The bedroom he slept in was immaculate. Everything was white; the sheets, the heavy white fur blanket he slept under in the colder months, the several blankets that went under that. The drapery that hung from the bed's massive frame so he could give himself some privacy if he chose.

The chairs, carved from beautiful wood that were all painted white. Tables. The mirror's frame was white. Everything was white.

Seth himself wore his huge white sleeping robe, tied at the waist, and that was all.

Skinny, having never truly grown into himself. His hair was white-blonde and cropped close to his head. His eyes were startlingly blue. He never seemed to focus on anything before him; rather, he seemed to be looking at something far away.

He sat on the bed, leaning against the corner-pole, staring at the door.

He was a man, now. Of a man's age. Twenty years old, and the heir to the throne of Eurastad now that Sam was gone. Killed. Murdered. His body had been returned, for burial. Murdered, by someone Lukas had tricked into being part of his scheme for freedom and revenge.

He was a man, now. He should have had the run of this castle. But Andrew had gone as mad as Mother and here, here as Seth, twenty years old, and locked in his room to 'think about what he chose to do'. Because he had not made the choice Andrew wanted him to make.

"I may as well be a child," Seth said heavily, and leaned his head until it touched the corner of the bedframe. "And where is Elo to guide our hands? Our king is led by the dreams of demons. My brother is dead. My brothers are both dead."

Ah, but there was the thought; the most frightening of them all. If Andrew were not a walking blasphemy, Seth himself might be king.

He turned to look at at the altar, the Book laid atop white lace with its candles, its Signs against evil painted on the wall behind it. He stood, walked over there, and dropped to his knees before it.

"Your children know not what they do," Seth whispered, reaching up to take from the altar a ceremonially engraved dagger; inlaid with gems and well worked.. But the actual hilt and dagger, of course, was iron.

Seth grinned. The moment he touched the knife, of course, it was like his stomach flipped over on itself. He knew the red spots would appear in his hands later, and his skin would itch and boil and if he held the knife long enough, he would get sick or burn.

He held one hand palm-up, flat, using the other to draw the knife across it. Blood welled up and Seth was, as always, slightly surprised that it was as red as normal blood.

He let the blood drip onto the floor, clenching and unclenching his fingers with the pain.

"Your children know not what they are," he murmured. His stomach flipped again and Seth jerked, slightly, pushing down the sickness.

"My brother used to be sick when it came to touching metal too," he whispered. "And now he is not. I need your help, my God and my Elo, to stop it. To end it."

He held his hand there, as if waiting for a voice from the heavens. When none came, Seth sighed, slightyl disappointed, and laid the iron knife back in its place atop the formerly pristine altar, now stained and bloody.

He stood, ignoring the nausea that threatened to swell still at having held the knife to his hand. One hand had a cut that he knew would infect if he didn't take precaution, and the other hand a red burn all across it that would last for days.

He could do nothing but call, and hope for an answer.