“--Aster,” a voice whispered. “Wake up!”
Aster snuggled closer to his blanket. Back in the fortress, Aster had endless days and nights to himself; waking up meant nothing if it meant facing the same old cell. It was hard to get the temperature right – with some nights being too cold and some days being too warm – so Aster relished any amount of sleep whenever he could.
Tonight, it was just right. Cold but not too chilling. He laid on something soft instead of the usual mossy stones. This was heaven already.
But then he heard the sound of a knife being unsheathed, and that illusion was suddenly broken. His body, almost as if controlled by some unknown force, had managed to subdue his assailant with its own eight.
The knife, which he had skillfully swiped in a moment's flash, pressed against pale neck. However, instead of fear, the person he held hostage was blushing.
“You ARE fast,” Florence whispered, breathing heavily.
Aster pressed the knife harder on his throat. “What the fuck is this, Florence?”
He didn’t know what Florence saw in his expression, but the man went limp on his hold, even opening his palms in surrender. “You wouldn’t wake up! What else am I supposed to do?”
“...oh.”
“That’s right!” He said through gritted teeth. “I hear something outside, and I need your help checking out what it is.”
“...okay.”
“And get off me! You’re heavy!”
“So demanding,” Aster hissed out, but did as he was told anyway. It wasn't his fault that this tent was so small!
(It was. He built it that way, because he intended to leave the other out in the snow.)
But before he could get up properly, he caught a stack of blankets right next to him – evidence of another person trespassing into his tent. He almost stabbed Florence right then and there.
“I thought you took the first shift!” He whisper-screamed. “Why were you sleeping? And what are you doing in MY tent?”
“I got sleepy!” The scribe protested. “Plus, where am I supposed to sleep? You want me to freeze to death?”
“Yes!”
The scribe gasped out loud in offence. He grabbed the knife out of Aster’s grip – a gesture that would’ve landed him a punch in the face had Aster not realised that the knife didn’t belong to him in this lifetime.
“Make your own tent next time,” he said, just to get the last word. It was all he could do not to watch Florence strap the General’s knife – no, Aster’s knife – to his person, unaware that the same knife would be used for numerous attempts on his life later.
***
True to his word, the forest had gone eerily silent, save for a strange, sniffling sound that mixed with the rustling of branches.
Aster picked up one of the firewood for a makeshift torch, with his other hand brandishing a small knife. Under the moonlight, it was hard to tell what time it was already, but the temperature had suffered a significant drop, letting Aster know that it must be somewhere past midnight.
“Stay here,” he told the scribe. “I’ll check–”
“You’re not leaving me here,” Florence said venomously. His jaw was set and he appeared ready to put up a fight, and frankly, Aster had no time for that right now.
“Fine. Stay behind me, don’t wander off.”
The two of them set off to find the source of the strange noise, filling the night with the sound of crunching snow, bated breaths, and cackle of flames. Having lived in the outskirts, Aster was no stranger to nightly creatures looking for a snack, but the closer they got, the more the noise resembled something eerie instead of predatory.
Aster didn’t understand ‘eerie’. Predatory things, he could kill, but weird, strange, and eerie things? He had no idea. He’d never had the pleasure of having one as a target before.
“Psst.”
“...”
“Psst, Aster!”
“What?”
“....-ghosts.”
“What?”
“Doyoubelieveinghosts”
At this, Aster finally turned around to face the scribe, intending to whack him upside the head. However, as soon as the torchlight illuminated his face, Aster saw a man haunted: his face was pale, his lips were blue, and his eyes – the usual, reddish brown concoction that Asteer vehemently hated – were almost pitch black.
Aster didn’t believe in ghosts. But if anyone were able to peek into his mind and waterboard the truth of him, he’d say that facts would suggest otherwise. After all, if past events were to be considered, then he might as well be a ghost himself, along with the person asking that very question.
Something must have betrayed in his own face, as Florence took his silence in agreement. If possible, his cheeks appeared to be more hollowed out, with his eyes bulging out. No way. He must be playing. This was the future Emperor, not some shivering, sleep-deprived damsel.
“People die here all the time, right?” Florence whispered, breath fogging. “What if the ghost wanted to lure us out, get us lost in the woods—”
Fuck. He had a point.
For the first time in his two lives, Aster felt the vast emptiness of the icy forests, the suffocating, almost maddening curtain of darkness. The prison was different – he had walls closing into him, and on lonely nights, he used to find himself almost comfortable in their embrace. The woods, on the other hand, appeared like a yawning void in the night, with shadows stretching as far as the skies, taunting.
He imagined all the travellers that died in the cold, or worse: ruthlessly slain by bandits. Aster was no stranger to corpses and death, but after having died and getting to live his life again, he wouldn’t put it past to other supernatural forces actually being real and able to touch him.
As if on cue, the bushes rustled in front of them, shaking off the snow from its branches.The voice also grew louder, close to resembling a ghoul’s cry. Aster immediately brandished the knife in front of him.
“Get behind me!” He ordered.
To make the situation worse, the scribe had grabbed his shirt again, causing Aster to fight every muscle in his body not to flee.
“Let’s just go back,” the scribe insisted. “You can take the second watch—”
At that, Aster finally snapped.
He lunged towards the bushes, knife poised and ready to kill. Behind him, Florence let out an undignified squeak, as he hid his face over Aster’s back.
In front of them, laying in the snow, was a little kid huddled up in her coat. Her knees were pressed up against her chest, and when she looked up, Aster felt the fear and tension leave his body (also literally, as Florence finally let him go).
What a kid was doing out alone in the woods at nights completely escaped him – all he knew was that something about this kid felt strangely familiar.
He did the first thing his mind had ordered him to do:
He patted the child on the head.
“P-please don’t kill me,” the kid choked out, tears streaming down her chubby little face.
***
Aster had been about Helen’s age when he first learned how to cook.
“This–this is delicious,” the kid almost whined, stuffing herself with whatever remained of their food. The two of them had gone back to their camp, taking the little girl with them. Aster took it upon himself to restart their campfire, while Florence stewed away in the corner, mumbling how their guest had ‘preferential’ treatment.
It always warmed his heart whenever people ate his food without abandon – it simply meant that the food was good. And to think that a little girl, who had been crying her eyes out and drowning in snot just a little over a minute earlier…
Let’s just say it was doing wonders for Aster’s poor old heart. Maybe dying had made him soft.
“..you” the child suddenly said mid-chew.
Aster handed her a rag. “Don’t talk when your mouth’s full.”
The girl swallowed her food, then beamed at Aster enthusiastically. “Thank you!”
He wondered if this was how his prison mate had felt, if that story about the little girl was to be believed. In the back of his mind, Aster had been keenly aware that he just gave away and wasted their precious food and supplies. But what else could he do? Leave the poor kid helpless and hungry? In a forest?
All on her own?
No way. Aster was a killer, but even he had his little rules. If he could save his mother and sister, then he could save a little kid, too.
“That’s good,” Aster ruffled her hair, then proceeded to hand her another portion. “Here, eat more.”
If possible, he felt the glare across from him intensify, almost burning as hot as the coals. He kept his smile all through it all, not wanting to scare the kid even more. It had been hard enough to calm her down the first time.
But despite his efforts, the scribe’s words rang softly in the air:
“...you didn’t even let me have that portion. Tch.”
Aster couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Seriously?” He hissed out.
“Do I look like I’m joking to you?” The scribe hissed back. He even crossed his arms for a good measure, creating a perfect picture of petulance.
He shot a glance at the kid, who was thankfully too busy to pay any attention to the man-child within their little circle. Taking advantage of the distraction, Aster grabbed Florence by the arm and pulled the two of them out of earshot, where he made sure to give His-Highness-Who-is-Not-Yet Quite-So-High some scolding.
“How could you!” He whacked the scribe in the arms, offended that he would ever dare cross them. “That was a child! You could at least pretend to be mature!”
“You expect me to believe that a mere child can survive this long in the woods,” Florence deadpanned. “At night.”
“And what else is she supposed to be? Tell me, does that look anything remotely suspicious to you?”
Aster pointed at Helen, who proceeded to empty out their water flasks right after downing their food. The child must have sensed the people talking about her, as she looked back and waved cheerfully. Aster waved back.
“She was wailing moments ago,” Florence reasoned, like Aster had completely lost his mind. “No child could possibly calm down as fast.”
“She’s hungry. You’d be surprised how easy people calm down when their basic needs are met.”
Florence’s eyes widened a little at that. He had no rebuttal – not at least, of course, if he’d experienced going to bed with an empty stomach. Another list of core life experiences that his half-noble blood had spared him from going through.
But strangely enough, Florence’s logic eerily reminded him of the conversation he’d had with his prison mate, who had allegedly gone off and saved a child this way. He’d been bamboozled, or so he claimed, and Aster’s then-cold heart had argued that it was only to be expected. You can’t raise someone in winter hell and expect a summer child.
“Alright, let’s say I consider your point. I’m not going to do anything unless we hear her out first. Is that okay with you?”
The scribe tried to hide it, but the way the tension on his shoulders loosened up was already a dead giveaway. “Hmph. You’re just mad that I’m making sense.”
“I’m mad at you.”
“Then imagine what I’m feeling! I’m furious! Seething! Enraged! Infuriated! Outraged! Indignant! Exasperated! Dis–”
“Shut up, scribe. I get it.”
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