花樣年華

Yoongi sighs before grabbing his hat, placing it over his topknot. He loops the strings under his chin, ensuring it will not fall during his strenuous journey. He faces the eunuch, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. “Tell her I will be back in time.” 

“Of course, Your Grace… though I should mention that the royal adviser has also requested that you await his arrival, as he’s specified he wants to come along.” 

Yoongi’s brows furrow in contemplation, but he dismisses the idea firmly. The eunuch bows for the second time, before walking back out with his head down, his back never facing Yoongi. 

He doesn’t mind the trip as much any longer, having been used to the constant back and forth between the village and the main palace. The trek can be arduous, nonetheless. One of the main reasons why the Southerners can never fully invade them is because they’d have to trek through the perilous mountains. Descending from high above, he never cared much for. It’s coming back up from the village to the palace that is a literal pain in the ass. 

It’s why he never understood why his mother used to make such trips for the king. He never heard it from her mouth directly, but he can be certain that she used to be at his beck and call. If she was willing to sacrifice her freedom and dignity for him, he didn’t doubt that she would’ve climbed every mountain if it meant seeing him, whether or not there’s a snowstorm or a typhoon. 

A foolish feat, Yoongi thinks, all because she fell in love with a man who refused to relinquish the throne for someone like her. 

No, he wanted it all. He preferred that she give up the only life she knew and live in the palace, just so she can raise his son. 

“He has to grow up with a mother,” the king said. And grow up with her Yoongi did. She taught him everything he needed to know—what he needed to do to survive the harshness of the imperial court. 

No, future kings don’t speak that way to their people. 

Yes, those are the herbs you need to gather in order to make medicine. 

Yet, the king couldn’t even crown her queen, simply because she was born from the wrong family. 

No, Yoongi, that is not how you address the queen. You must treat her with the same respect as you give me.

Bloodline matters the most to the institution. To the ministers that controlled every movement of the monarchs. To the people, maybe not as much, but they respected the queen that was chosen for them by the royal court.

Perhaps it’s why he couldn’t wait until his father finally died. He’s one less person he has to worry about—one less nuisance to get rid of on his way to ascension. 

“One day, you will be king, dear child,” his mother spoke gently. The hibiscus flower swayed along with the summer winds, its petals brushing softly against her cheek. Yoongi often placed one stem atop her ear instead of gathering them for tea like she intended him to. But she never scolded him for not following instructions, and instead laughed when seven-year-old him said, “it’s a waste for it to be crushed by the mortar and pestle. 

“It’s better if you wear it, Mother. It looks beautiful on you.”

She grew quiet, and with a wistful smile, she repeated. “One day you’ll be king. You must do well to never forget that a king must not rule above his people. He must lead by example, and never let power get in the way of the kindness of his heart. The people provide and share the bounty of the land. It is a king’s prerogative to ensure there’s plenty to go around for everyone; his duty is to protect them, making sure they’re well taken care of.” 

“Like your plants and your flowers and your herbs, Mother,” young Min Yoongi answered back. “We take care of them and protect them, and we get back fruits, medicine and tea in return.” 

His mother often laughed at his antics. For Yoongi, it’s not something tangible of hers that he’s kept; memories, after all, are easily dissolvable. Yet she permeates his mind every so often, haunting him in every waking moment, reminding him during his sleep. Her lyrical laughter during a rainy night, the soft sobs she suppressed when she thought Yoongi didn’t hear. He tries to preserve the idyllic parts of his youth before things went awry, but he only remembers the pervasive hollowness in his chest. 

Empty, meaningless, and without purpose. 

Without a mother. 

“Well, I didn’t become the king, and I couldn’t protect the people,” Yoongi murmurs as he crouches down on the cold ground. One by one, he lines each flower, freshly plucked from the palace garden—her garden—hours before. He never forgets to bring them. They were her favourite, after all.

He can’t bear to hold a grudge against her, despite the fact that she couldn’t do anything for him in the end. She watched idly and without objection as the father of her only child married the rightful queen, one with a proper bloodline. She couldn’t fight for Yoongi when the title of crown prince was stolen directly from his hands; wouldn’t protest when they threw her out of the palace after her son became of age. 

If only he wasn’t so powerless then, would she still be around now?

“I couldn’t protect you. I guess that’s one thing we had in common,” he sniffles.

To him, the passing of his mother is a constant and painful reminder that Death does not simply choose its victims— those that are alive and with power that gets to make decisions for others.

And that man in power is the one he refuses to call his father. His hands tighten to a fist at the mere thought of what he’d done to her.

He made her suffer from the moment she met him all the way to her ultimate demise. Perhaps it’s only fitting that he suffers the same fate—a slow and painful death. The only thing keeping Yoongi from driving a dagger into the king’s heart is the thought of his illness festering within him, burrowing into his cold frigid heart, gradually eating away at him. 

Whether he still gains consciousness from time to time or is truly knocking at Death’s door, Yoongi doesn’t mind because either way he remains miserable—or at least he hopes that’s the case. On his visit the day before he didn’t look to be doing well, but that could only have been exaggerated by Yoongi’s drunken state. He doesn’t quite remember half of what he’s said, but he knows the sentiment of hate remains within him.

Yoongi flinches when he hears the hurried footfalls of his men, quickly rubbing away any trace of weakness from his eyes before standing to face them.

“What is it?” he snaps. 

“Your Grace, there are people—”

“Bandits?” 

With his brows furrowed in confusion, he wonders why anyone would still be foolish enough to steal from a land that’s known to have been barren for some time. Granted, they are on the edge of the land that borders the two neighbouring countries, so he’s not surprised if the trespassers hail from the other side of the border.

“It doesn’t seem like it. I’m told by the others that there are only four of them. Though it seems like they’ve split up. The others have already apprehended the two, and one of them mentioned something about travelling with a princess.”

His mood immediately shifts from perplexity to that of certainty, because would it be anyone else but you? 

“Shall we look for them, Your Grace? Their companions say they are wandering around the area…” 

Yoongi has to make sure. He’s been patiently waiting for your arrival after his initial plan went nowhere. This time he’ll make sure it’s not a maybe, but a yes, she is indeed the southern princess. He will not take any chances of being wrong.

“No. Bring me to the captives first.”