a/n; I was literally so excited to post this chapter. I've prewritten parts of it all the way back from the day this fic was published (August 31) and it's finally out! not sure if it's well written (it may be repetitive, I do admit - so don't come after me for that) since I was a pretty tired today and didn't have the time to fully look through this: but nevertheless, I wanted to get this chapter out for guys to read - do comment as it would greatly motivate me!

—

Six days after your twenty-second birthday, and two days after Silas had disappeared for the second time — your father came knocking on your door.

You were already in a bad mood, considering that Silas was keeping something from you. Days had passed, and still he hadn't spilled anything. You were really beginning to wonder if Silas was cheating, except that one look at him, it was obvious that he was too heavily in love with you to do such a thing.

Which begged the question: if Silas obviously adored you so much, why was he keeping things from you? Was he scared that you would view him differently? What was so bad that he didn't want to tell you? Just what the fuck was it?

And so, with your anxious feelings and glum mood, you looked at your father with an expression of disdain, lips curling into a scowl. The last time you had seen him, he had been announcing the news of divorce. What, was he going to announce quitting his job as the butler? But from that kiss, you doubted that the Emperor would let your father go easily.

"Father," you acknowledged. You two were standing at the door. You made no effort to invite him in. "What's the matter?"

You noticed with more curiosity than concern that red rimmed his eyes. Your father, ever so prideful, ever larger than life, looked like a tree about to be swayed by the hurricane. Perhaps a few years ago, he would have reprimanded you for your harsh tone and unfriendly behavior, but now he could only look at you weakly.

"Y/n," he managed, his voice hoarse, "I'm sorry."

Your brain felt like he was lagging. You blinked your eyes, and then shook your head. There were a lot of things your father could have apologised for — for not caring enough, for neglecting you, for letting your family crumble. And so now, this innocuous, plain I'm sorry meant nothing to you. A while ago, you would have been astounded to see a man like him uttering these two words, but now, you were indifferent to it. You were tired of letting yourself hope, dream; think, of a whole family.

"What for?" Your tone came off confused. "...It's been a while since we last conversed. And now you're at my doorstep, offering nothing but an apology."

"Y/n," your father repeated again. His gaze dropped, and your eyes naturally followed his line of vision.

Your throat went dry.

In your father's hands, like a peace offering, was your journal. And yet the pages were tinged with red — paint, you supposed, but later on you realized it had been a futile thought — and the ink was smudged. Handprints were on it, like someone had desperately clutched on it.

You looked at your father wordlessly. Your name had been the only thing he had called out. It was soft, on the verge of breaking. It was the only thing he had said before he continued to stare at your journal.

There was a brief silence before you spoke up.

"I don't get it," you said at last, "what is my journal doing with you? I gave it to my mother."

"I know," your father murmured brokenly, "I know."

The sudden thought emerged into your brain, terrifying and quick, like a lethal dagger: what is he apologising for?

What was your father apologising for?

What was that red on your journal, which was supposed to be with your mother?

"Father," you fumbled for words, "Dad — no, Father — I — tell me — why did you say sorry just now?"

Please, no, you thought, don't let my worst fears come true.

Your thoughts were swarming in your head now. It thrashed violently, and everything seemed to lead to only one conclusion. But if that conclusion was true, you would fall to your knees: you would cry, you would mourn. But there was absolutely no way that it would happen. Your mother was a strong, valiant woman. She had been moving on, she had been healing.

Nothing, you were convinced, would stop her.

"Father," you raised your voice, "answer the question."

"Your mother," your father said slowly, each word like a nail to the coffin, sealing your fate, " — the — the news came a little late."

Your eyes drifted to the red pages. The smudged ink. Red. Blood. Who coughed out blood? Who was ill? Blood. Red. Did anyone die? Red.

Blood.

Death.

It felt like your mind had snapped. The same words repeated in your head, taunting you.

"News of what?" Your voice grew a little shrill and hysterical, and you found yourself clutching onto your father's shoulders, your expression mirroring that of a crazed man, "what about my mother? Spit it out —"

"She has died."

You could've heard a pin drop.

You felt your thoughts begin a slow descent into madness. Your knees felt weak. What do you look like now? Why did it feel like you had been stabbed mercilessly in the stomach? The pain was guttural.

"Two days ago." Your father said. "She died two days ago, but the news only came today."

You didn't think of it then, but your mother had died the day Silas had disappeared. You were too heavy in your grief, with your all-consuming thoughts that threatened to eviscerate and drown you. They were like pinpricks to your heart: siphoning out all joy within you to replace it with deep, dark, murky despair.

Your eyes felt like they were burning.

All of a sudden, it didn't feel like you were here. You looked down at your legs. You couldn't really see them. They felt like a separate being to yourself, disjointed and detached. You looked to see your arms. You tried moving them. They shifted — so they were part of you, after all.

Your mind shut down. The words that left your mouth were soon a mess.

"She died," you repeated. The sound of those words were harsh on your ears: they felt like strange, disgusting garbles. Then your fingers flew to your face and you felt your skin, the coldness of it, the way it didn't even feel like yours anymore.

It didn't feel like you were here, not anymore. It didn't feel like you were meant to be here. You were supposed to be with Silas now, and he wasn't meant to be hiding secrets from you. Maybe in another life, in another dimension — your mother was still alive, Silas was not secretive, and your father cherished you dearly.

Maybe in another lifetime, you would get a happy ending. But in this one — it felt like you were falling.

"Am I..." you wondered, "am I still breathing? Am I still alive? How am I still alive? Or moving? Am I warm? Freezing? Burning? Am I —"

Were you here, on this earth? Did you exist, or were you nothing? Were you nothing and everything, all at once?

Who am I, if not my mother's memory? Who am I, if not my father's foil? Or am I too much like him?

Your heart felt like it was bursting. Like the seams were tearing apart. How could your mother have died? It just couldn't be possible.

The tears were not rolling down your face. It felt like they were being stubborn: refusing to showcase your grief. It felt like they were telling you that this was the price you had to pay for your selfishness, that you deserved it.

You reeked of desperation as you looked at your father.

Please, you thought, you begged, you shook, hold me, father.

"Father," you pleaded.

He was the only family member you had left; was he not? You craved a family's warmth now, and your father was the only one who could offer you that.

You waited. In plays, in books, this would be the time in which a pair of family members who did not get along well would reconcile and embrace. You weren't sure what you were wishing for (how ironic, just earlier on you had told yourself that you were tired of hoping) — but you saw the stricken look on your father's face.

For a brief moment, you thought your father would hug you.

But he did not linger around to pick up the broken pieces of your heart: no, your father was the one who wielded the final blow — he was one who broke you as he turned and left, not before placing the journal on your desk.

The silhouette of your father leaving, his shadow parting, and you being abandoned.

In that moment, you shattered to pieces.

—

Silas saw you stone-faced and listless in your room when he returned. You were ramrod straight, staring blankly into space.

"Let me see her body," you muttered to yourself, "I need to see her. I need —"

"Y/n."

Silas's voice was a trickle into your dilapidating consciousness — and you momentarily broke out of it, staring pale-faced at the prince — your lover.

"What's the matter?" He asked you, his face horrified by the agony of yours, "what could have rendered you in such a state?"

Silas's touch was feathery light, like he was treating you like porcelain. Like glass. His fingers, on your skin, felt alien to you. You couldn't exactly feel it anymore — touch, or your own limbs, for that matter — it felt like you were traipsing into a dimension where your thoughts were at war with one another, and your physical body no longer mattered. In fact, at that moment, you were firmly convinced that your body was cracking. It could have died: and you wouldn't have cared.

"My baby, Y/n," your mother's voice filled in your ears, "my darling, precious baby. I'm sorry I said all those words to you."

"Shut up," you begged aloud, "please."

Her words were taunting you. You could have hallucinated her: but now that you hadn't seen her for such a long time, your mother's features were distorted. Eve her voice felt uncanny, like it wasn't hers.

You were already forgetting things about her. There could be no greater punishment than that.

"We can try again. Mother and son. I love you, Y/n. Come over at times, alright? Visit me!"

"Please. Don't do this to me."

"I'll treasure the journal, Y/n. I'll hold on to it no matter what."

"I can tell," you trembled, "I can tell you kept the journal with such care."

Silas had no choice but to shake your shoulders to break you out of your reverie. Even the firm, insistent force on your skin was not enough for you to clear your mind. You looked at him, then looked at his grip on your shoulders. Then, with glossy eyes, you stared at Silas.

"She died." Was all you could manage, "my mom. She died. She was still young. She could still live."

She died mere days after your birthday. What a cruel joke. What a pathetic, flimsy joke.

There was a long pause.

"Your mother has died?" Silas looked surprised, but not as much as you had expected him to be, "your mother...she has passed on?"

Hearing it made it more real.

In that moment, there was mild confusion on his face — like Silas was fully registering your words — and then horror — and the faintest trace of guilt. Silas had stilled, but you were too busy grieving to take note of it. "Yes, Silas. She's —"

His touch was your only anchor to you now. You clung on to him. You felt a kiss on your forehead. And finally, the tears started to flow readily. You cried and cried and cried — it was a shame that you were an adult, and yet all you knew how to do in the face of death and grief was weep, like a little child. You felt alienated: you used to be your mother's son, and now your mother was dead. You were never your father's son — he never cared about you, at all — he had left you behind.

So who were you now?

"I've no one else, Your Highness," you sobbed, "I'm sorry — I'm sorry for showing this side of me. But...I can't," you struggled to breathe. "Oh, my dear mother. I cherished her. I loved her. And to think...and to think she's gone."

If you thought about it, your final act towards her had been one of defiance. She had not liked you working at the palace. She had mentioned before that your loyalty — it would kill you. And then again, it was your father who told you to always be steadfast in your duties and loyalty.

You must be loyal to His Highness, always.

And so you had been.

You had been loyal — but now your allegiance was being rewarded with something so cruel and merciless.

Your whole life, you had been abandoned. First, by your father, as he fled from you. Now your mother had died.

Oh, poor child. Why were you so utterly alone? Did you have no one else in your life? You were no longer a child of six, frollicking about in the gardens. Oh, no. Adulthood was very much real, and it gutted you from the inside and out, leaving your organs out to be swept away in the rain.

Life was miserable.

Were you turning out to be your father? You hoped not. At least you loved the prince, and you still held kindness for others. But loyalty was still loyalty, and now your loyalty towards Silas — it had prevented you from protecting her. You had made a choice then, when your mother had implored you to stay with her even after those six years ended.

The fact wouldn't change that you had chosen Silas over your mother. And now all you could do was wait for someone who would never come back, ever again.

Perhaps I could have saved her...

You kept gasping. You couldn't breathe. There was no air. There was no oxygen. Nothing was helping you. You were going to drown in a sea of your own tears.

"Please," you said softly, "for years I've rotted. For years I've been a living corpse. I'll never see her again. I'll never —"

It felt like there was nothing under your skin but light. It felt like if you cut yourself now, you would be able to shine — if you fell on the sidewalks of life, if you tripped over a pebble — crimson would jet out, and you would bleed. It felt like that was what your soul was doing now: bleeding and bleeding and bleeding and it would never ever stop.

Why did you feel so empty now? Was it because you had left pieces of you with your mother, that was now gone?

"Y/n," Silas said softly, "I'm sorry —" and then a pause, and another shake of your shoulders as you cried, "—for your loss."

I'm sorry. Why did everyone say that when someone close to you died? Why? Who were they apologising to? Were they sorry for you for having to endure such pain? Yes, it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair at all. Why did your mother have to die? She was only beginning to find her happiness. Why? Just why? Why did the gods have to weave such a terrible fate for her? Why not you?

Why couldn't you die instead?

"Don't abandon me, Silas," you begged, "Never do. Please. I'm sick of being abandoned and then being left behind. I can't — I can't fathom the idea of being alone anymore. My whole life, I've been chasing after something that I never obtained. And now when it was finally within my reach — when it was finally within my reach —"

Your words collapsed into sobs. Your vision — it was all blurry. For a brief moment, it kept flashing into patches of red, like there was crimson blooming, like flowers, from underneath your eyelids. You thought of your mother's listless body, unmoving and cold. You thought of the gentle hands that had touched your cheek, the warmness of it, the way all that resentment had left your body in a steady exhale. You thought of her face, touched by age so gently, that tenderness in her eyes, lingering there.

Numbness stayed on your stomach. You were numb; then cold, crying, then panicking.

This could not be your life. You let out another choked, dry sob. Why were you overreacting? There was once you thought that you didn't like your mother. She had spiralled, after all, giving no thought to the little kid you were. She had drunk and she had neglected you once, after all.

Oh, but she had loved you.

Oh, but she had cradled you.

Oh, but she was your mother.

And oh, you loved her.

You were eight and she had been so sweet. You were nine, then twelve, when she had treated you cruelly. And now you were twenty two, and you had started to understand her actions — why alcohol had been her remedy — and why she had done what she had done. And now she had died, and you never ever have another chance to talk to her, to hear her voice, to hear her apology, to love.

You did not just mourn for her absence. Grief was a nonlinear process. You mourned for her as an entirety: you mourned the unspoken words, the what-ifs, the possibilities. You were meant to see her grow old, with wrinkles and white hair dotted on her hair. You were meant to see her peaceful, at last, sitting on a chair and staring out at the beautiful horizon.

You had meant for all of that to happen.

"I will never leave you," Silas promised, his words desperate. "I promise you that, Y/n."

Silas offered no other consolation other than that. It felt like he knew another word he said would topple you over, even though you were already floating, treading amongst the stars. And as far as you were concerned, your whole life had consisted of a train — a line — of non sequiturs. Nothing made sense, anymore. Nothing was logical. Nothing was okay. As far as you are concerned, you weren't alive anymore: you felt like you had been ripped from head to toe.

"Silas," was all you could gasp out, as the tears continued to streak down your face. You were a mess. "Silas, I don't know how I can...and..."

Your twenty second birthday was so perfect. Your mother had been alive then. Silas hadn't been keeping secrets from you. And even now, you wanted to ask Silas, to question him: what are you hiding from me? But you couldn't. Not now. Not when you were barely coherent. Not when your sentences were choppy and broken.

Not when you were in pieces. What happened to making yourself whole for Silas? And now you would burden him by making him repair you. Fix you.

"And the journal," you told Silas in between hiccups, "she kept it so well. She treated it so preciously. And at least she had that. At least she knew I loved her before she died, but even then — I left her. My final note to her was one of betrayal. I betrayed her for you, Silas. I left her for you. This loyalty of mine —"

Was this why your father was always so bitter, encumbered by his own loyalty? His own feelings? You bore witness to it. Your father had chosen his master — His Majesty — over his only son, you. You had suffered at the hands of that, and now you dealt the same blow to your blood kin, your mother.

Your soul had died, but your mother —

Silas pressed kiss after kiss on your skin. Each kiss reminded you that you were alive, that you were felt, that you were seen. If not for his burning touch on your cold, cold, skin, you would've thought you were dead, too, born to be loveless.

"Promise me, Silas, that you'll never betray me," you said shakily, "you have to promise me that."

The thought came and then went. Did you kill my mother, Silas? You didn't, right? You wouldn't do that, right?

Because if he did, you would have seen how the curse would have worked. If Silas really killed your mother, you would never be able to look at him the same way ever again. It would be impossible to — you would have left.

You would have resented Silas, even if it was just a little bit. You would have loved Silas still (for your greatest blessing and curse was to adore him), but you and him could never be the same ever again.

There was a long, stretched out pause.

Silas — he had hesitated.

That was enough. His hesitation was an answer in its own right.

"I won't," Silas said at last, softly, quietly. "I won't betray you. My loyalty is yours, just like your loyalty is mine."

And when you looked at him, you found that you were believing him less and less.

Just like how you found it difficult to believe that the matter Silas was hiding from you was nothing, you found it hard to believe that Silas wouldn't betray you, too.

—

a lot of you guys already expected the mother to die lol - the death flags were all there haha. shorter chapter this time (but still a good length) and the next chapters might also be shorter since there's only so much I can really write for MC being sad lol. grief is an interesting thing to write;; I had fun doing this. hope u guys enjoyed this!

now the question is, how did the mom die I wonder...

but anyway, thank you for 400k reads!! it's been a  couple months since I published this and very grateful to hit this milestone before 2025 arrives! (This was meant to be published on new years, but eh, whatever lol)

hope it was ok! do remember to vote and add to your library to get notified of updates!

how was it?