Chapter Text
“Good evening,” his father’s voice accuses, as though Makoto’s seclusion is a great offense. In the king’s mind, it likely is.
“Your Majesty,” Makoto allows, not sparing him a glance. Instead, he’s captivated by the grandeur of the night. Ladies adorned in their most sparkling dresses are led through dances by freshly-preened men. Wine flows freely, joyously, and not a soul is without a smile. Well, barring the king and his son.
The night is a celebration of life. Every year on the date for ten years, the royal palace hosts a ball in honor of the late queen. It used to be a somber affair full of guests dressed in black. Makoto is of the opinion that it should have remained this way, as he’s not able to set aside his grief in favor of merriment. Unlike him, the people have long stopped mourning the queen. Now, her death is used as an excuse to get inebriated in front of royalty.
Having long since tired of maintaining a facade of happiness, Makoto is hiding away in the corner of the ballroom nursing a glass of wine. He’s truly no better than a wallflower. Evidently, Makoto’s lack of participation in the festivities has bothered his father.
“You must socialize,” he is told. “Your behavior is improper of a courting man.”
Perhaps his father had assumed Makoto would not notice these words. In reality, it doesn't matter; the choice was never meant to be Makoto’s.
“So I am courting now.”
The king’s posture is always regal. There’s something about the set of his shoulders that Makoto has envied since he could talk. It is a coat of armor at this moment.
“Yes. Princess Abigail Jones will be visiting within the week.”
The two of them had met as children. Apparently, that makes them a suitable pair.
Before sipping on his wine, Makoto mutters, “I imagine she is expecting a proposal quite soon.”
“It is too soon to know anything,” the king proclaims with all of the power his title implies. This merely means that something trivial is halting progress, such as the dowry not being in order yet.
While Makoto is content to ignore his future for the rest of the night, a voice interrupts from behind him.
“If I may speak freely,” Kudo begins. He’s a few paces behind Makoto, watching and waiting. There’s not a man more understanding or knowledgeable of Makoto’s life.
“You may,” Makoto quickly replies. Even if there should not be any such thing, Kudo is often on Makoto’s side of an argument. It frustrates Makoto that Kudo looks to his father as he speaks, though the reason why soon becomes clear.
“His Highness need not commit to a match so soon. I only worry there will be missed opportunities.”
“Opportunities,” the king echoes, eyes staring through Makoto’s very soul, “are not our concern.”
Countless childhood fantasies play through Makoto’s mind. Entirely aware that he’s agreeing to a hasty courtship, he keeps his expression stoic as he addresses Kudo and, in turn, his father. “It is an easy decision to make.”
That should have been the end. Makoto Edamura, crown prince, would acquaint himself with Princess Abigail and convince her to marry. His feelings of the circumstances, or even those of his betrothed, are nothing in comparison to the welfare of the kingdom.
If only Princess Abigail’s right-hand man weren’t so infuriating.
prelude
As a child, Makoto had a steadfast attachment to his mother’s gardens. It wasn’t proper for a young prince to be wandering among gardeners, encountering dirt and plants and insects. It surely wasn’t proper for Makoto to pick flowers because they were pretty.
That does not account for the stray cats Makoto would find after slipping away from his guards, wandering the city as if he were invisible. The poor animals often appeared starved, and it was no issue for Makoto to sneak bits of bread from meal times to give to the cats. Eventually, Makoto was forbidden from traversing even the markets without someone always at his side. This person was Kudo, a witty but kind man. He has been more of a father than the king ever was.
For all the trouble Makoto caused, his mother never made him feel unworthy because of his interests. If he gifted her wilting flowers that would have done just fine in the ground, she would simply smile as he placed them in her hair. If Makoto was caught, once, smuggling a cat into the kitchens, the reprimand from his mother was a twinkling laugh. She may have even given the ink-black cat a scratch behind the ears before it was taken away.
It is no surprise to anyone that Makoto goes to the gardens still, especially when in deep thought or turmoil. Today, Makoto idly traces hydrangea petals, contemplating disturbing news regarding his mother. He sits among the foliage, heedless of dirtying his clothes. The air is crisp and smells of the hint of rainfall. He wonders how such a serene day can bear such grievous revelations.
Kudo finds him when the sun is setting, strange shadows flickering over the ground.
“These are difficult times,” Kudo tells him, trying to meet his eyes. “You should not mourn Her Majesty before she has passed, however.”
Makoto, who has barely lived thirteen years, lifts his chin in an attempt not to cry.
With a sigh, Kudo sits down next to Makoto, surrounded by things people of the royal house should always avoid. It nearly brings an amazed smile to Makoto’s face. “I believe Her Majesty would much prefer that you visit her, rather than avoid her.”
In truth, Makoto is furious. The emotion runs so intensely through him that he’s sure it will replace his blood. It is the fire currently powering his body and, without it, he fears he’ll crumble. Perhaps he can turn to ash to feed the flowers. It feels better than the alternative: living to see the woman who brought him into this world wither into nothing.
“I don’t wish to see her.” For what will happen if he lays eyes upon his slowly dying mother? How is he meant to see her without falling apart? Makoto would rather forfeit the crown than see his mother suffer. In fewer words, Makoto expresses this sentiment to Kudo.
“It would cause more suffering, I think, if you don’t support your mother during her last moments with us.”
Although Kudo seems to always possess wisdom, he looks exceptionally wise at this moment. He’s slightly older than Makoto’s father, and Makoto knows Kudo would make a fine ruler if not for his unending love of life. He cannot wish ill will on anyone. In that respect, Makoto’s father is the perfect king; he comes across as emotionless at times, even to his own son.
Kudo’s words have a visceral effect on Makoto. Makoto ducks his head, unseeing. Eventually, the pain becomes too much, and Makoto hugs Kudo. He has not done this since he was a young boy and his knees were bleeding from colliding with the unforgiving ground. It had been a stumble. The pain is different, this time, and just as real.
He goes to visit his mother the next morning. She’s not awake yet, and the royal physician cautions him from stealing any sleep from her. It is as if there’s still some hope that she will one day wake up a new person, cheeks pink with life and voice bright. There’s a reason she was announced dying yesterday, and it is not because she has had a smooth recovery.
Two full moons have come and gone, and no progress is visible. She will always be beautiful in Makoto’s eyes, but he’s not blind to how her cheeks have sunken. When Makoto sits beside her to watch her, holding her hand desperately, her fingers are so cold that he checks constantly to make sure she’s still breathing. Even then, her breaths come unsteadily, shaky.
The sight of her so weak distresses Makoto to a point that he almost considers leaving. The half-empty tincture bottles that fill every available surface nearly convince him that she’s gone already. Fortunately, his mother shakes with a cough and slowly opens her eyes.
“Makoto,” she greets, voice small.
He should not be so direct, yet he is. “You are dying.”
He loves her for many reasons, one of which being her continuous honesty. She has never tried to deceive him. Makoto’s mother takes a moment to collect her thoughts, then smiles at him. “I have fought this illness from the day I began to feel an inkling of it. I have not ceased trying, but I am tired.”
“I know you are tired of fighting,” Makoto assures, “but there must be something we have missed. Have we—”
“I do not like to argue with you concerning my future. Existing right now is just fine for me.”
“Mother, I cannot leave it at this! There must be something that can help you.”
“You are stubborn,” she laughs, and coughs when she cannot quite breathe the air correctly. “I should have known my boys would go against me.”
At this, Makoto’s jaw becomes tense. “Father has visited you.”
“He loves me just as much as you do and, like you, wants to see me well.”
“Why, then, has he given up the search for a cure?” To avoid his voice cracking, he clears his throat. “If he loves you so, why is he leaving you to die?”
The last word dwindles to nothing, a small utterance from a boy who feels a great deal. A part of Makoto recognizes that he has given up hope, too. The anguish he’s feeling only sharpens, ready to strike. He may say something he will regret. His mother sees too clearly, as she constantly does. She’s incredibly compassionate as she answers Makoto.
“Ozaki is not leaving me to do anything. Against his desire to gather every physician within a week’s ride from the kingdom, I explained that I would like to spend my last days with my family. That’s all.”
The sentiment is as heartbreaking as it is appreciated. “I would rather grow up with you in my life.”
“You always thought I was capable of anything,” Makoto’s mother says sadly. “I cannot promise anything, Makoto, I’m sorry.”
“Our kingdom needs its queen—”
“Our kingdom knows how to recuperate after a loss.”
“You must understand what I’m saying!”
“I do, sweet one. Your heart is full of flames. I hope you can rule with this passion one day. You would make a fine king.”
“Mother,” he demands with all the power of a scared child. He sees a watery glint in her eyes and wraps his arms around her. There’s much still that Makoto would like to communicate, but there’s a blockage in his throat. It is difficult to think, and all he knows is the comfort of his mother rubbing a hand between his shoulder blades.
“I’ll always love you. That will not change,” she whispers into his hair. Even if this remains constant, everything else will not once she’s gone.
The thought of growing into a man, being wed, having a family, and — somewhere within that timeframe — becoming king is already a daunting future for Makoto. He’s certain living through these experiences without his mother will be impossible. He will not have her unending support or her knowing smiles.
She will not have had the chance to live a full life. She will not die of old age, naturally, knowing that she has done everything she was meant to. Out of everyone in the kingdom, why is it Makoto’s mother who’s leaving too soon? Why is this her fate? Who passed on the judgment that she deserves this?
It is the notion that his mother does not deserve to die that causes Makoto to let out a great sob. He convinces himself that this is the only thing he can do now. He cries and cries until he’s sure there’s nothing left in him. Even then, he stays cradled in his mother’s arms. This is the most fragile Makoto has ever felt. Finally, he risks looking at his mother and finds her cheeks streaked with tears. She had been silent as Makoto was expressing his agony.
In a broken voice, his mother says, “I believe it is time for a meal.”
So badly does Makoto want to scream that she’s wrong, just this once. She does not understand that she’ll be greatly missed. She has to keep fighting. Instead of releasing his anger on her, Makoto accepts that his mother is dismissing the conversation. “Something hearty would be good for you.”
“No more rice, I should think,” Makoto’s mother pleads humorously. “I am becoming sick of it.”
A servant stands, terrified, just outside of the doorway. Perhaps Makoto had been yelling a bit, however unintentionally. He smiles apologetically. “Some food for my mother. No rice, please.”
Nodding, the servant dashes away after muttering a meek, “Yes, Your Highness.” Makoto takes a moment to wonder how distressed he must look.
Once a plate of bread, fresh fruit, and preserved vegetables arrives, Makoto thanks the servant as she bows to him and presents it to his mother. She looks troubled for the time it takes Makoto to blink, and then she accepts it graciously. It seems she’s only able to take a few bites of an apple before her movements are too feeble to do much besides sleep, so Makoto bids her good night. He watches as the servant hurries to collect his mother’s food for safe keeping.
Only a week following their argument, Makoto’s mother passes. It is during the early hours of the morning, and Makoto does not ever see her lifeless body. He’s not told who found her, though he’s sure it was the servant girl attending to her. Makoto spends a long while trying to remember if his last words to his mother were, simply, “Good night.”