Elliott's gaze lingered on the ceiling as his fingers lazily carded through Aiden's hair. The room was dim and hushed, the faint glow of evening filtering through the curtains like fading memories. The scent of healing herbs and lingering incense still clung to the air.
He wasn't an idiot.
He knew—something was wrong.
His intuition told him so, loud and clear. Much more than that, he knew Aiden. Aiden had always been fierce, sharp as a blade when needed. But this? This exhaustion... this desperate quiet... this hesitant way of breathing and existing—it wasn't just fatigue.
It was grief.
And grief, Elliott could understand. He knew that kind of ache intimately. But it was guilt, too. Heavy and palpable.
Despite the haze of illness still clouding his body, despite the muddled fog in his mind, Elliott knew—he had been lied to. Or, at the very least, he hadn't been told everything. Aiden was hiding things. That much was painfully clear.
But now wasn't the time to press. Not when Aiden looked like he was bracing for confrontation, even as he lay curled beside him, half-hoping and half-dreading the moment Elliott would ask.
So Elliott didn't.
Instead, with deliberate gentleness, he shifted the conversation—carefully veering it toward something he should have brought up long ago.
"You know..." he began, voice soft, "once this business with the Southern Empire is completely settled, we'll go... west. For a visit."
Aiden's body tensed slightly, the muscles beneath Elliott's hand growing still. "...West?"
"Yes. West." A small, sad smile tugged at Elliott's lips. "Your family's lands. We should visit them."
Aiden went very, very still. "My... lands?"
"Mmh." Elliott kept his voice light, soothing, and let his fingers continue their path through Aiden's hair, each motion steady and deliberate. "I've never been west. You haven't either, have you? Not since you were a child."
A long silence followed.
Then, Aiden's voice, quiet and unreadable: "No. I haven't."
Elliott nodded, his gaze distant. "We'll go then. You should see it. I heard the orchards there are marvellous. And... you can see the Rosenwood estate. I've had stewards maintain it all these years. It's... yours. Your family's history. You deserve to know it."
Aiden didn't speak for a moment. He didn't know what to say. He simply shifted, pressing his face deeper into Elliott's shoulder, breathing him in like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
"Why?" he asked finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why... now?"
Elliott hesitated. What could he say?
Because I almost died?
Because you're drowning in something I don't understand?
Because I owe you this?
Finally, he settled on the truth that hurt the least.
"Because I should've done it sooner," he said quietly. "You shouldn't have to leave behind your legacy to carry mine."
Silence settled again, heavy but not hostile.
Elliott wondered if he'd gone too far—if he'd said something wrong, if the silence was a sign of discomfort. Just as he was about to backtrack, Aiden spoke again.
"What were they like?" The question was soft. Hesitant. As if he didn't know if he had the right to ask it. "My parents, I mean."
Elliott exhaled slowly. "I didn't know them well," he admitted. "I was only eleven when... the unfortunate incident happened."
No clarification was needed. The assassination. Everyone knew what that meant.
"Your father was a general—one of the best," Elliott continued, voice steady but touched with memory. "He led the forces to victory in the battle over Vale Valleys two decades ago."
Aiden, quiet, let the words settle.
How ironic, he thought. The last war over the valleys was ended by a Rosenwood—a celebrated war hero. This one is being waged by a Rosenwood by blood.
Elliott didn't notice his drifting thoughts. He went on, a gentle lilt in his tone. "Your mother... she was elegant. Kind. Beautiful." He paused, eyes squinting slightly as if searching his memories. "I think I remember seeing her at an imperial banquet. She smiled when I tripped on my robes. I was quite clumsy at ten."
A wistful smile curled at the edges of his mouth. "I think she liked the gardens. I remember her giving me a flower once—when I stumbled upon her at a garden party. A blue one. If memory serves me right... you were there too. An infant."
He chuckled, shaking his head at the thought.
"At the time, I could've never imagined that one day... we would be like this."
His voice grew softer, fading into the haze of nostalgia. "She asked me if I wanted to hold you—she caught me staring, you see. I panicked. What if I drop the baby? What if the baby doesn't like me? What if it cries?"
Aiden scoffed lightly under his breath, muttering something suspiciously close to, "I wouldn't have fussed in your hold."
Elliott laughed gently. "You were an infant, Aiden. You couldn't possibly have realised it was 'me.'"
Another scoff. This one without words.
Elliott smiled at the sound. "Anyway—I refused. Some polite excuse. But she saw through me. I think she found my worries amusing. So she sat down, lowered the baby—you—onto her lap. Asked if I wanted to touch your cheeks."
Elliot chuckled again before continuing. "I did. They were really soft. You were a cute child."
At that moment, the faint scrape of stubble along Aiden's jaw brushed against Elliott's shoulder. The older man blinked, then smirked.
"Not anymore, though. You're prickly now. Not soft anymore."
Aiden huffed. "I'm still soft," he insisted stubbornly. "I'm the softest for you."
Elliott laughed aloud at that, the sound airy and warm. He patted Aiden's head like one would a stubborn child, humming with amusement.
"Mhm. Whatever you say, Aiden."