Aftermath

"I'm awake," Peturabo announced.

Mors glanced at him and then ignored him.

He lay in a wicker chair, switching to a shorter blade to whittle his wood. The shavings vanished before they could fall onto his dark clothes, and if one looked closely, they would find they had piled up into a small hill in the corner of the room.

Peturabo stared at Mors for a while, as if trying to warn him with his eyes not to remain indifferent any longer.

His mind was still hazy, as if a tight gauze bandage had bound his thoughts, causing him to see trembling spots of alternating gray-white and color. Fatigue made his limbs heavy, as if bound by steel, immovable.

Thirty seconds later, Peturabo lay back down, the sensation against his pillow making him unsure when Mors might have a change of heart and fetch him normal soft blankets, mattresses, and pillows.

Then, from the feel of the palace tassels and the soft brocade fabric hanging from his pillow, he judged that it was not Mors he should be thanking after all.

"Harkon visited," Mors said slowly, his words carrying a soothing rhythm like a blade finely scraping wood. "He apologized for his oversight and announced your victory."

He applied a little force with his blade tip, smoothing the outer curve of the wood. "I told him you would claim your prize upon waking. I trust you've thought about what that entails."

"Mmm," Peturabo replied. Mors's repeated lessons had taught him that he needed to declare what he wanted to obtain after paying a price. "I heard the Lokos library has been sealed for many years, and the key to its doors is in the hands of the royal families."

"An excellent choice," Mors said, blowing gently to keep the wood shavings from interfering with the blade's work.

Peturabo looked up at the familiar ceiling, his mind still a dim fog, his body feverish, but his forehead felt cool, as if tossed by a rocking tide, everything unclear.

It was only then that he remembered how he had collapsed.

He immediately flew into a delayed rage, propping himself up on his elbows, blood pounding in his veins.

"Someone tampered with the water," Peturabo gritted his teeth in anger.

His anger was directed more at himself, for his own carelessness and gullibility, for falling so easily into a trap, and for collapsing into Mors's arms in front of everyone.

This pained him a thousand times more than any physical discomfort.

"Regarding this matter, Princess Calipha came to explain to me," Mors said, turning the piece of wood over and examining another surface. "The poisoner died before questioning, as did the person I captured."

"I permitted their swift deaths."

Mors let out a disdainful puff of air through his teeth. "That person thought to poison me with deception. Who did they think they could fool?"

Peturabo felt that Mors was speaking in veiled allusions. The pain in his nerves continued to assault his mind, like someone hitting his head with a blunt object.

"Lie down for a while longer, child," Mors advised him in a level tone.

Peturabo complied, lying back on his bed, many questions swirling in his mind, rising and falling in succession.

He thought about the sudden attack, about Harkon, Andos, and Calipha, about when Mors had arrived on the scene and disguised himself as an ordinary citizen to personally deliver the final remarks on his performance.

He recalled yesterday—or if he had not been unconscious for more than a day, then yesterday—Mors had finally praised him directly, causing sweet, brilliant flowers to bloom enticingly in his heart, almost projecting from reality into his dreams, and reflecting a clear light from the dreamlike beauty.

He thought that Mors had been watching him, and his heart softened.

"Do you know who wanted to administer the poison, Mors?" Peturabo asked, turning his head.

"Theoretically, I don't. It's nothing more than the jealousy of other nations finally drifting to Lokos. Such schemes against a tyrant can be encountered fifty-two times a year."

Mors encountered some difficulty with the carving on the wood block. Logically, he should have carved an extremely archaic eagle on the front of the emblem, but he had always disliked Rome; if he carved a cross with two intersecting lines, it would carry too much of a sarcastic implication.

"And in reality?"

Mors placed the wood block face down on the table beside the chair, tossing it and the small knife together. Out of sight, out of mind. He turned the wicker chair to face Peturabo.

"The one who approached me was the brother of a Lokos soldier. The one on stage with you was a spy from another country."

"Was there Lokos involvement?"

"His brother died on the way to pick you and me up. Remember those three soldiers?"

Peturabo certainly remembered. The boy met his gaze for a few seconds, and they tacitly skipped over this topic.

They each had their reasons for not being able to mourn, and they were unwilling to pretend in front of each other, to feign how noble their morals were or how sensitive their hearts were.

The boy was actually more concerned about something else.

"The other half of your story was told by Calipha," he said. "When did you communicate with her! Why couldn't you tell me directly?"

"Because I wanted you to hear it from others, I wanted your ears to not only have my voice but also the voices of others."

He also hoped that the princess would look after Peturabo for him in the future, as he was starting to find it tiresome; it was truly unimaginable how parents in this world raised one or even multiple children to maturity.

Peturabo turned his head away in disapproval.

Mors reached for the table, his fingers hooking a fruit plate inlaid with gold thread, sliding the plate filled with plump grapes within reach of his chair's armrest.

He ate one himself and tossed another to Peturabo; Peturabo caught it, sat up a little straighter, and ate the fruit by the headboard to replenish his sugar.

"Talk to me about your thoughts, child," Mors said casually and indistinctly, rolling a grape in his mouth before it burst.

Peturabo crushed the fruit with his teeth. "If the same story is narrated by two people, will the content deviate? It's not as if I'm unwilling to listen to you."

He let his slightly pointed front teeth collide, creating a sound only he could hear through his bones.

He knew Mors was right; if he wanted to lead Lokos forward, he had to listen to the voices of the Lokos people. What he saw and what he gained had already provided him with examples.

But Peturabo was still somewhat puzzled.

"But I don't want to engage in so much verbal sparring with you all the time," Mors said, closing his eyes, his head resting lightly on the upper edge of the chair back.

"Is that so?" Peturabo looked at him suspiciously.

"Speak your truth quickly," Mors commanded, his eyelids shut. He had no desire to endure Peturabo's old habits.

Peturabo sat up straighter. He had cleared up much of the grogginess from the poisoning, regaining the rationality of his nimble existence.

After swallowing the fruit, he hugged the blanket, turned his head, and said in a low voice, with as much calm as possible, "I thought you were going to leave again, Mors. I thought you were preparing for it."

"You can't see me for half a day, and you become suspicious?" Mors opened his eyes, his pupils shifting as he looked at Peturabo's appearance through the scattered strands of hair.

He pondered for a moment, then stated plainly, "That's not bad."

"Huh?" Peturabo raised his eyebrows.

"It's good that you're not unreasonably jealous that I only correspond with Princess Calipha, or that you're not speculating about things I can't even guess. You don't want me to leave, but I'm not in a hurry to go, so it's not a problem."

Mors let out a breathy laugh.

He then readjusted his head, melting into the rattan chair like cheese under the sun, becoming inseparable from it.

"You think I don't have problems?" Peturabo felt a warm current flow over him, making his mind work more smoothly.

"Oh, I don't expect you to be perfect," Mors said softly, enjoying the silent service of the chair that perfectly fit his body structure. "As long as your problems don't interfere with important matters, it's fine."

He shifted his shoulders, finding a more comfortable angle.

"I won't repeat grand principles anymore. After all, you're a smart child, and I'm the embodiment of laziness. I have nothing to say for now. If you're tired, lie down. Don't bother me."

That warmth retreated from the top of Peturabo's head to the soles of his feet.

"The principle is that I can never be moved by your actions," Peturabo said, lying back onto the pillow with force.

Mors mumbled a couple of words, "Right, that works too."