The carriage was comfortable, at least. The seats were black, padded with wool, and the escort, a middle aged woman who was all skin and bone, had offered him a blanket. He had draped it over his lap, the thick weft and weave warm and soft to the touch. He glanced out the narrow windows. It truly did look like the low meadows and hills of Gloucester outside. But why did it feel so different? It was only a matter of months ago that he would have been riding through these hills on his new horse with a few of his father's vassals and their sons. They couldn't have changed this much over one winter. When had spring gotten so cold?
Lorenz leaned back, watching the scenery pass in idle thought. What would his father think of him now? It was impossible to tell. Lorenz was his prized son already with a major crest of Gloucester and the blossoming magical potential. Surely the addition of a crest of Riegan would only bolster his approval. But the thirteen year old boy felt only like he was a shadow of who he once was, as if he would fade and slip away at any moment, not to mention that he no longer bore the violet locks his family was known for, no matter how long they still were, in an elegant single braid at the back of his head. And surely his mother would've missed him; it would break her heart to know any of what had transpired. He hated to make her cry. He was already thinking ahead, choosing words with care to be kind with her.
The gates opened quietly, the low stone walls of the Gloucester estate a dreary gray in the spring morning air as the dark iron creaked open. He could see the gardens. Red and purple and white roses all bloomed in tidy, trimmed bushes, and the low clusters of violets and phlox carpeted every inch of the gardens but the paths. Lorenz could imagine his mother and her friends taking tea just out of sight, over the hedges- how dearly he wanted to run into her arms like he was a little boy again.
The carriage stopped before the entrance to the mansion, white marble and cherry wood, the violet Gloucester livery painted over shutters and accents like perfectly aligned pastilles on a white cream cake. Such a sweet sight, he thought, but as he cautiously stepped out of the carriage like a foal on new legs, surrendering the blanket back to the escort, he felt a sick churn of dread in his stomach.
Was he supposed to knock on the door to his own family's home?
Lorenz pushed it open with a strained creak of not just the antique door, but his arms in protest, the fatigue in his bones so new and foreign. It was the reception hall as he remembered it, white and cherry and violet and the vast parquet floors and sprawling staircase. Empty, as it often was at this time of day, and dim- but familiar. One of the maids slipped through the door to the dining room, and barely glanced at him, eyes as wide as dinner plates, before slipping back inside.
"Wait!" Lorenz called, voice cracking- but she was already gone. He stood in the hall a stranger.
Had his father moved his things, he wondered? With each hesitant step up the burgundy-stained stairs, he grew more tired, white knuckles on the bannisters. His room, as well as those of his parents, was off of the corridor in the library. He slipped into the door like a moonbeam, expecting it to be empty. It quite often was, especially if there were no guests, and judging by the reception hall's hollow quiet, there was almost certainly nobody but the Gloucesters and their house servants in residence at that moment.
Lorenz was mistaken.
His father was in the library. A towering man, Matthias was, and even seated, he had an air of detachment combined with circumspection that set people's teeth on edge. His long violet hair, now graying, was down, and he was reading. He glanced up as the door opened.
"Lorenz," he said evenly. "Welcome home."
Lorenz was tempted to slip back out the door, tears welling in his eyes. His father wasn't even excited or happy to see his son again after so long a time being gone, and he had nothing to say to him, he didn't know what to tell him about what it had been like, had his father even known what it would be? He had said something to Lorenz about duties, and obligations to their line and the power of House Gloucester, but Goddess, had he known?
"Thank you." Lorenz swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably in one place. It was drafty in the library. "Where's Mother?"
"Your mother has permanently returned to Dagda." His father didn't glance up from his reading. "Sit down, please."
Lorenz sat in the chair he usually had, once, a thousand years ago and yesterday, the deep velvet swallowing him. He wondered if he'd gotten shorter or lost weight; he certainly felt small.
"Lorenz," his father started, setting down the book on his side table with a calculated thump that almost made him jump, "it's easier that we have this conversation now before you speak to other people on the matter. You may not tell any of the servants, vassals, or any guests what occurred. Nobody is to know."
"What about my hair?" Lorenz choked out. "They'll notice my hair. One of the maids downstairs already stared at me."
"Then you will give them something to stare at. I understand that you, as well as the other successful children, have felt unwell? Tell me, have you noticed this?" It was unnerving how calm the count was.
Lorenz paused. "Yes. Like I'm ill and weak and falling apart."
"You are not to let it show. You're a Gloucester man. We don't fall apart." He set down his reading glasses, inspecting his son with shrewd grey eyes. "You're afraid." He stood, an even pace with his hands behind his back, an intimidating column in front of the windows. "You'll thank me one day for this, Lorenz. This gift secures your future as the leader of the Alliance."
It was all his father had ever wanted. To lead the nation, to steal the rug from under Duke von Riegan, to be one of the most powerful people in Fodlan. Could such a thing even be promised, wondered Lorenz- but with a price tag so steep, could he outright reject it?
"Thank you, Father." Lorenz bowed his head, feeling the burn of shame and guilt on his face. Why did *he* earn such a thing? Were there not dozens of other children who had died? Who would never get to return home? He couldn't cry, not in front of his father, and he ached with missing his mother.
"You understand, of course, that I expect nothing less from you than perfection and hard work. None of your recent changes should sway you from your studies and disciplines. Your tutors will be informed of such. Dinner will be at six. You're expected to attend."
"Yes sir." Lorenz stood, and walked to his old chambers.
His bed and furnishings were present, but it seemed that many of his clothes had been removed or gotten rid of- the more boyish things had vanished, and only the more mature, dark formalwear had been left behind. His toys and old playthings were gone as well, leaving the room skinned but for the stiff, mature undelights of growing up. At least the linens were fresh.
He collapsed backwards onto his bed. It was his own bed. Soft, pillowy, warm, and comfortable. Too soft. Too warm. How many nights had he slept restlessly on the stone floors wishing for a warm bed, only now to find it too comfortable? The thought was enough to make him laugh, almost. He curled into himself.
He wanted his mother. The sound of her voice, the musical Dagdan singing to him, the laugh in her violet eyes. Would she really be gone, forever? The thought was impossible to him. She had been as permanent a fixture in his life as the mansion, or the garden, or the stars at night. Why would she leave him like this? Not even a letter, he thought- nothing.
Fat tears rolled down Lorenz's cheeks, streaky and puffy and inelegant and immature. It wasn't fair. Nothing ever was, he thought to himself somberly. It certainly wasn't fair that he'd had the misfortune of being pulled headfirst into something so agonizing, but it wasn't fair that he'd survived, either, that he knew the names, voices, eyes, of so many of his peers who had died by the hands of those...snakes, whose faces he couldn't remember, whose voices rattled in his mind like chimes in a thunderstorm. But he was tired, he was so tired. After what felt like hours of sorrow, he fell asleep, long white hair drifting out of his braid and into his face, a silky halo on the pillow.