People like them never had the luxury to marry for love. Holy matrimony fraught with agendas hidden underneath feigned politeness. That’s the kind of lives they’re born into. Their lives are stuffs of legend. Or a poorly written romance novel.

Her mother tried her best, to let her only daughter free of the birth right bestowed on her. Her father argued with well-prepared and linear reasons for them to accept this marriage. After all, their future son-in-law was to be a king.

Still, marriage meant nothing more than business and politics. She has lost count, of times they have spite each other out of stubbornness, of playing each other like they’re sitting on opposite sides during a chess match.

In fact, tender moments were few and rare. More often than not, they lay with each other for the sake of duty. A child begotten with blinding lust and dazed passion is not a child of love, merely a product of fulfilling one’s filial duty.

Sometimes she wonders of her life had she was born a commoner’s child, instead of a nobility’s legacy. Perhaps then, she’s much happier – love is a certainty in that life. Not being plunged into a constant battle of wits with everyone in court, her husband included.  

It starts with a dire summon from him.

The king.

Her king.

Another tantrum thrown so massive that the outcome only serves to increase anxiety bubbling beneath her skin. This time, several faithful servants injured and the possibility of two dead courtesans, hangs over her shoulders.

A beloved falcon, the king’s favourite, succumbed to the natural life cycle.  

Fear strikes her as her ears catch the faint panting of eunuchs. She may not see them, but with closed eyes, she could almost picture the uncontrollable quaking taking a hold of their bodies.

It’s a matter of urgency, she knows – otherwise, no eunuch would risk to expose themselves to fatality in invading the queen’s privacy. 

She lets the water parts from her skin, dripping on the floor as she rises from the bath tub. Her mind contemplates her choices, as her maids drape a towel around her.

Between ignoring the king until his temper wanes and indulging his whims – neither one sounds pleasing to her. But she has to make a choice one way or the other.

His eunuchs plead with vowels and letters coiled by tremors. Such an effective play, she admits that sways into her decision to settle on a dreaded choice.

With heavy steps, she sets her feet heading for their chambers. Silence, her constant companion, guides her through the halls. A lifetime ago, she would have an entourage to support her presence.

These days, they rather receive 100 lashes than to walk behind her as she makes way to her chambers. So she arrives, and behind the door, exquisite tea pots of gifts from foreign diplomats crashing against the floor. 

His hoarse voice bellowing vulgarity at the quivering servants. Their pleas to stop savagery goes dead on their lips. So often they withheld their tongues for slipping words that only serve to speed their untimely deaths.

Courage, she feels, slipping out between her fingers. Nausea rises along the tides of suffocation bound to her chest and stomach. She counts the number of silk threads on her robes, in silence, hoping it will calm her spastic nerves.

She has thoughts of balking, retreating in to her sacred chamber, the library. Her hand lays frozen, hanging on the air, as if touching the door would burn her. One last breath she in, the queen dares herself to take a step forward.

There she sees a sight no longer strange to her.

A partially-clothed man with blood streaking against his cheeks, his eyes so wild it almost looks inhuman to her. His dark prim hair sticking out, like one who has not known the art of showering. 

The room lies in a mess, everything that once stands tall, proud, decorative, set in a scattered pattern over the floor. And in the centre of it all, is him.

He’s laughing, an empty maniacal laugh.

Swinging his blade across the empty air. Something tells her that he wasn’t aware of her presence. But their servants - they see her, and a quick nod from her, swarm the exit door in relief and fear. 

It feels like it’s just yesterday. He was staring at her, like he does today. She has never known fear of him until that night.

The night his cherished blade slashed across her chest.

His throat all hoarse and rough as he yelled at her, “Get away from us, beast!”

His body vehemently shook, with sweat as his fever ran high. Delirium taking over all his senses. “You shall never take them away from me!”

He’s waving his blade, wildly yet determined. It happened all too quick. She didn’t even register it until dark crimson blood dripped against the floor.

Acrid, coppery taste of her own blood soaked her clothes.

The sound of metal blade clanked, unleashing echoes around the room. He released it, like his hand wrapped itself around heated iron.

Collapsed to the floor, she felt the ripples of his weight underneath her tremoring feet. Adrenaline rushed into her body, combating the flaring pain threatening to take over her limbs. She kicked the blade away from him.

Taking him in her arms, his burning body mingled with sweat as she rocked him gentle until his fever broke. As she hushed him to slumber, faint words of “no, not her” slipped out from his lips. Her heart broke, for Bingae laid dead on the mortician’s table. It’d been two full moons ago and yet it plagued him still. She didn’t remind him of that nightmare. Dead eyes of her husband’s concubine haunted her too. 

The Royal Physician attended to her wound the very next day. Blasphemous words will travel, she knew it wasn’t just his reputation stands judgement. The court never lost its ruthless touch, many kings and queens rise and fall – all caused by the rampant gossiping breeds rebellions and pits misguided commoners against the royal family.

“Please refrain from any sudden, vigorous activity. You may rip the seam on the wound.” The physician packed his tools into his bag, giving his respects.

“And you will not breathe a word to anyone,” she commanded.

“Yes, my queen,” he replied and with a quick nod, the physician left.

Beyond the door and walls of her private library, erratic footsteps lingered. The pacing gaining momentum, she could almost see the worry lines etched on his smooth face. His lower lips chewed, his brows creased.

She knew his desire to apologise was deep. Somewhere in her mind, yesterday’s disaster played in a never-ending loop. The door to the library creaked open, she hid behind the racks. Lips mouthing to silent prayers, it wasn’t too much to ask for him to leave her alone.

He tracked her to the innermost shelf. Footsteps stopped halfway, she heard him slumped on to the floor in defeat. Maybe his ears caught her breath hitching in a crazy fit, or how loud each prayer became.

Perhaps, he himself lost the strength to confront her. His lips locked the apologies aching to escape. And they spent hours in silence, in no one’s company but each other’s. 

It was the first, where they finally stopped the chess game and thrown their masks away. She can’t say for sure if they cried for the same thing. But she knew tears were genuine even if he tried to deny it.

Her feet takes its first step forward. Each foot guided by her returning courage. Her voice rings in the room.

“Thunder,” she calls, the nickname she reserves for his ears only. What’s once was a nickname called to garner his disdain, now serves as the reminder of his former self.

“Thunder.”

Another call, barely louder than a whisper, and her hand finds itself on his .

Her touch, he always says, is magical. He doesn’t elaborate any further. He would stare at her fingers, indefinite like time does not passes them at all.

She only sees what it does to him, snapping him out from a terrible nightmare he couldn’t wake up from. And he looks up at her, dazed and confused dancing in his brown irises.

Panic spreads from the corners of his eyes as realisation bloody hands sinks in. His worried eyes searches her for the blood-spattered patterns he’s used of dreaming. His limbs now shaking, whether it’s fear or guilt-driven, she can’t tell.

He used to be a book with letters and words she memorised by heart. Lately, she’s been staring at the same old book, just the content doesn’t remotely resemble what she’s once read.

The end of her lips quirk upwards and yet it never really reaches her eyes. In the moment of long forgotten youth, he would have outright mocked her for a smile so false, even a simple commoner could tell.

Now, even a small smile like this soothes his fears. “It’s not mine,” she reassures, clasping a hand over his callous ones gripping the blade. She pries his grip open, pushes the blade as far as possible.

There’s air of relief escaping from his lips, as he drops on to his knees. His voice croaks out a question she’s used to hearing, “How many people this time?” It sounds so sad and miserable, it feels like they’re ten again and no one is wining the little chess games their families pitted them against each other.

A decade has passed, she knows things of him that she couldn’t unlearn – even if she wants to. How he cries in the presence of none, how he chews his lower lip when afraid, how his eyes wander towards the next pretty thing in court.

The same way she can see how much weight his shoulders could bear before breaking, what does it takes before he’s pushed over the edge of sanity. It doesn’t take much, now these days, simple few words all string together is suffice for him to lose his control.

In a different time, she would have nothing but wishing to have the pleasure of twisting the knife she plunges into his mind and heart – just to see him squirm underneath the knowledge she won again, this game of checkers and manipulating hearts. 

But this is not the past. She’s not fourteen and thinks he can’t beat her in the silly games they play. And he’s not the boy who sulks with pretentious ignorance when he loses. Her fingers twirls his short hair, almost playing them with forgotten tenderness.

So she lies, “nobody died yet.” She takes a seat on the floor, her hands lifting his head on to her lap.

Her faithful maid enters to their chambers, with a bowl of water and a fresh towel before she sends them away. “Set them here,” she orders, pats the floor by her side.

She wipes the traces of blood away from his face, and her eyes lingers on his face, and she realises how young he is.

Under the sun rays, haggard and tired has becoming a mask he wears daily. He looks older than the man who once smiles like a playful fox under a summer’s morning breeze.

She’s torn.

Like she’s balancing on a see-saw perched on the edge of a cliff, precarious as one of her station would be. Any direction she leans to, the ending is never the one found in fairy-tales of happily ever after conclusions.

Would it be better if she ends his misery with her own bare hands – or should she let him succumb to his madness? Tarnish his reputation, and hers will be tainted as well. Do nothing and their story becomes a black spot in the years of prestigious family history.

She’s been pulled into many directions, many emotions and she has no idea which it is that supposed to make her feel better.

Cut him loose, rationality dictates and guilt heckles.

Protect him at all cost, the lover declares and the queen frowns.

He’s your nemesis. He’s your husband. He’s your nightmare. He’s your children’s father. He doesn’t deserve your pity. He needs your sympathy. He loves you. He hates you.

What’s the truth? What’s the false? All are mixed in the sea of uncertainty. Is he the one she hates or the one she devotes her love to? She’s torn.

“If I ever lay a finger on the children and you, or so much as thinking of raising my blade against my neck, don’t stop me.” His voice fills the still room, cutting into her scattered thoughts.

“Promise me, you’ll do nothing if I commit to end my life,” he says, determined with clear dark brown eyes staring into her soul. Did she give her answer away, or did he glimpse the truth she’s keep hidden and refusing to acknowledge?

His rough hand clasps on her wrist, no malice intention. “Say it. Say the words.”

“I promise,” she answers, trying to hold it together. Another word, she knows she’ll be releasing tears like a dam waiting to burst open.

“If they ever slander my name, let them be. Let them believe what they wish. As long as you knew the truth, it doesn’t matter in the end.” He speaks, like he’s talking into the distance. His body with her, but his mind elsewhere.

Then she hears it. Little sobs, breathing hitches – he’s lost, like a little child without direction, no ideas of what he’s doing. And the truth is, her heart breaks for him. Years gone by, they’ve grown up and all she sees is a little boy pretending to be a man.

(It wasn’t so long ago, he declared “only men can protect the ones they love” and told her that there’s no man for her but him. Somewhere, she knew that’s the first of many broken promises. But she can’t help but holding on to that promise.)

They stay inside the room, until his hands and face are all clean from the blood. He falls asleep, worry lines disappearing as peace settles on his face.

The clean water now diluted with reddish blots. She looks down at her own tarnished blood stained hands. Despairing resignation gnaws her guts. 

You see, occurrences like this have been increasing its frequency. The king is losing the battle, his lucidity diminishing with the passage of time. And she can’t help but wonder if they’re approaching towards the end.