Chapter 63: Only Two Weeks Left to Live

Judith looked at the silent Fria and asked again.

“So you didn’t just accept it without giving anything in return… did you?”

“…”

“There has to be at least a sketch left somewhere. I’d really like to see what portrait you gave His Majesty.”

There was no such thing. Even if Fria had wanted to reciprocate, he had been confined to the attic and had no way to commission a locket with his own portrait.

Preparing an enamel miniature, one that required multiple firings in a kiln, in such a short time would have been impossible.

“What clothes were you wearing in the portrait? Did the countess help you pose?”

“…I never had one painted.”

Unable to invent a lie about something that didn’t exist, Fria decided to tell Judith the truth.

“You didn’t have one painted? Then did you cut off a lock of your hair for him?”

Judith, who treasured Fria’s hair almost as much as he did, widened her eyes and began inspecting him for any missing strands. Remembering how his head maid had once burst into tears over a simple haircut, Fria hurriedly denied it.

“No. I didn’t cut my hair.”

“Then what did you put inside the locket?”

Watching Judith’s expression, Fria gave an awkward smile.

“It was so unexpected that I hadn’t prepared anything…”

“So you really just accepted it?”

Did Lady Judith think he didn’t understand what a locket symbolized? Between lovers, receiving one usually called for some token in return—even just a lock of hair.

“I’ll find something else to repay him with.”

Fria understood the meaning perfectly well. He simply couldn’t believe the emperor had given it to him with romantic intent. Thinking back on the moment, Owen had only tossed it over after Fria casually claimed he wanted a portrait.

It had seemed more like playful teasing than a heartfelt gesture.

To everyone else, however, the story looked entirely different. Fria had received a locket containing the emperor’s portrait and had been granted the palace historically reserved for the emperor’s most beloved consorts.

To outsiders, he could only appear to be the emperor’s deeply favored male favorite.

“The emperor’s birthday is almost here. Don’t tell me you haven’t prepared a gift?”

“When is it?”

Judith stared at him in disbelief.

“You didn’t know? It’s only ten days away.”

Of course he hadn’t. He wasn’t even an imperial citizen.

The only gifts Fria had ever exchanged in his life were bouquets, sweets, and wine with Gir; a pony, storybooks, new clothes, and shoes from his older brothers; and bitter medicine he had once given Duncan. At a loss, he sought Judith’s advice.

“What do you think I should give him? Should I sell something to raise money?”

“There’s already a budget set aside, so don’t worry about that. I should spy on what the other palaces are preparing before we decide.”

After thinking for a moment, Judith’s face brightened.

“First, we need to summon a court painter. We’ll commission a huge portrait for His Majesty, hang another in this reception room, one in my room, and miniature versions for lockets too.”

The moment she mentioned portraits, Fria’s expression stiffened. He was someone destined to be forgotten. He had no desire to be immortalized in paint only to end up abandoned in storage, gathering dust.

“I don’t want my portrait painted. Other than that, I’ll follow your suggestions.”

“There you go again. You don’t actually believe those old superstitions about portraits stealing your soul, do you?”

She had heard of people refusing portraits for precisely that reason. Looking exasperated, Judith gazed at him imploringly.

“That’s right. I want to live a long life, so no portrait.”

“If that were true, His Majesty should have died ages ago with all the portraits of him that exist…”

Pouting, Judith abruptly realized what she had just said and clamped her mouth shut. Her frustration had led her to utter something bordering on sacrilege.

“If I were in your place, I’d ask artists to paint my every move.”

If you’re going to waste beauty like yours, you should just give it to me instead, she muttered mournfully.

Claiming exhaustion, Fria retired for the night. Judith attended to him before leaving the bedroom with a disappointed look. Waiting for her in the sitting room instead of returning to his own quarters was Olga.

“I could draw him in charcoal, at least.”

“Really, Olga?”

Judith blinked in surprise. Most court painters, and nearly every artist patronized by the nobility, were men. A woman offering to draw someone was unusual enough to catch her off guard.

“Yes. My skills are modest, but you seem to want a portrait of Lord Fria.”

“That would be wonderful. But could you do it without him noticing?”

“It would be easier if I could observe him directly, but I can draw him from memory.”

“That’s amazing!”

“Not at all. You may be disappointed when you see it. The court painters will produce the proper portraits. Mine would only amount to a sketch.”

Though she never showed it openly, Judith had never been entirely comfortable around Olga. Olga’s excessive loyalty to the former crown prince’s wife bothered her, and there was simply something about the woman that made Judith uneasy.

‘Have I been unfairly prejudiced against her? she wondered. She found something Fria lost, and now she’s even offering to draw his portrait. Maybe I’ve misunderstood a genuinely kind person.’

Perhaps they had simply never spent enough time together.

“How about assisting me with Lord Fria’s wardrobe starting tomorrow? If you’re going to draw him, observing him up close should help.”

“Would that truly be acceptable? I wouldn’t want to make him uncomfortable.”

“I’ll handle the direct personal care. You can simply assist beside me. I’m sure that much won’t trouble him.”

Judith had no intention of surrendering tasks like washing Fria’s hair, brushing it, or helping him dress. But she was willing to let Olga hand her combs or hold clothing. After all, the ladies-in-waiting already gathered every morning while Fria got ready, so little would really change.

****

His chest felt tight.

Fria sat up in bed and walked to the window, pushing it open. Cold air rushed into the room. Standing there in the icy breeze, he stared silently across the black waters of the lake.

He had always believed he lived prepared for death. That was why he had volunteered to become the emperor’s consort in Mattia’s place, because he thought he had no lingering attachment to life. Every year he lived believing it might be his last.

When he left the duchy, he had said goodbye to his family expecting never to see them again. He had been preparing for a long farewell with Gir as well.

He thought that as long as he could witness Judith, the person who had helped him endure life in the empire, find happiness, he could leave without regrets.

Two weeks. A month if fortune smiled on him. That was all the painless time he had left. After that, he would tumble toward his destined death like a boulder rolling downhill, unable to stop.

He could not even imagine what suffering awaited him or what state he would be in when the end came.

Had Gir returned from his journey? Fria had always believed Gir would cross any distance to come for him. But Gir had no way of knowing the hidden medicine had been thrown away. He would assume there was still plenty left and might not arrive in time.

Or perhaps he would think he had already done enough by raising Fria and keeping him alive all these years, and choose not to come at all.

Two weeks. Maybe one month.

Faced with a deadline that had suddenly become terrifyingly real, everything Fria had relied upon seemed to crumble beneath him, leaving only fear.

‘Not yet. I’m still all right. I’m all right.’

****

The room felt cold.

Seeing the open window, Owen strode over and shut it at once. The wind had nearly extinguished the fire in the hearth; after poking the logs, the flames rose again.

His eyes fell on Fria, sleeping with an unnaturally pale complexion, and Owen frowned.

‘He’s already in poor health, and yet he leaves the window open? What was he thinking?’

Owen reached out and touched Fria’s face.

His skin was startlingly cold.

For an instant, Owen’s own expression hardened. He slid two fingers beneath Fria’s jaw to feel for a pulse.

It was there, steady and strong.

Realizing what absurd fear had crossed his mind, Owen let out a quiet, humorless laugh.

‘Are the attendants in this palace even taking care of their master?’

How was Fria ever supposed to recover if this continued?

The thought irritated him, but it was still too soon to reveal himself openly.

Instead, Owen slipped beneath the blankets and wrapped his arms around the sleeping young man, drawing Fria’s chilled body close to warm him.

📚 Also on NHV Novels

The Imperial Evening

AngstFantasy RomanceImperial Palace

Read Now →
Not interested