Page 48 of Wicked Prince of Shadows
Osric shrugged dramatically and plucked a waxy black apple from a tree. “He’s not myfatherfather. But he takes care of me.And I didn't want anyone else to. So I call him Fahlda. There’s lots of us here. Can I eat this?”
“Sure. But just one until we know how many we need for everyone else,” I said. “And do you mean…King Vetle?” It felt so strange to say his name. I moved behind a bush to hide the color likely flooding my cheeks.
"Yeah." Osric bit into the apple with a satisfying crunch, black juice dribbling down his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, leaving a dark smear. "He doesn't think he's good at it, but he does his best. You have to believe me on that."
"I do believe you," I assured him, warmth spreading through my chest despite everything. The image of stern, imposing Vetle caring for this child—letting him call him something as intimate as 'Fahlda'—softened something in me even more than before. I’d known he was fond of him, and he had seemed protective. "How many children are there like you?"
"Sixteen now. Used to be more, but..." He trailed off, his expression dimming as if sad. “He makes sure the rest of us are safe as possible. Some get adopted cause no one else can have kids like they used to. But I’m staying. He doesn’t have other kids. And his parents died a long time ago and his brother.”
I swallowed against the lump forming in my throat. My thoughts returned to my family, and the ache in my chest nearly undid me. "That's good. I'm sure he's glad you're staying."
Osric grinned and took another bite of the apple, then crouched beside me to examine the other fruit. "Are you going to marry him?"
The question hit me like a physical blow. I fumbled with the zucchini in my hands, nearly dropping it. "I—yes."
“Good!” He grinned. “Can I call you Mahlda then?”
It was startling how swiftly he had decided to accept me. Maybe because he had longed for family or simply because he was a loving soul trapped in a horrible place. “S-sure. If you’dlike to. Fahlda and Mahlda…it’s not exactly Father and Mother. That’s what we call parents where I’m from. Does it mean the same thing?”
He shrugged at that, then took another bite. “Fahlda says I’m a ward, and I shouldn’t forget my parents who made me. But I don’t remember them. I was on my own before I saw the portal and came through. Best thing I did. Even when it’s hard and scary. So I made up the words with Bram.” His expression dropped.
“Who’s Bram?”
He lifted his shoulder, his gaze down on the ground as he chewed slower. “They’re saying we might all die before the wedding. Everyone’s scared. I wish I had healing magic or monster magic. Or even plant magic like you. I’m just common, and I can’t do anything to help.”
My mouth went dry to hear him say that. I didn’t feel ready to have this conversation with a child, but here it was happening. “Everyone has magic. Sometimes a little. Sometimes a lot.” I tied some of the delicate tendrils to the trellis. This one had beans from the looks of it. Oblong pods with a slightly velvety texture hung from the stems, similar to string beans.
“Yeah, well, mine isn’t useful here.” His tone had gone glum.
“What is yours?” I looked up to see that Vetle, Maltric, and Doctor Rasoul had vanished.
“Art.” He traced his finger in the dirt, forming a perfect circle. “Especially color. But there’s so little color here. And there will barely be any at the dance, compared to what we used to have. I have one tray of oil paints that I keep locked up. If we put things in the big, strong black wood boxes, it protects them, and they don’t lose color as fast. If something loses all its color, it’s a lot harder to bring back even a little of it when I focus. Everyone says that if we make it to the end of the blood moon cycle, it’ll be all right. But…the chasm moved. It could happen again. Isometimes share the paints with the other kids, but I don’t know if I want to if they're my last ones.”
I didn't tell him that, yes, this might be his last chance to use those paints. That, if we failed, there would be no more dances, no more art, no more anything. The words lodged in my throat, too cruel to speak aloud to a child who'd already lost so much in a world that was so harsh and which had not yet fully destroyed his cheer. He was scared, but being afraid would do nothing here.
I crossed back in front of him. "I think you should use them anyway, and if you want to share with your friends, then you should. Create something beautiful whenever you can. Something that reminds you of what matters most. Even if it doesn’t last forever. Making it and remembering it are what’s important. And I’d love to see whatever you make. Whether it has color or not."
His head lifted, amber eyes brightening slightly. "Really?" He sounded somewhat suspicious yet hopeful.
"Really." I smiled at him, even as my chest ached. "I'd love to see whatever you create. Do you ever work with ink? Or charcoal?"
He wrinkled his nose. "Not as much. It's fine, I guess. But it's not the same as real color. Everything here is so..." He gestured vaguely at the grey, black, and white garden around us. “It’s disappointing.”
"I know," I said gently, reaching out to ruffle his white hair. "But you should still create. Even if it's just with ink or charcoal. If you have a gift, you should use it, Osric. Doesn’t matter how big or small. Don't let this place rob you of that. And I bet Fahlda would like to see it too."
He considered this, tilting his head as he finished the last of his apple. He tossed the core into one of the empty planterswhere it landed with a soft thud. "I could show you some of my drawings. The ones I keep hidden."
My heart squeezed. "I'd love that. After we finish working for the day?"
His face lit up like the sun breaking through storm clouds. "Can I tell you about each one?"
"Yes." I handed him one of the grey zucchinis. "Here, help me gather these. We need to make sure there's enough food for everyone."
He took the vegetable from me and then plucked another.
We worked together, and he told me about the other children in the palace, about lessons with Rasoul, about the time he'd wanted to tame a deathbeak chick and Fahlda told him never, about how he wanted to paint portraits of everyone, and more. It was easier to forget about the doom that loomed over us as I focused on his voice.
“If you marry Fahlda, will you let me have a deathbeak chick?” He scooped up some of the fallen dirt like I’d shown him and pushed the roots back into the cracked planter.
