a/n; remember to vote! commenting always motivates me so if you can please do comment along the way :) enjoy and thank you all for the immense support!

—

Your mother panicked at the bloodied state that you were in.

"You said you were going to read!" She chided you, making you sit down. She pressed a cold towel to your forehead and frowned. The headache had ceased, but still, your mother continued to press brews and tonics to your mouth. The dried blood on your lips looked more painful than it was, but really, it wasn't too bad. The worst pain was over, and now all that was left was remnants of rich red dyed on your lips.

You coughed. "Some things happened. I tried climbing a tree, and I fell," you lied. "That's why my hands are all grubby and dirty. I'm going to shower."

Your mother pressed her lips together, shaking her head. "You're too careless."

You flashed her an easy grin. "Sorry."

"Go wash up. Food will be ready."

You nodded your head, tossing your dirty boots to the side before heading to the bathroom. Your eyes roamed around the room — after the conversation with Aster, you were trying to find something — anything — to dig into. There were no pictures left on the wall of your mother and father. They had all been taken down. There was no sign that your father had ever existed here before, actually. Once, there had been a neat row of mugs all labeled with your names on it. But now, it seemed that your father's one had been discarded.

It was odd to think that your parents were divorced. Many people did not divorce and chose to have affairs. As divorce was seen as a disgrace. And it would mean a multitude of issues: first, there was the whole custody of the child that had to be dealt with, and then there was the whole dividing of assets and....

I should be grateful, you mused, my parents didn't have an issue when choosing who to dump me with. Your father had always been the one who had not wanted you, after all. Your mother had been the one who had loved you in your childhood.

You went to the bathroom and washed up, feeling delight in the scorching water running down your bare skin. It was only on several occasions where you two had hot water, and it was pleasant for one of the times to be now. It was always when you felt filthy, that you wanted hot water to be your remedy. When you were young, you would feel filthy for a different reason. The minute your parents started to fight, you would feel dirty, somehow, like you were allowing their horrible words to corrupt you. Thus, water so hot it felt like it could burn — was more than welcome.

You would scrub at your skin with fervor; wanting to wash away your parents' words. As you grew older, you remembered more. You remembered snatches of conversations that had spilled from their lips. They had both not intended for you to hear them, but you caught the words anyway. You didn't understand the words then, but you did now.

( "I can't raise him anymore. I'm going mad."

"He's too..."

"He's —" )

I'm too what? You wondered. Too needy for your love? Am I like a beggar to you, clutching at your shirts, holding out a plate for you two to put your pennies? But in this case, the plate is merely my heart and the pennies are merely your love. Is it wrong to beg for pieces that should have rightfully been mine?

They were like thieves. Taking away your childhood first, then your happiness. They robbed you of everything but Silas was the kind Samaritan who had given everything back, tenfold.

Your childhood had never been the kindest. But you would be. That was that.

You exited the shower, your skin red and raw, slipping in clothes. The sight of your meal greeted you, and your stomach did a happy growl. Sitting down, you allowed the clinking of the cutlery against the bowl fill in the silence. Finally, you spoke.

"Where did all the pictures of Father go?"

Your mother paused cleaning. You wondered what she would do. Would she reach for the bottle of alcohol on the top shelf, or would she humor your words? Were you being cruel by asking her? But you wanted to know — you wanted to get a lead, somewhat, to figure out how exactly this curse worked, and whether it applied to you.

"I threw them in a fire."

You looked at her. "All of them? Even the ones with me inside? I liked looking at them."

"...All of them," she confirmed with a sigh, "why the sudden interest? Do you miss him? Did you two grow close in the palace?"

"No, quite the opposite," you said cheerfully, "but yeah, I was curious. I was feeling rather nostalgic today."

Your mother stayed silent for a bit before she poured you a glass of water. Only now you realized how parched you were, and gratefully, you accepted that glass. You assumed that your mother was brushing your words away, but then she opened her mouth.

"I have some old photos," she said at last. "Not the ones that were formerly on the mantelpiece, but much older ones. There's one of you as an infant."

"...Really?" You were genuinely surprised. You didn't know she was the kind of person who kept keepsakes like this, but come to think of it, your mother was a rather sentimental person. She was the one who had encouraged your journal-writing habit, and she had been the one who had constantly missed your child self. You wondered if she ever looked at a photo of you as an infant and lamented on how you had grown.

"Finish your meal, and I can show you."

"You don't mind?" Your eyes widened. "This is my first time hearing of this."

Your mother sounded rather bitter as she spoke. "It's in a box. I haven't touched it in ages. I only remember it now because you've brought up the topic."

You shoved more food in your mouth, eager to eat faster. Once you were done chewing, you wiped your mouth and gulped down another glass of water. "You don't sound or look happy."

"More like I'm reminiscing," she corrected. "I mean, the past is full of bittersweet moments. I'm sure you had your fair share of those."

"Yeah." You thought to the time you had left Silas momentarily. You thought you were going to die then. How about now? In his absence, were you still wilting?

"Done?" Your mother watched you as you practically inhaled your food. "Don't choke."

Just as she warned you, you started to cough and splutter. Alarmed, she reached out to you, but soon, the coughing phase was over, and you shot her a sheepish smile. "Sorry. Yeah. I'm done. Can you please show me the photos now?"

"Why so polite?" She asked, amused. "Come along."

You followed her aimlessly as you entered her room. You paused, realizing how bare their — her — room now seemed. You hadn't been in it since you were a little child, but now the bed seemed too big for one person. Your father's belongings were all gone, and that included his cabinet filled to the brim with old dusty books and little carved figurines. Oddly, you thought they seemed to be made up of the same wood as the trees in the palace gardens.

You watched as your mother dug through her drawer, occasionally staring at old trinkets like brooches and lockets that no longer worked. She tossed them all to the side, before she lifted a small box. It was dusty and she coughed as she retrieved it, grabbing a napkin to wipe it clean.

"Here," she offered.

Tentatively, you took it. You felt rather excited. You had never seen your baby pictures before. Slowly opening it, you caught sight of letters. A pile of old, dusty letters with the ink now faded and the pages now dog eared and yellow. Your mother's eyes widened, and she snatched the papers away, before looking hastened.

"Just some trash," she murmured, but you weren't convinced. "It's nothing."

Below the letters, were a pile of photos. You picked the first one up. This was simply a solo picture of your mother. She's beautiful, you thought. Your mother was such a gorgeous woman. She had been, and she was still gorgeous now. You caught sight of her clothes, in the same uniform you had seen in the palace.

"You worked in the palace?"

"I did," she nodded her head.

You peered at it. "You look so happy," you said at last. The grin on her face was bright, and so dizzying it made your head spin. "So pretty. Did you meet Father there?"

Your mother exhaled. "Yes."

"...Huh..." you gently placed the photo to the side, not before staring at it a little longer. "And this one is of the both of you. You and Father." You felt a little bad for saying all of this — you wondered if this brought back countless bad memories for her. So, you cut yourself short and instead stared at it. It seemed so magical. Your father was a handsome man, but in the picture, he seemed more boyish, more hopeful. Your parents were teenagers in the picture.

The first teenage years were the best. Teenagers had something children didn't have that adults ended up discarding. You tenderly traced that picture. That had been their life before you were born. And after you were born...what happened?

You went on to the next picture. Now it was them, older, with your father looking more reserved and quieter. Your mother seemed sheepish, her gaze focusing on the ground. Who had taken these pictures? Someone older than them, presumably, for the photos seemed to be from a higher angle.

Your mother seemed to have predicted your thoughts. "It was my aunt," she said. "My aunt took them for me. I begged her, of course."

"You still remember everything very well."

"It's hard not to forget," she shrugged.

You didn't say anything.

Your fingers nervously held up the first picture you saw of yourself, all fat-cheeked, giggling, and smiling. You were a happy baby, you supposed. There was a tuft of hair on your forehead and you found yourself asking, "how old was I here?"

"Two months?" Your mother guessed. "One month? I can't remember."

You fondled it with care. It didn't seem like you were looking at yourself. You hadn't remembered yourself as a baby. You doubted anyone could, as a matter of fact. But it made you feel odd, looking at yourself from years and years ago.

"Look how cute you were," your mother said softly. She took the photo from your hands and smoothed the edges with great care. "I'll be taking this."

You gave it to her easily. Somehow, you didn't want to hold on to it. You feared that you would make you spiral down the memory lane, and you were not here to plunge yourself headfirst into the cold, murky waters of nostalgia. You were here for answers. Ideally, you wanted pictures of your father. You would have liked to get your hands on the letters too, but you didn't know whether it was private. But judging from your mother's reaction...

Probably something bad, you thought. But dismissing that thought from your head, you went to the next picture.

"...Who is this?" You frowned. "He looks just like Silas."

There was a picture that looked surprisingly intimate. Intimate, in the sense that you could feel how close the people in the picture were. Your father had a resplendent smile, one that illuminated his face and made it seem like he was glowing. His arm was looped around someone's neck in an easy, careless motion, and that someone was gazing at him, with a soft, tender look.

That person was not your mother.

In your vision, you could see the way your mother froze. First, the hand that had been slowly touching the photo dropped, and her features seemed to become relaxed. But it wasn't the good kind of relaxed — she seemed to become limp, like all the energy had been sapped out of there. There was a glint of anger in her eyes, but that was soon replaced by tiredness. Your mother was tired. Exhausted. You regretted asking that question.

"Nevermind." You said quietly. "I—"

"It's His Majesty."

You looked at your mother. She seemed utterly defeated. "It's His Majesty, the Emperor."

...Oh.

Aster's words played in your head. A generational curse, Y/n. Additionally, Aster had mentioned Silas, which meant this curse likely involved both you and the prince. What was it Aster had said too? That the same things would keep repeating? Did that mean it was more of the position rather than the individual? Or...

By blood.

You chewed on your bottom lip, lost in thought. Your father and the Emperor looked extremely close here — as a matter of fact, they reminded you of you and Silas. You tucked that thought at the back of your mind and chose to move on for fear of making your mother become more uncomfortable.

Why hadn't you ever thought about your father and the Emperor? It made sense that they were close, for after all, they were butler and prince once too. They had been childhood friends, too.

"Ah. Look," your mother said wistfully, "it's the two of us."

Your eyes flickered to the photo she was referring to. Bright eyed and bubbling with joy, there was your mother, swaddling you, a newborn.

She was happy.

Your mother was happy that you were born. Your mother...

You had not been a mistake after all, right? Look at how happy she was.

Your lips trembled and shakily, you picked up another photo. The whiplash here was worse — it was the three of you, as a big happy family — (perhaps happy was a little bit of an exaggeration, but all you could say was that they didn't look upset.) — and while your father had a rather stricken face, like he didn't know what was happening, they were still managing little smiles on their faces.

Your heart ached. Why hadn't that continued until you had grown up? Why had that stopped? Why couldn't they just put in a little more effort? That way, you wouldn't have a broken family. Why —

(You wondered why you were thinking such thoughts again. You thought you had gotten over it.)

You couldn't bring yourself to say anything. Your father looked much happier with the Emperor. Which was ironic, because you too, were far happier with Silas. Sliding the photo beneath another pile, you once again, dismissed it from memory. It was better not to dwell on those things. Soon those thoughts would simmer into a phantom pain: a pain one that would plague you occasionally, and not forever. You could live with that.

Next, you caught sight of a small stone sequestered beneath layers and layers of dust in the box. It was a smooth, glossy piece of rock with a surface so clear that you could see your own reflection.

Your eyes widened as you looked at it, picking it up.

"Hey, I didn't know you have one of those mana memory stones." You tapped on the beautiful piece of rock, amused. "I thought these kinds of things were pretty hard to come by."

Memory rocks allowed people to capture moments. Rather than one fixed photo, it would be a fluid flow of events, like watching it happen in real time. They were expensive and reserved for nobility, which was why you never expected for your parents to have them. You could hear sounds from the memory stones, too, so it would be fun to watch it.

"Oh, your father got that last time from some noble." Your mother said, not seeming to care too much about it. She seemed to be peering at more of your newborn photos.

Aimlessly, you rolled the stone between your fingers. How were you supposed to turn it on, again? By imbuing it with your own mana? Giving a small exhale, you allowed the mana in you to flow out, and then slowly course through the rock. The rock turned blue, and you watched as an image popped out from it. Your mother looked at it.

"I could never activate it." Your mother blinked her eyes. "I don't even know what was captured, or if there was even anything there in the first place."

"Seems like there is," you shrugged, "something's playing."

"Really?" Your mother said, interested. "Must have accidentally activated it last time, then. That's great. Are we about to witness your first steps? Or maybe your first word? Your father and I had it for quite a while before you, though."

The image started playing. But the minute it started, you knew something was terribly wrong, for all you heard were shouts. Screams. All again, you were back home here, as a kid, listening to the screams of your father and mother.

"What will I even tell him? Sarah, how could you be —" you could not see the images of parents, but only their feet. Your father was pacing up and down, and his voice was in disbelief and horror. "—how could you be pregnant?"

You heard sobbing sounds. You looked to the right. It was coming from the video — your mother was not crying presently, and instead, she looked horrified, completely frozen in shock.

You could not tear your eyes from the video somehow. You forced yourself to live through every word.

"I don't know," your mother cried. "I don't know. What do we do? Do we even —"

"I can't," your father exhaled sharply, "I can't. He'll kill you. Are you sure, Sarah?"

"Who's he? You're married to me, not some other person. Then — do we just get rid of the baby?" Your mother asked desperately. "I don't know how this happened, Ralph. I don't know. But if only this baby wasn't present, then..."

Then the image flipped to their faces, and instantly, you felt dread coil around your heart. Evidently, they were talking about you. They were talking about getting rid of you — killing you. And whilst you understood that perhaps your birth had not been invited in such distressing circumstances, it still hurt all the same, to realize that the news of you had not been welcomed with a smile. They were talking about you with plain revulsion on their faces. Like you were something disgusting to be flicked off; to be discarded to the sidewalk.

It's not their fault, you told yourself, it's not their fault. They must have been going through something. Anyone would have said what they said.

A clatter next to you told you that you were not the only one in the room watching this.

"Shit," your mother scrambled for the memory stone, uttering an inelegant curse word under her breath, "I didn't know that it captured that. I didn't even know it was activated at that time —"

"You looked so disgusted, Mother," was all you said, in an awfully tight voice, "and so did Father."

Silence hung in the air. You stiffened, and your mother drew back like she had been shot.

Why did I say that? You wondered. Your mother must have been hurting very much at this unwanted memory, too. You were probably piling up on the stress she was facing. But somehow, you continued, disgusted with yourself for doing so. You were repulsed by yourself for consciously choosing to dig the knife deeper into your mother's emotional wounds.

"You two looked awfully excited to have me."

Your words were dry and sarcastic. The image distorted, and the voices died down. The memory stone lost the blue glow, and it returned back to normal, blissfully unaware of what it had just done. Your mother was trying to smash it against the ground, her breaths shaky and her figure quivering.

This; you thought, must have been the same nauseating feeling that your parents had felt when they realized that you were there, within your mother's belly.

"That was a very long time ago," your mother repeated over and over again, "that was a very long time ago. It was my fault. My fault. My fault. My fault. If I had known. I'm sorry, Y/n. If I had —"

At what point did apologies start becoming useless?

You reached out towards her and pulled her into a hug, giving a large sigh. What the hell were you doing? Comforting your mother? Were you angry towards her? But you pitied her, really; it must have been a lot more emotionally distressing for her than you.

"It's fine." Your words came out colder than you intended them to be. You had not controlled your tone very well. "I'm sorry, Mom. I shouldn't have fiddled with that stone."

"Oh, Y/n," her voice cracked. "You're so understanding. You're so sweet and kind, Y/n," she whispered, "oh, my darling child. I love you so much. I adore you. I—"

You remembered once, as a kid, holding your breath and waiting for her to say I love you back to you. She hadn't, and now, you had the chance to do the same towards her. You didn't feel like saying it now, but she was still your mother. Somewhere, you still adored her. You still deeply cherished her.

"I love you too," you gritted out. Good. Those words didn't feel like a lie. But it felt distasteful to you all the same, and those loathsome three words remained obnoxiously under your tongue.

Your mother could not see you, for her face was buried in your chest, wetting your clothes. Your arms were around her and you slowly cajoled and comforted her, patting her on the back with slight awkwardness. You found a tear slipping down your cheek as you held in your cries.

Inwardly, you were sobbing like a lost child, opening the floodgates as you tried to find yourself a place in the world.

You had been wanted by Silas. But now Silas wasn't here with you — and even that had been your own doing. Perhaps you would go back to the palace and there Silas would be, furious and cold. Who would even want you? Who were you, without Silas? Who were you without the title of being the prince's butler?

You knew the answer, but you didn't want to mouth it out loud. Plainly speaking, you were a coward, and a stupid child hidden behind an older, more mature skin.

You were a pebble to kick by the side of the road — a child that wasn't meant to be born.

A child who had ruined his parents' lives.

—

PAST

Casper grew exceedingly relaxed when it was summer, Ralph noted. The prince liked basking in the sun, not caring about how hot the weather was. Instead, he seemed to welcome it with a fervor, and to Ralph's chagrin, he even said it was refreshing.

But meanwhile, Ralph, who was meant to follow the prince's every stupid move, did not enjoy being in the sun. His attire was too suffocating, and he did not like the sweat that would soak his shirt and stick to his skin. He suspected Casper did this on purpose to get a rise out of him.

"Can we please go back?" He asked in exasperation.

Casper cracked open one eyelid and gave a playful grin. "Keep this up, you'll end up grumpy."

"Oh, please," Ralph scoffed, "I'm never gonna end up grumpy or whatever. You know me, Your Highness."

"You never know," Casper whistled. "But fine. We can go back —" he momentarily caught the look of pure delight in Ralph's face and gave a sharp laugh — "later. I don't want to go back to lessons."

"You're a sadist, Your Highness. Remember: you're the prince."

"I know. But why bother? It's hell there."

"You're obligated to your duties, and I'm obligated to mine," Ralph parroted the same words that he did to Casper every single day. A rivulet of sweat trickled down the back of his neck and he made a noise of frustration. "So please, Your Highness, listen to me."

"But unlike me, you actually enjoy your job."

Ralph paused, before his cheeks reddened. "I suppose so, Your Highness."

Casper and Ralph were both fifteen now. It had been three years after they had met, and naturally, they had grown close. Casper never allowed Ralph to address him by his name, to which Ralph felt a tad bit offended. But royal rules were rules, and Casper and Ralph were meant to follow them.

"Since we're friends," Casper looked at Ralph, a pleasant smile spreading across his face. One hand reached out to grasp Ralph's own, tugging Ralph down to lie next to him. Ralph made a startled noise of indignation, before he accepted his fate and chose to close his eyes. "You'll never leave me, right?"

"No."

"Good. Because if you feel like doing so, I'll drag you to the engravings on the tree and make you see them."

"You still remember them?"

"Yeah," Casper said, "I remember a lot of things. I remember a lot of things that revolve around you, Ralph."

"I'm...unsure about that," Ralph said after a moment's pause. "That sounded a little like a threat."

"Oh, no, never," Casper said innocently. "But I was thinking: if you do decide to leave, wouldn't it be good to tie up or something? You'll be abandoning your job and me if you leave."

"You make that exceedingly clear all the time."

"I thought maybe you would need a reminder. I've seen servant girls swarming around you too. Wouldn't it be easy to kill them, Ralph?" Casper murmured softly, "a very delightful thought I find myself constantly entertaining at times."

"Please, Your Highness. Refrain from such gruesome topics." Ralph sighed, "you act like a child."

"Pity."

"You seem especially grouchy these days," Ralph pointed out. "And you've been skipping lessons more of late."

"What if I just wanted to hang out with my dear butler? Must I need a reason to skip lessons? Maybe the tutor fell sick."

Ralph paled. "Did you..."

"I didn't kill this tutor, if that's what you meant," Casper said flippantly, "oh, relax, Ralph. Who cares? They aren't related to you."

"You can't just —"

"I'm the prince; and you're a mere butler. Maybe you've forgotten your place because I treat you so well all the time, Ralph. You're my friend, and you're super precious to me, but really, I wish you would care more about me than others."

"I do," Ralph said quietly, "you know I do."

Part of Ralph wondered what it would have been like if he had met Casper earlier in life. His Highness was a ticking time bomb that...had pretty much already imploded. When Ralph had met Casper, Casper had been surveying a pile of dead bodies with an empty look on his face. And when Casper had seen Ralph, a smile had creeped in his smile and he had cheerfully said, "you must be my butler!"

Granted, they had now gotten close, but...

Perhaps meeting at a younger age wouldn't change anything, though. Fate was fate. Whatever that would happen would happen, and Ralph couldn't do anything about it. He was still oblivious to the curse then, but he had long believed in cosmic fate and the universe because of his mother being interested in them. She gave Ralph tarot card readings at times.

"You know, I got a camera as one of my birthday gifts."  Casper brought up the subject, "it's cool. Wanna use it? We can head to the room to get it."

"Sure," Ralph said, relieved for any conversation change and the escape from the sweltering heat. "Let's get someone to take a picture for us."

Casper sat up and pulled Ralph up, running towards his room to grab the camera. He soon reappeared, but his eyebrow twitched when he saw that his butler was in conversation with someone else. Casper's eyes narrowed as he went up to Ralph, and the random servant flinched at the prince's murderous eyes. Ralph found it exasperating that Casper could get so petty and jealous over the stupidest things — but in some sort of way, it was endearing.

Ralph sensed that murderous behavior, and was quick to dispel it. "I was just asking Sam if he could take a picture for us."

"You know his name?" Casper asked.

Ralph rolled his eyes and gave a long sigh. Casper gave a loose shrug.

"It's on his badge, Your Highness." Ralph said at last, before he managed a smile. The situation was rather amusing. "Don't get so jealous. I'll be extra nice to you later."

Rather mollified by the answer, Casper sent one last smoldering look at the poor gardener, before he looked expectantly at Ralph. Ralph flushed and hesitated before he looped one arm around the prince, his expression breaking way into one of genuine joy. Despite how morally questionable Casper could be, Ralph could not deny that he was very fond of him. The prince had still been his first ever friend, after all.

Click. Ralph was excited to see the photo, and the look of gentleness and tenderness in Casper's face astounded him and made him feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Casper seemed pleased too, and pressed a kiss on Ralph's cheek, turning them apple-red.

Casper continued to lean against Ralph, his hair tickling Ralph's face. "We should alternate keeping the photo. I'll keep it this week, and you'll keep it next week."

Ralph nodded his head eagerly.

Little did they know that the photo would end up in an old, dusty box that sat in another person's home.

—

i guess cameras exist here

but anyways yes finally the crumb that you guys have been waiting for! in this separation arc you guys will get a lot of them... the good and the bad (so pumped to write it yay)

hope you all liked it! remember to add to your library for updates!

how was it?