Below the window, there wasn’t much, to be honest. There were only the gardens, and the little mermaid perched atop the cold stone fountain, spewing water from it’s conch-horn the way it did every day. The roses were well-kept, and they were perfectly trimmed in a way that was almost fake. It wasn’t difficult to look at, but it was difficult for Osiris to hold his gaze with those flowers.

Osiris sighed, taking his eyes away from the windows - his only source of light in this dusky room. He sat down at his desk, his seat still warm, and rested his head on the back of the chair, looking up at the exquisite but dull design on his ceiling. A single, unlit chandelier dangled from it, and sometimes Osiris wondered if he could jump up and pull it from its roots. Upstairs was probably more entertaining than this room.

Already bored of his chair, he stood back up, walking aimlessly around the empty room, his footsteps echoing on the marble floors. It was his room, but it didn’t feel very roomy. It didn’t feel like a place where he could relax, instead, he had to put up his guard even more often. Whenever he looked in the reflection of the glass portraits, or in the lone mirror that faced him, or in the mist from the window, he could see himself.

Of course, that wasn’t the shocking part.

Whenever he saw his face, it would contort into what he really looked like. Dull, tired eyes, darkened eye bags. Black messy hair that fell over his face, his attire drab and drooping. Not in the way he imagined himself to be. Not his ideal self.

His ideal self was what “Mother” wanted him to look like. A hard-working, perfect son, who could uphold any standard thrown at him. His composure held up confidently, as if to say “I am the next ruler. The next heir, more worthy than this worthless current king.”

Although he was hardworking, his brain and body acted against his favor. Upon the stacks and stacks of paperwork and books that he was tasked with completing daily and the tasteless meals that would only be served when he finished, he found himself growing weaker. It wasn’t right. He was supposed to be getting faster. More efficient. Better.

Not this.

But, as much as he was willing, his body wouldn’t listen.

At one point, he found himself looking up at a boy. Similar to him.

The boy looked at him in disdain, his arms crossed.

“Is this what you’ve become, Osiris? Just a boy hunched over his desk, withering away? No wonder your brother left you for his own doom. How pathetic.”

Osiris said nothing, since those words were true. For a long time, he had wondered if what he had been telling himself was correct, but hearing those words now, he felt more hurt than reassured. However, no matter how he felt, he knew inside his heart that those words must be right since even a random boy that suddenly appeared in his room could tell.

That boy looked just like him, so it wasn't really a "random boy," however. It was him - no, it was the him that he strived to become. The him that he didn’t see anymore when he looked in the mirror.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Strangely enough, although he loathed that boy’s words, he began to see out his company more and more. Someone to talk to. A voice to listen to, no matter how harsh, instead of the dreadful sound of pens scratching on parchment that he heard. His own ragged breathing, the sound of his empty stomach.

Sometimes, when Osiris was out of his room - not out of the manor, though - he could hear the boy's footsteps behind him. Faintly, his heart was beating, although he didn't dare look back in fear that it would only be the silence that greeted him, the sound of footsteps that would always make him nervous. It didn't make sense - he welcomed the company. So, what was making his back prickle and telling him to run?

Maybe it was the fact that none of the servants seemed to see the boy. That, whenever he saw his face in the mirror, it seemed so much less than that boy who berated him every day at his table. The silence when he could only hear footsteps but no voice to accompany them.

So, Osiris went back to his room, where the boy would start talking.

And, when he heard the familiar voice, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Osiris began talking too. Sometimes he would give polite nods as he dipped his pen in ink for the hundredth time, and sometimes he would take the lead in the conversation. Occasionally, when he looked up, the boy was gone, but that was only when he got too wrapped up in his thoughts. He learned to just listen, put in a few words when he needed to, and enjoy the company until the boy left.

It reminded him of talking to his brother again.

Speaking of his brother, he was coming home today. At the age of sixteen - the same age Osiris was, his brother returned not in a coffin but as a war hero. The same age Osiris was as he withered away, talking to a strange boy in his room.

At one point, Madam Marian came again. She didn't seem to see the boy either, which was strange. Osiris wasn't surprised, but at this point, he had started questioning his sanity. Maybe he needed some more human interaction. He was sixteen, so maybe he needed a fiancé.

Madam Marian didn't think so.

Of course, she was always fixated on making him the next heir. Osiris didn't understand - he was doing fine and, in fact, excelled at everything he was set on. (Except for physical and mental health) But, whenever he went to ask Madam Marian a question, she would always have a face of barely concealed rage and agitation. Not directed toward him but towards someone else who was always on her mind.

Deep down, Osiris knew who it was directed towards. It couldn't be more obvious.

However, he wanted to live in his doubts, his blissful and youthful ignorance, so he chose to ignore it.

Osiris looked at the parade outside, music blasting from a mile away, and the cheers of the people as men galloped back on horseback. He could count their heads from here - There were twelve men. Only twelve.

After they all entered, some people cocked their heads in confusion, looking after the crowd of twelve as if to see if anyone else was following them. More soldiers? There had been almost a thousand when they left, filling the whole town square.

Osiris couldn't see anyone's expression, but he could feel the sense of shock and disappointment in the air.

He saw his brother - it was easy since he was in the front. Heavy armor didn't suit him since he was much better wearing light clothing that covered his small frame, delicate as a flower, almost like a princess. However, the second prince would do whatever his mother bid him to since he wasn't someone who could fight back easily. Since three years ago, Osiris wondered what had changed.

"Looking at the parade?" Madam Marian asked.

"Yes, Mother," Osiris replied. He looked back at her from the long, winding hallway. "Will you go and publicly congratulate him?"

Madam Marian scoffed with her hand over her mouth. "He probably needs more consulting than congratulating right now."

"You were the one who sent him to war, Mother."

The least you could do is go see him.

"That's true. But, look how good he did." Madam Marian leaned by the window beside Osiris, looking with a prideful expression. "My sweet little boy is all grown up now."

Her voice was cold, not of a proud mother speaking of her son, but a master mocking one of her tools.

"Yes, Mother."

If Mother wasn't going to congratulate him, Osiris would have to do it by himself. It was better for him, he supposed.