#099. I Won’t Be Able to Forget You for the Rest of My Life
He saw her tears for the first time.
She was not someone who cried.
Even when the younger brother of the man who had nearly destroyed her clan appeared before her.
Even when, at the age of thirteen, she was forced to shoulder the weight of her entire household.
Even when the family she protected with clenched teeth was stolen away by a direct bloodline under the excuse of “collateral branch.”
Even when she had to swear loyalty to her mortal enemy.
Even when her subordinates disobeyed.
Even when she was burdened with conquering half of the continent.
She did not cry.
Even when, after forty years of loyalty, she was dismissed and ordered into seclusion—she did not cry.
But now, she was weeping. Clear droplets fell from her porcelain-doll-like cheeks, leaving faint stains upon the table.
What words could he possibly speak in this moment? Melchizedek wanted to reach out and wipe her tears, to soothe her and beg her not to cry. He wanted, instead, to weep himself.
What treatment could possibly be so unjust? He could give her anything—this world, a kingdom, love, even his life.
If Baekryeon had only once reached out her hand, he would have given her everything.
But she had been the one who appeared before him already married. She had been the one to ignore the one drunken, desperate proposal he had ever dared to voice.
And yet—before Blanche, who now wept—he could do nothing but say:
“If you don’t ask for it…”
The moment he opened his mouth, he realized he too was crying.
“…then is it all right?”
Of course, his tears were not the same as hers. This was not his first time shedding tears. It was not the first time he revealed them before others.
He had always used even tears as a political tool. Even sincerity, when shed as tears, had been employed the same way.
The truly shrewd never filled the forest with falsehoods alone. The most difficult thing to discern between truth and lies is when the two are mixed—and he had willingly made use of his sincerity as well.
False tears, true tears—he had shown both countless times.
Baekryeon must have witnessed them too. Both kinds.
And yet, these tears now felt shameful.
“If I only asked you to accept my heart… would you take it?”
Tears naturally catch in the throat, making the voice tremble. That was only natural.
And yet—why did he feel like such a child throwing a tantrum? How unbearably shameful, how much he wished to turn away his head.
But he could not stop speaking.
Just as he could not bring himself to reach out, just as he could not bring himself to comfort her—even as his lips moved, his voice sounded as if his will had no part in it.
“You know I was sincere.”
Not “I am sincere”—but “I was sincere.”
He spoke not of the present, but of the past.
Even though he had been granted life again, even though he had been given another chance to try—he clung only to what was gone. It was disgraceful.
To bring up what had, by silent agreement, been erased between them… to dig up that ignored proposal, those unanswered words of sincerity… politically, it was foolish.
It would have been wiser to persist instead with the proposal of this lifetime, the one she had just rejected as “unjust.”
For in the end, even she could not explain why it was wrong, repeating only that it was not right.
In their previous lives, they had both buried it as if it had never happened. He could have left it that way—pretending it was nothing more than drunken rambling.
He knew this. And yet…
The man who had once known how to wield even his own life and his own love as a weapon—he could not do it now.
Because her tears—her first tears he had ever seen—struck some place deep inside him.
Because they awakened in him his most foolish, twisted, pitiful self—the worthless boy who, though he had seized the world, had not been satisfied, had not been happy.
“Tell me you don’t need love—then will you stay by my side?”
This was not a tantrum.
He truly never wished to hurt her. He wanted to give her all the treasures of the world, only to see her smile. Never to make her cry.
He wanted to tell her: I will wipe away your tears. I will do anything you wish.
If she had told him not to love her, he would have cut it off. If she had said she would not give him her heart, he would have laughed and said he didn’t need it.
If he had been the kind of emperor she wanted—if he could have withheld special favor, even at the cost of her being sacrificed to political strife—she might never have wept. She might never have taken her own life.
But he had not been that man.
He had lain awake, sleepless, fearing she might not return alive from war.
He had proposed to her, drunk, though she was already wed to another.
He had showered her with favor so excessive it repulsed even her.
He had grown impatient with her disregard for her own life.
And, in the end, he had let her die.
And then he had looked upon her corpse, and regretted.
Ah, how unlike the First Emperor of Atan, who had built the continent’s only empire. How petty, how disgraceful.
And yet, he could not help but cling. It enraged him. It suffocated him.
Even now, fearing she might die again, he could not stop circling her side. It was wretched. But what else could he do?
“I… will never be able to forget you, not for as long as I live…”
Truly.
He did not want this.
He did not want to dig up the past.
He wanted to forget all the thoughts he had when standing before her corpse.
“…so just this once, won’t you stay with me?”
But she had carved herself too deeply into his life. Even reborn, even with a new life, he could not erase her.
What was love, what was happiness, that such unseen things could do this? That such a trifling emotion—one that led only to death—could leave him begging so pitifully for her presence?
Melchizedek felt the bitterness well up from the depths of his throat as he pleaded.
“Please.”
He did not know how much time had passed.
His head was too clouded with tears to think clearly.
What held her lips shut now was not lack of desire—for she wanted to grant him anything he wished—but her stubborn refusal to open her mouth.
Ah… if only closing her eyes would end everything.
Truly, His Majesty made her think things she had never thought, even in the heart of battle. Why had she come to love such a difficult man?
Winter had passed, yet the night was still cold. Watching the sunset fade, she murmured absently:
“Your Majesty’s favor is always… too much.”
She herself did not know to which of his words she was replying.
Her mind was a muddle—she remembered nothing of their conversation’s flow, only that she had cried, and His Majesty had cried as well.
Ah… what a weapon his tears were.
It was not her first time seeing them, yet always—always—they struck too deeply.
Even knowing he wielded tears as a political tool, why did these tears feel different? Why did she want to believe them?
Smiling bitterly at herself, she returned his words:
“Then I simply will not do that. Will that be enough?”
A low chuckle came from before her. She could not tell if it was truly from joy. She drew in a long breath; the air cleared her dazed mind only a little.
“And if we go that far—what meaning could there be in staying together?”
She still loved him. Even wounded as she was, she believed his choices as emperor had been right.
Because of them, the throne had grown secure. Because of them, the heir he belatedly chose had gained strength.
As for the empire that collapsed soon after his death…
…that was not something she had the right to speak of. That was her own failure, for having raised their child poorly.
But still—loving him, admiring him as emperor—was one matter. Remaining by his side was another.
She was too old, too worn. A new body did not make the soul young again.
In her youth, she had been able to kneel before the one she loved, pledge her loyalty, and hide that love for a lifetime. That was only possible then.
Now, she had no strength for such things. She only wished to see Tula live safely. That alone was enough.
No—beyond that, she could not wish for anything.
And yet… would even that be possible at his side? She was not sure.
“Well…”
His Majesty’s voice sounded calmer, lighter. Compared to her own, dry and cracked like his tears, he seemed untouched.
Yes. He had always been that kind of man. Realizing she was chasing old memories again, she grew tired.
Ah… how like the days before her death. Days when even opening her eyes and breathing left her utterly drained.
Days when she had woken and thought, It would be good if today were my last.
Even now, she could not bring herself to meet his gaze.
