Chapter Text
Years felt like eons in the empty castle. The Grand Hall, once bright and full of life, was now barren and dreary, each step Satoru took towards his late father's throne felt like another finger notched off his tether to reality.
Now nearly 18 Satoru knew that he must inherit his father's crown. Despite the well-known fact that his father's advisors could not fill the vacant throne forever, the news he had just received jarred him nonetheless. On the velvet cushion of the throne sat an envelope. Containing a proposal for his hand in marriage from a certain Ieiri Shoko, princess of a distant, rivaling kingdom. Shoko, known for her cold demeanor and iron fist, had sent a letter scribed in a deep crimson ink, sharp characters penned elegantly on thick parchment reading:
Gojo Satoru I do not ask but desire your hand in marriage.
Our union would serve to both better ourselves and our kingdoms.
I need no written response.
Your attendance shall give your answer at the Annual Winter Banquet.
If you are the man I believe you to be, I shall be seeing you on the 24th of December.
Know that your absence will not rest well with the people of my kingdom.
Make sure to pack warm, the winters of the Kyoto Kingdom are nothing to laugh at.
Her Highness,
Princess Ieiri Shoko
Satoru felt his mind circle his skull, not only had Princess Shoko managed to write the most passive-aggressive and demanding ¨request¨ that he had ever read but now Satoru was faced with a rather pressing dilemma.
Free choice was something that Satoru has grown used to living without, though being forced to wear a strangulating ruff collar to a royal brunch as an eight-year-old and getting married to a princess who is headed down the narrow path of tyranny are two very different things.
Unfortunately, Satoru could sense he would be headed for the snowy peaks of the Kyoto Kingdom in the near future.
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¨Be sure to keep warm, Satoru¨ dry, worn fingers prodded at his rosy cheeks. No matter his noble stature his caretaker would forever treat him as a son, feeding him until he couldn't swallow and wrapping his scarf when the winter chill bit his ears. For as long as he could recall Satoru had always had her warm arms to collapse into, though now as she packed his rations for his journey to come, Satoru couldn't help but feel a sense of guilt. Seven years, eight months, and 11 days. That's how long it had been since his father died, and he had yet to do a thing for anybody. Not his caretaker, who acted as the mother he never had. Not his father's advisors, who acted swiftly to preserve what little childhood Satoru had left. And certainly not his people. Satoru could count the number of times he had left the encapsulating walls of the castle in the last few years on a single hand. So perhaps the devastating fate which would soon be his was truly for the better. Maybe this loveless marriage is the only way he can truly make up for his incompetence to his own people.