CHAPTER 6 : Cry Me A River
◊Goryeo Empire, 1304
 
 
 

Some nights Lee Sung Jong dreams of him drowning himself in a bathtub. Sometimes he would struggle, yet most nights he consents the vigorous current to wallow him up and set him spiraling into the dark abyss below. Some other nights, vivid images flash across his mind every millisecond. Exposing both the past and his present life; where a pile of both painful and new-found memorable memories unravel themselves little by little till nothing is left. However, just like sand, it slips right through his fingers, leaving its traces and dust, but not a solid presence. Though vague, once he awakens from any of these vile continuous nightmares, he would, unknowingly, latch himself onto his bed and cave into a mess of silent howls and tears. Once he settles down, he would proceeds to chug down hot water and get himself back to his work table. Too tired to fight back, too scared to fall asleep. Call it being ignorant, but there was no doubt that odd things happen in life, and are there for whatever reasons they have. In Lee Sung Jong’s case, he is too scared to know any of them.  
Strangely, there is no reason for him to drown in his own snot and sobs that particular morning. No nightmares, no lack of air, no water and no nothing.
He did cry but it was days ago. 
The young man’s eyes painfully wretch themselves open and force his sight through his dark surroundings.
Dark, yet bright.
The only light source available in that cell is the sunlight, shining through the window situated above his head. High enough to nearly touch the ceiling, high enough to blind his sight to the external.
Limbo?
Unexpectedly, the ropes, which have been attached to his slender body, loosens itself as its captive sways and finally finds himself ground into the dirt below, setting both sand and dust to erupt and settle down on the battered figure. With his aching limbs, he is in no state to shuffle his body to a more comfortable position, to spit the dirt off his lips, let alone to swipe his bangs off his sweaty forehead.
He could run. He could scream yet he did not. 
Tried that, been there, felt that.
True enough, his attempts to launch an extravagant escape was always fruitless. The last time he tried, he found his head shoved into a bowl of water and kept under grips till oxygen begins to drain itself from his lungs. When life nearly left him, his captor pulls him back to reality and probe him on and on with endless questions that do not make sense. Continuously, repeatedly and mercilessly.
“Which dimension have you descended from?”
“Have you jimmied your way through to the Goryeo Emperor as a tailor?”
“Is Hwang Myung plotting a coup d’etat?”
If he disobeys and remains silent throughout the interrogation, no meal awaits him by the end of the day. If he had the spunk, he would answer every each one with, “Go to Hell,” in perfect yet slurred English, which only earned him brutal blows from what seemed like a baton though he never really told what those words meant to his captors. Even so, he does not regret an ounce. If it means to keep Myungsoo safe and spotless, everything is worth the while.
“Everything…” Sung Jong croaks as a tear left his eye. Though, in this situation, there was no need to wipe it off. He might not even live through what comes next to show off his tattered face; his right eye’s bleeding corner, his dry cracked lips and bruised cheeks. Even so, the thought amuses him. Momentarily, he lets out a soft chuckle as he remembers his days back in South Korea; when carriages are cars, paintbrushes are pencils and letters are telephones. How did he even survive a day in Goryeo? How did he even come to believe and accept his fate? How did he even let his feelings wonders itself to the stoic 10^th Goryeo emperor, who he once spent hours listening about in an enclosed room filled with daydreaming teenagers during History period? Who knows? Whatever he has now is epic and priceless. Maybe in his afterlife, he could brag about how he time travelled to Goryeo to whoever he is bound to meet. Besides, Lee Sung Jong has finally made up his mind after spending days contemplating and confronting his worries : if there are no other route to solving his current problems, crying would be best. At least, energy is stripped off from his system and allows him to lapse into unconsciousness that serves as his new-found retreat to a better crib than dry hay, ropes and dampness. Perhaps, dying in his sleep now would be better than crying his life out for Myungsoo later when rejection ensues.
Regrettably, these feelings he harbors are inerasable yet inexcusable and downright wrong. It was possible yet then again, what king would overlook his country and love another male? What leader would shove his country down a garbage bin for another male? What emperor slits his own throat for another male?
Surely, none would.
Save a chest load of gold or a man drowning in a quicksand? Ask a politician and you’ll know that he means serious business when he chooses the first option. And, emperors are no exceptions. To make matters worse, Hwang Myung Jong was married to a woman he cherished too much to love others, even after her passing.
Whoever she was, she must have been one heck of a lady.
However paradise ended once Sung Jong finds himself yanked up from the ground and back to the wooden chair by his hair. It hurts but everything is as expected.
Without sparing another minute, the guards present retied the fallen ropes around Sung Jong’s limp body, attaching him to the chair with utmost strength. Once done, an elder man steps in and settles into the seat on the opposite side of the table with a guard on each side.
“Good morning, Lee Sung Jong. Lovely weather we have today, no?” The man chuckles as Sung Jong lazily throws his head back and finally positions it upright so as to have his eyes on par with the other party.
“Well maybe I’d know if you burst that wall back there. So, what? You’re a new face.” Sung Jong sniffs as he purposely spits the dirt from his lips towards the elder man’s direction.
Grimacing at the younger man’s state, the Chinese man shakes his head disapprovingly, “I would be more careful with my words if I were you, boy. Luckily, you have not gone mental. So, I will tell you something good.”
“Save it—’’
“I have come far from China specially to interrogate you today on behalf of emperor Gyu. I am one of his many consultants, but a very favored one out of the lot. Therefore, to put matters simple, today, your life depends on the answers you convey to me.”
Sung Jong stiffly chuckles, “Already tired playing cat and mouse, I see? Too bad. You aren’t getting a whiff from me. I am just a tailor and that is all I have to say.”
The elder man clicks his tongue and raises his eyebrows “I am perfectly aware that you are not the brightest of bulbs but have you not realized your current situation? Look around you. We have batons, basins of water, ropes and chains yet you pick these over freedom? Perhaps you really have gone round the bend!” He booms, “Well if that is the case, how would you like it if I just get this done and over with?”
For a moment, Sung Jong’s eyes widen in surprise yet he manages to scoff and spits, “I am bound to die anyway. You might as well take me on the fast lane. Then you could go and prance back to your lovely emperor. Brag about how I suffered during my last moments. Brag about how you failed miserably in squeezing out any answers from your captive. How joyous.”
Words that spill out of Sung Jong’s lips were not the answers he was expecting. Threatening is no use. There is no effect on his prey yet it only backfired on himself. The Chinese man could feel his pride slowly bruising deep in his mind. He could feel his anger surging up to his nerves and finally transmitting desires to carry out brutal methods of torture to his brains.
He shoots out a finger towards Sung Jong and orders the men by his sides in Chinese.
As fast as lightning, the ropes are cut off from Sung Jong’s figure. With his hands still tied to his back, Sung Jong is then escorted out of the Gyeongbokgung cell, to the open where familiar faces of palace occupants stood with Chinese guards guarding them from leaving. At his sight, some grimaced, some whimpered and some fought, trying to break through the barrier separating the crowd and the front compound of the building. Each displaying expressions he never saw throughout his years as a 19 year old teenager.
What’s going on?
Soon, he finds himself standing under a large, tall wooden tripod with a large rope hung above in the middle with a pulley attached to large horses on the opposite side of the newly built structure.
Sung Jong slowly turns pale. Could this---
“Guards! Execute!” The Chinese elder man booms as he instructs his men to advance on Sung Jong. They proceed to bind both of his ankles securely together with the rope attached to the pulley above and slit a fine line at the bottom on his jaw with a small dagger. Without warning, a Chinese guard whips the horses to surge into a frenzy of gallops, creating tension on the rope, wheeling the pulley and finally sending Sung Jong hanging in midair in an upside-down fashion with blood gradually oozing out from his fresh cut and trickle down his jaw line.
Though the sun’s hot rays flashed him in the eyes, he could still catch glimpses of the palace maidens, ministers, court officials and palace guards wailing at the horrific sight. The sight of a man dying slowly in a very protruding manner. Yet, whether they liked it or not they are forced to stay and watch as life slowly slips from Sung Jong’s fragile fingers. Not too long after, he spots Vice General Dong Woo forcing his way through several Chinese guards followed by two desperate palace maidens. Though in despair, they are still as lovely as ever. Sadly, their eyes refuse to stare back at him directly.
Maybe, if Myungsoo was there, too, he would grimace and glance elsewhere. Whatever it is, Myungsoo does not have to see any of this scenario. Myungsoo does not deserve to witness the things that he treasures crushed and discarded day after day.
Maybe, I will be the last he will lose.
Soon after, fatigue, hunger and pain come crashing in Sung Jong’s system and slowly cradle him to sleep. His eyelids droop, his lips slowly part, his clenched fists relax and his tensed shoulders sag. Creating loud sobs from the audience, which, unexpectedly, amplified into loud stomps and clinks of armor from a distance and gradually, nearer. The men break through the crowd and eventually crashed through the barriers. Finally, the cleared path makes way for a man in his 20s, who exudes large amounts of indescribable anger and prominent authority in a bundle. In a fit of rage, his legs stride forward as he grabs a bow and an arrow from the nearest man in the crowd. With expertise, his long fair fingers insert the arrow in place, and in the next second, the tip of the weapon darted into the palm of the Chinese consultant standing next to the wooden tripod, which results him to fall back in agony while wailing in pain. Alerted, the other Chinese guards begin to advance on the attacker. However, he avoids each and every one of their blows, skillfully delivering his own ruthless stabs. Once he reaches the last guard guarding the horses at the opposite end of the tripod, he swiftly snatches a sword and finally cuts through the thick ropes connecting a hanged limp body to the pulley and the horses. As soon as Sung Jong is removed from the ropes, he is immediately sent to the royal doctor’s quarters for an emergency treatment, leaving the scene.
The injured Chinese consultant huffs in pain as he squints his eyes through the sun’s magnificent gaze and finally manages to make out the outlines of the 10^thGoryeo emperor hovering above him with eyes as sharp as daggers while clutching onto the sword he stole from a lacking guard.
“You…! Such behavior! You… you infidel! How dare you---’’ The sentence hung in the air as Hwang Myung proceeds in grabbing a handful of the consultant’s hair and ram his head into the dirt below. Grinding it for a moment before pulling him back up into a sitting position. Without missing a beat, the emperor breaks off the arrow embedded in the consultant’s palm’s flesh, causing the old man to wail loudly, and shoves him by his collor to one of his loyal guards. Then, he instructs his subordinates to gather every each one of the Chinese guards in the palace’s compound to be thrown in the cell together with the consultant for interrogation.
Before abandoning the scene, Hwang Myung glances back into the consultant’s unfaltering traumatized gaze and spits, “Keep them alive.”
 
 

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