Chapter Text
The weight of a crown was always something that the duce dreaded, in silence, unable to tell the world what he actually wanted. It was the family’s heritage and he had to take upon that given ‘king’ title that he had it coming his way. He tried to shake off the idea that he could be made for anything else other than continue what his family started in that cursed kingdom years ago. Generations upon generations continued the lineage and made sure that the kingdowm would never fall.
But why did Minho want it to happen once he was given the power? Ever since he was just a mere young fella, he just knew he was not born in the right family. He was not supposed to be raised by the royal family and even more, he was not supposed to ever touch upon the responsabilities that came with the dreadful title he was supposed to want.
He was told that everyone was like that before, anxious and thinking they were not good enough to inherit the power, but everyone else ended up doing well. But Minho knew that was just utter bullshit. He knew that what he felt was not any of that. He was not anxious and he was not afraid of not being good enough. He was aware he was good enough and that he could do well. But he did not want to engage with any of that stuff. The way his heart was sinking everyday as he was realising that one day gone by was one day closer to his coronation.
He thought that it simply was not fair, to some extent. Some would dream to be in his position and yet, why was he feeling in such a way? What was all of that about? Why couldn’t he relate to all of his family and be proud of taking upon such privilege? What was stopping him, really?
Maybe it was the fact that he really was just scared?
Maybe it was the fact that he never paid attention to what a king actually does?
Maybe it was the idea of living a complete mundane life, outside of the kingdom and doing his own thing?
Well, it was really none of that. Minho craved adventure of some sort. He wanted to explore the world and not be forcibly rooted in one spot all of his life. He wanted to go all over the world if possible and meet new people. Hear tales he never ehard before and engage in activities he could just dream of in the state he was at the given moment. All of that haunted Minho’s dreams ever since he was little. It was something he wished he had, something he oh so terribly craved. Something that could fuel him to lead a life.
But he couldn’t have any of that. He was not supposed to have any of that. And it made him upset on different occasions. People would ask him what brought him down, but how could a duce even tell his servants that he was wishing he was born in a normal family and that he had no pressure on being the perfect son people were painting him to be. If only he was not of royal lineage. If only.
Minho let out a sad sigh and he closed his journal, putting his quill back in place and closing the lid of the ink jar. There was no one to understand him, so he always resorted on telling the paper what he thought was unfair to him and in his life. Not like any of that mattered, anyway. No one was going to ask him what he wanted. No one was going to read his journal and actually associate it with Minho, the duce. No one was going to care about anything he ever wrote in that damn old journal.
After he was done tidying up his desk, he took his journal and sat on the floor, reaching for a box under his king sized bed. He was keeping the journal in a small chest with a key he was wearing as accesory on his bracelet. He asked someone to make it for him, but they never questioned him why. Not like Minho was going to tell them, anyway. It was none of their business and if they thought of snooping around in what was his, they were not going to hear the end of it, like ever probably.
The duce was not the type of person that would be cruel, but he also never appreciated when people were trying to ask too many questions or get answers about him in ways that displeased him. That was the main reason why he despised trusting people too easily. You could never know when a person was going to backstab you in such a way like that. But that was also one of the reasons why he dreaded the day he was going to become king. Because he was going to meet even more people like that and he did not want any of it.
He let out a sigh and put the journal in the chest and locked it, then pushing it back under the bed. He stood up and walked over to the window, looking outside at the sky, thinking if he even wanted to attend the family dinner. He knew he had to, but only the thought of being there was eating him alive in ways he could never express. It was sad. But he had no say in what was good for him, because of course he was young and dumb. That was one way to put it and one that he heard way too often from his family. Minhow would just laugh it off and nod, trying to not show any signs that those were affecting him in any way, shape or form. Last thing he needed was his family making fun of him for being sensitive or anything else of sorts.
He heard a knock on his door and assuming it was the servant taht came to let him know that the dinner was ready, he just shouted a ‘coming’, still looking through the window. However, his gaze moved from the sky upon the garden and all the staff that was going from one place to another. None of them were stopping and taking a breath and that somehow was heartbreaking to Minho. He wished those people could catch a break, but he also was aware of the fact that it was not possible. Not as long as his dad was alive, at least.
When his door opened, he knew that not the servant came to talk with him, so he turned around and met no one else but the face of his father. As soon as Minho recognised the person, he immediately took upo a straight posture and slightly bowed to him. Because after all, he was the king before he was his father. His words completely, not Minho’s. He wished his beloved king would act more like a dad, rather than just a cruel and mindless person that only knew how to order people around. Quite amusing that his only personality trait was the fact that he was king. Not like the peasants liked him a lot, anyway.
“Minho.” the king said and took some steps forward, being closer to the boy. “I know you were waiting up until the servant came, but I want you to open the dinner. I want you to get used to some king mannerisms before your coronation. I know it’s a bit early, but trust me it will be good for you in the long run. Come with me boy.” he then continued and turned immediately around, starting to walk towards the door, not waiting for his son to reply.
“Yes father…” Minho murmured to himself and let out a quiet sigh, as he tried his best to not pay mind to the way his heart was burning with dread as he was following the king towards the dining room. He was never between the first ones at the table and he never wanted for that to happen, but as his father pointed out… It was the king’s duty to show up early and be there for his people and family. It was the norm and Minho had to get accustomed to it, if he wanted to live further there.
But that was the thing though… Minho absolutely did not want to live there. Not one more day. The emotions that he was trying so hard to repress were growing stronger and stronger everyday. He just wanted to run away. Never come back. Never look back on his old life. He was not fit for any of that and he knew it better than anyone else. No matter how much they were trying to inflict the royal curse onto him, it was never going to actually work.
But he had no idea how he could get away. Of course, he knew how much he wanted to do so, but even he knew how hard that would be to accomplish. He had the goal, however the way to reach it seemed non-existent.
Unless… it was right in front of him.
He finally snapped out of his state as soon as they reached the dining room. He sat on the chair his dad usually sat on, while the adult took the chair where Minho usually sat. One by one, the rest of the family and important staff started to show up and take upon their places, trying to not talk too loudly about the fact that Minho took over the king’s spot. Every word the boy’s brain could make out was making the pit inside his stomach become bigger and bigger. It was not a pleasant experience, not at all.
Especially since he had to stand up and formally salute every and each of them, just how his dad was doing usually. The idea of doing well was even more burning within Minho’s brain, since the gaze of his family was all over him. From posture, to how he smiled and how he was pronouncing his words. He felt studied. Like they were waiting for him to make a mistake. One. No matter how little. And when he was finally going to misstep, they were going to attack him like wolves that haven’t eaten in so long.
He hated every bit of it. He couldn’t even enjoy his food, without everyone not so subtly staring him up and down. They were not letting him breathe at all and at some point Minho could swore that the room started to spin wih him. The situation and the burden of his future title were making him dizzy and he wanted nothing more but to just disappear into the void or be eaten by the dirt in their garden.
He just couldn’t face the pressure he was put under and at some point, he was sure that his family noticed. But they did not care, for them it was funny. For Minho? It never was funny and never was going to be.
Even after the dinner was supposedly done, he still felt like he was not able to walk properly or even get to his room. But when he did, he started crying. Tears streamed down his face, as the realisation that he hated his life there hit him even harder than last time. He was not made to be king. Hell, he was not even made to be of royal blood. He did not want to be associated with that family.
And he was going to take measures. He did not care if he was going to be caught and punished for trying to run away, but he at least had to try. So he was going to try. No matter what, he had to leave that place behind. He did not belong and was never going to belong there. Never.