry because of him, because she was a child who was so very precious, who deserved everything in the world, who deserved happiness.

As Cornelisse shook in his arms, tiny hands clawing harshly at his sleeves as if that would be enough to make him stay, Jesse couldn't help but feel as if this was his deserved, overdue punishment—the result of all his transgressions.

The tiny star in his arms scalded him and all he could do was murmur apologies, over and over and over for being the one who hurt her, and he wondered, briefly, if this was even a fraction of how Elise felt whenever she saw him.

"After a hundred nights," Jesse smiled, the quiver of his lips faint. Cornelisse's molten anguish had finally subsided into hiccups, and Jesse felt his heart break at the sound he was the very cause of.

"Wait for me, and I will come back."

"Do you promise?" Cornelisse's voice quivered.

Clutched in her arms was the toy Jesse had asked Elise to accompany him to pick out, so many years ago. Elise had told Jesse in amusement that it was a pig, when he held it out to her after picking the closest thing he could find. Jesse, to this day, still hasn't a clue on what a pig looked like—but Cornelisse told him she loved it, and so Jesse decided he loved it too.

"... I promise."

Cornelisse hooked their fingers together, and Jesse wondered, yet again, if the burning shame he felt was yet another punishment—if he was deserving of the love Cornelisse had for him, a wretched person who would only end up hurting her in the end.

A failure of a big brother.

Jesse didn't swear this promise to the Almighty God, because knew from the beginning that it would be a promise he wouldn't be able to keep.

"I promise, so—"

He smiled, and he could only hope it didn't quiver as much as he felt his heart did.

"So make sure you sleep well, and eat all your veggies, so that you will have a lot of energy to play with me when I come home."

And Cornelisse hugged him, small arms warm and tight around his neck, and Jesse wanted to cry with how much he adored the baby sister he might never be able to hug again for a long, long time.

(For a second, he was glad to be blind— that he was unable to see the relief and hope in Cornelisse's eyes that he already heard glimmer so overwhelmingly in her voice—because if he did, he was sure he would've broken down, shattered to pieces and scattered like stars.)

The next morning, Elise and her familiar sorrow made themselves known as they stood outside near the carriage. Her hands shook faintly as she took his palms into her, and handed him what he quickly made out to be a notebook—laced with protective spells, as if to make up for what she had never been able to properly provide him with herself.

"I'm sorry," Elise whispered, and her voice was laced with so much more anguish than usual.

"Sorry... I'm sorry, Losna, I am so sorry…"

Jesse was a child that had always been surrounded by his sisters' love.

(But these days, all he seemed to bring them in return was sorrow.)

"I'll bring you back," Elise whispered brokenly into his hair as she embraced him tightly. Jesse still had yet to undo the braid she had carefully given him a few days back, and Jesse wished they had more time so that he could leave with fresh traces of her gentle fingers in his hair, one last time.

He couldn't see her, but he felt the way her hot tears fell onto his shoulder—felt the kiss she pressed against his forehead, so full of love and sadness and unspoken covenant.

"I will bring you back, okay? Your noona will find a way to bring you back, I swear I will."

Jesse smiled. It was a little fragile, and he knew they both felt it.

"Is that a promise?"

Elise grinned back, a broken little thing, but her eyes burned with tearful determination and sad, hopeful pledges. 

But as always, Jesse couldn't see it—only ever feeling her overwhelming love-soaked sorrow.

The ride to the border inspection grounds was quiet.

Jesse wasn't used to such silence—always surrounded by faint whispers, the humming of Elise's deep, gentle voice, or Cornelisse's energetic, lighting-quick chattering.

Now, he sat alone in the carriage. Guards would occasionally knock on the window to ask if he was alright or needed a break, and Jesse always jumped when it happened, too used to his sisters' gentle and familiar approaches.

But he would reply nonetheless that he was alright, unwilling to be any more of a burden, no matter how much his limbs ached from sitting still the whole ride. It was like that they continued to make their way to the border, in silence and without interruption, only stopping whenever absolutely necessary.

He clutched the notebook his sister gave him before he departed, and held it close to his chest like she made sure to tell him to do if ever he felt unsafe.

Holding back a tiny, choked-up laugh, Jesse leaned back against his seat.

Unable to see where he was going, vertigo made sure to engulf every inch of his being, with every bump and sway of the carriage jolting his senses.

(He felt unsafe the whole ride there.)

Upon arriving at the Temple of Boundries, Jesse was left alone.

The soldiers of the area were currently inspecting the carriage, and Jesse all but tumbled out of it when he was asked to step off.

A wave of concerned voices called out to him, but in the end, all he could do was weakly apologize. It was only then that the soldiers rushed to reassure him, before he was escorted someplace else to take a small rest while they proceed with their inspections.

They seemed to be under the impression that a man can be of no big threat if he is blind, and Jesse found no fault in them for thinking that. There was no way he could steal or touch anything he shouldn't be, when he couldn't even navigate his way around without getting lost with the simplest of wrong turns or spins.

It turned out to be a small mistake in the end, however, to have left him all alone in an area completely unfamiliar to him. Before he knew it, when Jesse woke up after a short, impromptu nap, he came to the slow realization that he was completely at a loss as to where he was.

The unfamiliarity of everything surrounding him made a sudden fright ooze from every pore of his body, and he nearly stumbled sitting up from the bench he had been resting on.

He hesitated to venture. He feared the possibility of him bumping into a wall or falling down a staircase, or hitting himself against a pillar. The memory of his tutor making him navigate himself through the palace halls with several heavy tomes balanced atop his head still wore down heavily on him enough to make his neck hurt with phantom pain, and he wished for nothing more than to find someone to keep him company to rid himself of the unwanted recollection.

Calling out for any of his guards, Jesse soon realized that no one was answering.

Alone was he left with his unfamiliarity.

But amidst his panic he had felt it—something odd and bugging at him, heavy yet light throughout the air surrounding him, and Jesse, engulfed by such a sensation, finally took a step forward, lightly swaying on his feet, before he dragged himself blindly towards the source of light that was permeating his senses.

Jesse couldn't see light.

He only ever felt it: the warmth of the sun, the torches, the candles, the fireplace…

So standing before an object he couldn't even see, he let himself be basked in the odd splendour before him, never once approaching it—too scared to reach out and grasp it within his hands.

It felt a lot like warmth.

It felt a lot like something… strange, yet welcoming.

Jesse didn't know what it was that he was feeling.

He's heard stories before. About the temple at the neutral grounds between the Riester Empire and the Divine Kingdom of Venetiaan—the home of the vacant papal seat and several holy artifacts.

Jesse remembered his sister telling him about a Paten of Wishes, once, and the legend surrounding it. He remembered her fingers gently running through his hair, weaving a single braid into his short locks near his scalp so that he could somewhat match hers, and how she promised him that if she could, she would do anything in her power to use it to help him regain his sight.

… For a second, he clasped his hands slowly together.

For a second, he bowed his head, lips lightly brushing against his interlocked fingers.

For a second, he wondered what would happen if he opened his eyes and found himself able to see—

(His sisters' love had always felt warm;

Cornelisse's warm arms around his waist.

Elise's warm fingers braiding his hair.)

(Suddenly, Jesse was the eve before turning 16 all again, kneeling before Her statue and asking, pleading, begging, 'Almighty God, please, what is my PURPOSE?'—)

He breathed.

—For a second, he made a single wish.

"Your Highness?"

A voice gently called out to him, as if afraid to startle a blind man if they talked even just the slightest bit too loud. But Jesse, despite all the guard's soft precaution, still awoke with a small flinch.

Head snapping up, he realized he couldn't feel that warmth anymore—as if it had disappeared, or as if he had imagined it all along.

Shame, embarrassment, sorrow flooded his senses, warmth dusting his cheeks, and he erased all traces of thought from his head.

… How ridiculous.

A paten that could grant wishes… holy artifact or not, it sounded too good to be true. He had to be imagining things.

The Prince Consort's words whispered into his ears like echoes, and Jesse remembered to keep his eyes firmly shut as he followed the guard carefully guiding him by the arm, all the way back to his carriage.

The ride to the Empire was quiet.

(Jesse clutched his sister's notebook tighter to his chest—words of an unspoken wish smothered to ash.)