Only a few words were enough for Atlas to understand everything. Centuries ago, it hadn’t been Rafael whom Circe opposed, it had been Morpheus.
Atlas clicked his tongue, frustration gnawing at him. He had seen Morpheus’s face before, yet now it slipped through his mind like water through his fingers. Why?
Even though they had crossed paths, spoken, even stood in the sa halls... the image refused to stay.
When he tried to recall their first eting, the mory surfaced clearly, sharp as glass.
It had been within the sorcerers’ castle, a castle Atlas himself had ordered built before his coronation, ant as a gift to Circe. He had commanded the finest artisans, carving a lake at its center, filled with the purest water blessed by the Ice Forest witch herself.
Back then, he had been almost boyishly eager to unveil it to Circe, to see her expression. He had escorted her by carriage, showcasing the finished halls, the shimring waters. But amid his pride, his gaze had caught on soone else.
A tall figure, shadowing her steps. A man cloaked in deep red so vivid it seed steeped in blood.
"Who is the one behind you? A sorcerer, like Lastor?" Atlas had asked, his attention drawn to the man’s silence more than his presence.
Circe had faltered, just briefly. Then she drew her long white sleeve forward, veiling part of her hand as if to steady herself. "His na is Morpheus. A great sorcerer, one whose talents even Lastor respects."
"Soone stronger than Lastor, and acknowledged by you..." Atlas had murmured, curiosity sparking. "I would like to see his face."
He had approached then, extending his hand despite the wary glances of his retainers, n who found such gestures too familiar, too kind, for a re common born sorcerer.
But Morpheus had lowered his hooded head, refusing to take the hand. "It is a pleasure to be acknowledged by your presence, Your Majesty," he had said with curt formality.
"Your Majesty? I’m still only a prince," Atlas had replied easily, drawing his hand back without offense. And in that mont, when he turned toward Circe again, he caught it, Morpheus’s face tilting up.
Pale. Almost unearthly, like marble carved from the castle’s own stone. A sharp chin, sharper still the taper of his ears, near pointed, half concealed by hair as black and fine as spider’s silk.
If elves had ever walked Versailles, surely Morpheus would have been one of them.
But what else?
His face had been striking, yet it refused to leave a lasting impression in Atlas’s mind. That alone unsettled him, for he had always been confident in his sharp mory. The only fragnts he could cling to were Morpheus’s green eyes and dark hair, everything else slipped away like mist.
At the ti, he hadn’t felt impressed. Despite Circe’s praise of Morpheus’s talent, Atlas had thought Lastor the greater sorcerer. But now... he wasn’t certain. His lids dragged down like iron shutters, and even his own thoughts began to blur, slipping away like water through his fingers.
Another yawn broke from his lips, sharp with irritation, Atlas sighed. His body betrayed him, begging for sleep and if he loosen himself for just a second, he was going to fall back into the deep sleep. Two days without rest, spent watching over Circe’s motionless form, had finally begun to wear him thin.
Deciding to finally rest as Circe’s condition has left the dangerous ti, Atlas pushed his back to the couch, his blue eyes lingered on her one last ti. He could have returned to his chamber, but being close to her was a comfort in itself. With that thought, he surrendered to sleep, reassuring himself with her presence beside him.
The room hushed, darkness engulfed him as the last sight he saw was the sleeping Circe in the bed, guarded and unmoved. The room continued to maintain the pin drop silence... until a soft creak broke the quietness.
On the bed, Noah stirred. After what felt like an endless slumber, his body shifted, his fra rising stiffly as though unaccustod to motion. His red eyes blinked open, narrowing at the unfamiliar chamber. Nothing belonged to him here, not the bed, the canopy, and the lack of mirror that he had placed right beside his bed to imdiately greet him.
He must have been moved sowhere and though for a mont he seed panicked, the shock disappear when his wary eyes stopped at the figure that was curled on the couch, the sleeping figure who seed to be so exhausted that not even a loud thunder from the sky could awake him.
A familiar man with blonde hair and blue eyes. He knew then what he saw was Atlas.
For a mont Noah froze, his expression unreadable. Rather than speak, he slid carefully from the mattress. His movents were quiet, on purpose to be hushed so he wouldn’t wake Atlas up. Without a sound, he slipped across the floor and disappeared into the bathroom directly opposite the bed.
And once he was inside, he locked the door in a slow pace. His feet then moved toward the bathtub while his hands rushed to turn on the golden faucet to fill the bathtub on the lowest intensity, hurried to make sure he would make no sound.
Once the bathtub was filled, Noah stood up and whispered, "You told that we won’t be caught," said Noah to no one in the room.
Yet an answer slipped but from his own mouth, "I cannot help what had occurred. There was nowhere to run away. Still, it’s my fault, my apologies."
"Well... I don’t bla you, don’t worry" Noah sighed, "But now I have fulfilled the role, have I? The last thing to do since I am caught is..."
"Are you scared?" Circe asked him and Noah smiled when his eyes t the mirror.
"I am," Noah answered as he rummaged through the cupboard of the room, finally finding the sharp and gleaming shaving blade. "But I was the one who had offered my help to you and besides... isn’t this what my family had for?"
Circe was quiet for a mont as Noah rushed to the bathtub, turning off the faucet before placing the blade over his wrist, gulping as he stared at the reflection of his own face.
"My father and mother... at least they won’t be ashad by anymore right?"
"..."
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