Chapter Text
Snow crunches under his boots, the chilly winter air nipping at his cheeks as his scarf flaps in the wind. Ron is silent as he stares at the building before him. His gaze is silent and far away, a chilled figure observing the empty space with trepidation.
A house. A luxury he did not deserve. There is a gate and a fence around the property, Ron sees how meticulously the landscape must have been kept. A gardener, a housekeeper. He strongly doubts that the inside is unclean. Slowly, he takes his first handful of steps into the property, moves the gate aside for his entrance. The wind whips around his face, harsh reminder of his age.
He is nearly eighty. More than twice the age his young Master had been at death. Cale Henituse had been missing for two years. In this war, two years was enough to proclaim a death sentence.
The cobblestones are neatly arranged, mosaic perfection. Everything about this house looks as he had dreamed, long ago.
How could Ron have known, that Cale would have remembered their stupid conversation from over thirty years ago? Of the house he once had with his wife? Nothing looks out of place. The porch is clean and dirt free, only little piles of snow on the railing showing that winter existed.
Ron finally steps on top of the small, handwoven mat, carefully wipes his feet off, and knocks on the door.
A young woman’s face greets him, and she immediately beams at him. “Count Molan!”
Count. Another thing Cale Henituse had given him that he did not deserve.
“Just Ron, please,” he manages hoarsely. The woman looks a little horrified, but nods docilely.
“O-Of course, Master Ron,” She manages to squeak, and Ron sighs. Was this what his Young Master felt like, when others called him master? He regrets not knowing now. “Your son is in the kitchen, whenever you wish to see him, and the honorable Choi Han awaits you.”
Had they all gotten letters? Pain stabs through his chest, and he indulges in his selfish desire, and goes to see his son first after he has taken his shoes and coat off.
He can smell the freshness of baked bread, the sweetness of apple tarts, the creaminess of egg custard and knows - whatever the young master had written in his letter had shamed his son thoroughly.
Ron was not unfamiliar with the thought. He had been shamed when he read his letter, at the forgiving words that had graced them. Forgiveness was too good for a man like him.
Ron enters the kitchen, looks at his son.
At forty, he no longer resembled the young man he had nurtured. War had taken its toll on him, had turned him gray before his time, eyes hollow and smiles brittle.
“Lock isn’t here with us, Beacrox, my son,” Ron says quietly. “We won’t be able to eat much more than you’ve already baked.”
Beacrox’s hands tremble from where they hold a mixing bowl full of eggs and flour, another dessert creation Ron would have to guess at.
Beacrox’s expression is a study in absolute, enraged misery.
“Choi Han is in the living room,” Ron suggests, and with an infuriated little noise, Beacrox throws the mixing spoon into the bowl, stalks out. The young woman who had let him in gives him an understanding smile, hurries to the bowl to either finish his cooking or throw it out. Ron takes his time, serves up three plates of apple tart, the maid preparing a pot of tea for him.
Lemon tea, in fact.
The young master’s least favorite drink. Ron’s eyes close in almost stark pain. Of course his Young Master would have done such a thing. His teeth grit slightly, but he accepts the teapot.
Carrying the tray, Ron enters a tense atmosphere. Choi Han looks… he looks furious, the letter held in crumpled fingers. His rage seems directed towards Beacrox and himself, fingers trembling slightly in rage as he closes his eyes.
Ron puts the tray down, serves them all, before taking his letter into a hand. Despite having only read it once, the words remain burned deeply into his mind.
To my second father,
If you’re reading this, then I’m probably dead. As you probably know by now, I am the only remaining member of Henituse. As such, all of the family’s material possessions and assets are now mine as to do with as I please.
First, however, before any of that.
I’d like to apologize.
I was an incurable brat when I was younger. I won’t try to explain my motivations, as they don’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. Please be aware, Ron, that I hold you in no contempt for choosing to leave. I had long since become a scourge on the family name, and as the one who raised me, it must have been unbearable to watch me fall from grace.
It’s not your fault. Please never think that. Please lay your guilt to rest. Consider this a last, selfish request from me.
Second.
I’m sure you’ve been to my will reading already, so I’ll only recap the basics. From now on, you are the Count of the House of Molan. What you do with that title after is no longer my concern, but as I have no next of kin, no family but you, I have chosen to give it to you freely. Use it well. The house I had made a few years after Clopeh Sekka went after Rain City. One more house was not an issue for them to build, and I hope I captured the memory of it properly.
Consider it a congratulatory gift, for becoming among the most powerful men in Roan. You’ve done well for yourself and your son. May you live the rest of your days in comfort.
Third.
Please forgive Beacrox on my behalf, as what he did that day was well in accordance to my will, and inform Choi Han I held no ill will towards him, and I regret using him the way I did. Please. I meant him no genuine harm, and I’m sorry that I forced him to relive such pain so shortly after the tragedy.
Please extend my apologies.
And Ron.
Forgive yourself. If not for you, I would have had no father at all.
Cale Henituse.
Looking away from his letter, Ron regards both of them. “He asked me to forgive you, my son, but I’m not sure what, exactly I should be forgiving.” Choi Han hisses, an angry thing that sounds - and feels - as though it should have come from a wyvern instead.
Beacrox’s expression is full of self-reproach, self hate.
Choi Han is the one who speaks. “The night I met Cale Henituse,” Choi Han says bitterly, “he taunted me about Harris village. He told me they were worth less than the glass of wine he had been drinking.” His eyes close, fingers tremble. “I nearly beat him to death. I shouldn’t have let my temper get the best of me.” A venomous look is directed towards Beacrox. “Your son was there. He watched me nearly kill him, and did nothing. He did not protect Cale, and he -” the inarticulate noise that leaves Choi Han masks Ron’s sharp breath in.
“I know you would have lost your temper after my malicious words,” Choi Han quotes furiously. “I’m sorry to have pushed you so far, but my death would have achieved too much for me to let the opportunity go. By now, you know Beacrox did not like me very much. I counted on that, hoping he would give me the death I had been denied.”
The air in the room is stale, and when Ron swallows, his tongue tastes like dried blood. Beacrox’s expression looks haunted - he’d never made it a secret how much he’d hated the oldest of the Henituse siblings, but never, never once in his life, had Ron realized that hatred more starkly than now.
Forgive Beacrox on my behalf.
How could he forgive one son for trying to kill the other?
Ron swallows bile, fingers folding his letter before he rips it. Ron can see now why Cale had pleaded for forgiveness, even before he had learned the truth.
“I think we should eat, and then go to bed,” Ron says carefully. “Before we all try to kill one another.” Choi han is the first to stand, giving Beacrox a murderous look before he departs. Ron sets a hand on Beacrox’s shoulder, and the man flinches. “If I had known, I would never have left,” Ron says heavily. “And you knew that, didn’t you, my son?”
The faintest tensing of shoulders, the flicker of shame. Ron gives a soft, disappointed sigh.
“Finish your tea, Beacrox. We will deal with this in the morning. For now, we will need to meet with Rosalyn and Lock in the morning.” Ron moves to clean up, but the maid assigned to him has already gotten to it, a diligence he had not expected. He gives her a small smile, and she bows to him, smiling slightly.
Walking up the steps, Ron sighs to himself, expression pained. The steps suit a man of his advanced age, allow him up with ease. Ron can feel the heat radiating off of the floors, and he has to bite back tears at the realization that Cale had taken diligent care so as to make sure the home would be comfortable for him no matter the weather.
Ron truly had failed his second son. The master bedroom holds a plaque with his name upon it, and entering, he finds his feet buried in a luxurious rug that his socked feet easily sunk into. The beds are a plushness he had never experienced, even as a butler of the Henituse family, the warm sheets paired with a fine quilt.
There are pillows aplenty, and a warm pine pillow used to give the room a refreshing, wintery scent. Ron chokes at the realization of this sight, even as he carefully prepares for bed. He is too old for servants, and he wonders if the maid knew that, or if Young Master Cale had expressly forbidden anyone from serving him like a child.
Despite his despair, Ron falls asleep with alarming speed that night.
Morning dawns snowy, and Ron wakes to the smell of tea permeating the room. Lemon tea. Again. The drink is set out with a cinnamon roll, the fresh-baked treat still steaming.
Judging by the fact that he hadn’t woken up, Ron suspected it was his son, an attempted peacemaking before they met face to face again.
After all, why else would he make Choi Han’s favorite breakfast food if not to attempt a peace-making? Ron shakes his head, sitting up and sipping at his cup of tea and nibbling at the pastry regretfully.
He misses Cale fiercely. Slowly, he leaves the bed, groaning weakly as he gets dressed, the man taking his plate and empty cup downstairs, only for the maid to whisk them off before he can protest.
“Master Ron, your son and his friend are awaiting you outside. The prince sent an urgent summons.” Anger sparks in his heart, but he nods wearily, accepts her assistance to put his coat on, the girl firmly wrapping the scarf around his neck and patting his shoulder. “I’ll have soup ready for when you and your companions return. Should I also expect young master Lock and Lady Rosalyn?” She asks, and Ron smiles thinly.
“We may not be home for lunch, but please. Something hearty.” The girl curtsies, and he swallows heavily at the sight.
“Then fair travels, Master Ron. I’ll take care of the house in your absence.” Her deference is polite - a reminder that he had earned the title of nobility from a boy he had left behind.
A son he had failed.
Choi Han is not looking at Beacrox, and Beacrox is silently biting his lower lip, an expression that does not suit his son in any way.
“Let’s go,” Choi Han says shortly, turning on his heel to head towards the palace.
How had young master Cale gathered the funds to purchase - much less build - a house in the center of the Imperial city would be something Ron would chew on for several days, when he had the time.
The central throne room is packed full of guards, each one brandishing a magical shield, Rosalyn warily greeting them at the door.
“It won’t let anyone else come closer,” Rosalyn reports darkly. “And it’s addressed to you, Ron.”
His fingers tighten. Silently, Ron enters the throne room, sees an inconspicuous, dark box waiting for him. Lock is nearby, but Ron knows that to open this box, he will have to do so himself. Carefully, Ron climbs down the steps, approaches the box silently. He kneels, levering the lid up until it clatters off. There is thick butcher’s paper, tied with ribbon, holding whatever is inside and hiding it from view.
Slowly, he undoes the bright red ribbon, peels apart the paper.
There is another layer, along with a knife and a letter.
Warily, Ron takes the knife, tosses it to the side, where a rush of soldiers go to contain it. Picking up the letter, Ron cautiously unfolds it. The ink is rust-red, and Ron has an unpleasant feeling that it is most likely blood.
I heard you succeeded his family title. Congratulations. May this present make up for my lack of appearance in person.
The note is unsigned.
Ron undoes the twine holding the second layer, and his heart freezes at the sight.
Beautiful red hair fanned around a pretty face, pale skin darkly bruised, set atop an assembly of dismembered limbs.
The body of his young master stares at him, everything there but his beautiful, reddish brown eyes, the most critical part of his young master ripped out.
Numbness washes over his skin, before rage consumes him whole.
There is only one person who could have done this.
That bastard was going to fucking die.