The Master's Displeasure

"Never in my one thousand and forty-three years of dwelling within Xylarion have I beheld a creature of such ethereal grace. And to think, this is not merely a fairy, but a Prince of Flyraen, a realm renowned as the most exquisite in our world. My mind reels with wonder!" Melchior exclaimed, his voice full of surprise. Peregrine, his eyes wide with amazement, used his light magic to look closely at the fairy's face. "This is unbelievable... His features are so perfectly made, like they're carved from moon treasures! I can't believe I'm seeing this so easily."

Ametheous, the God, urgently told Rhysand's servants, "You can admire him later. For now, take him to the infirmary to rest. He just needs to sleep."

Peregrine, politely hiding his curiosity, asked Ametheous, "My Lord, why did the bright light around this... delicate being... disappear?"

Ametheous, who had been playful and silly just moments before, changed completely. His playful look was gone, replaced by a serious expression that allowed no arguments. "No more questions," he commanded, his voice short and to the point, not playful at all. "Take the Prince of Flyraen to the infirmary immediately. Be very careful with him, and don't touch his clothes. Even a small thread is important. Now, go." Melchior and Peregrine, seeing this rare show of genuine concern, quickly sent servants to take the fairy to the infirmary. The air still smelled faintly of carnations and something else—something wild and untamed.

After making sure the fairy was safe with the castle healers, Melchior went to his Master's room, leaving Peregrine with their unexpected guest. He carried a steaming bowl of fox broth, hoping to warm his Master. His Master, wrapped in thick clothes, sat on a comfortable sofa, holding a goblet of foxblood. A single, large candle, placed far away to avoid harsh light, cast a dim glow across the room, the light carefully controlled by Peregrine.

"Master, it's me. I brought you some warm broth," Melchior said softly. His Master just nodded. Melchior, feeling brave, asked, "Master, may I ask about your swim in the stream? You hate water, as you know." His Master's eyes stayed closed, his face unreadable. "And you know I hate bright lights," he replied, his voice low and calm. "You have disappointed me, Melchior." The unspoken tension was heavy in the air, hinting at a deeper mystery, a hidden reason for his Master's strange behavior.

"Forgive me, Master," Melchior said quietly, his hands shaking slightly. "I did everything I could to stop you from seeing that bright creature. Lord Ametheous told us what it really was—a fairy, a Prince of Flyraen. Don't worry, Master, the Prince is with our healers now. He didn't drown; he just... had too much of something." He looked up, meeting his Master's intense, red eyes, the color of fresh blood.

"You brought that creature back to my castle?" The words, though calm, showed his great disapproval. Melchior flinched; his calm was about to break. "It was Lord Ametheous's order, Master! We had to obey—" His voice wavered; his Master's anger was weighing on him. But his Master's anger wasn't a loud outburst; it was a chilling, controlled rage. He calmly threw his cup of foxblood against the wall, the red liquid a sharp contrast to the pale stone, the broken glass echoing Melchior's fading hope. Melchior, desperate to please his Master, tried to approach, to offer comfort, to explain. "Master, please forgive me! We had no choice but to obey Lord Ametheous. Let me—" His pleas were stopped by his Master's icy command: "Leave my chambers!" Melchior, terrified and ashamed, could only whisper, "Y-yes, Master," before leaving, leaving behind the broken cup and his own shattered peace.

Going down the long stairs, feeling heavy with failure and despair, Melchior went to the infirmary where Peregrine waited. Peregrine, sensing Melchior's arrival at the Prince's bedside, approached him, concern on his face. "Oh, what happened, Sir? You seem... upset," he asked gently. Melchior, head bowed, could only say, "I... I disappointed my Master..." He fought back tears, feeling terrible about himself. "I was so foolish, Peregrine!" he finally cried, letting out all his pent-up feelings. Peregrine, feeling sorry for his friend, gently put his hand on Melchior's head, offering comfort. "There, there, Sir. Don't blame yourself," he murmured, stroking Melchior's back.

"How can I forgive myself, Peregrine? This disaster... it's all my fault!" Melchior's voice cracked, his words a raw confession of despair. His shoulders slumped, the weight of his perceived failure crushing him. Peregrine, also worried, held Melchior's arms firmly but gently, his gaze steady and reassuring.

"Sir," Peregrine said calmly, "don't let this self-blame consume you. We all share the responsibility for what happened; surely you understand this? But even so, it's done, it can't be changed. So I beg you, let go of this torment. Stop blaming yourself." His tone was deeply empathetic, his words carefully chosen, each syllable showing his sincere concern. The hug that followed was a refuge, a silent sign of their deep friendship. In its warmth, Melchior found comfort, a deep understanding that didn't need words. He felt his sorrow begin to lift, replaced by a quiet hope, a gentle reassurance that he wasn't alone in his despair, that a true friend was there for him, ready to share his burden. The tears continued, but now they were different—the sharp pain of grief was softening, and he was slowly, tentatively, beginning to heal.