𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬

第十二 | TWELVE

this chapter is 5K words phew! also it is EXTREMELY important (lore drop) so do not skip over it lightly, take as long as you need to read LOL there's also alot of characterisation in this chapter for MC and his mindset (or at least I attempted)

be kind to MC please;; he needs it

anyways more comments = faster updates! the angst didn't start yet so like uh have fun HAHA

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PAST

When you were young, you wanted to be loved more than you wanted to be alive. You wanted it desperately—to see honeyed words drip off your parent's lips, to see perhaps just a glimmer of affection once in them—

You were wrong. You were so wrong. Their praise was not easy, if not impossible, to get. Sometimes you wondered just what you did wrong—for why did some people simply need to exist to attain affection? Meanwhile you slaved away, you groveled, you begged, you worked until your nose bled and your eyes stung with unshed tears: you killed a part of you trying to please them.

There were instances, of course. There were instances where your father patted you on your head stiffly. There were instances where your mother had taken you in your arms and had hugged you. You were an illegitimate child—your mother had been killed ruthlessly by the Countess, and all you had left of her was her brilliant eyes and the colour of her hair.

"I am your son, Father," you could clearly remember you with your bruised knees, cowering with fear. Your tears had stained the carpet on the floor then, and that had earned you a stinging slap from your stepmother. "Why do you treat me like this?" Why do I have to beg for your love? Should familial love not have been readily given? Should it not have been unconditional? So why were there so many instances where your throat was raw from calling for them? Why were there so many instances where you would hold yourself and sleep, rushing to someone—just someone to be cradled? To be held, and loved?

When you grew up you stopped talking to your parents. You learned how to blend in—to be invisible. You waited for them to question you, to see this sudden change, so you would be given an opportunity to lash out at them.

"You said once that blood meant everything to you. And I willingly and foolishly assumed you meant blood ties—that you were referring to family. But no. Of course you didn't—you meant nobility. The blood of nobility. So where does that leave me? I am no noble. I am the result of a consummation that the nobles—those nobles label as a sin. Is that what I am then, Lord L/n? Filthy?"

"You do not talk to me like that!"

"You will see," you spat, "you will start questioning just how useful nobles are when an illegitimate child becomes Emperor. When His Grace becomes Emperor."

"You say all this with no use," your father hissed, "aren't you tired of chasing after him? Pretending he'll ever love you?"

You froze. Your posture became painfully still, your expression dull. "What about you, Lord L/n? What about when your wealth falls away and your wife leaves you? What about when you have nothing left? What will you say when you are truly alone?"

"You—!"

"You called me ungrateful for all the things that you supposedly gave me that I refused. But why would I want your leftovers of your suffering? Why would I want your  second-hand anger? Because there is so much of it. I am angry. I'm furious because you have made feel this way, Lord L/n. And it is permanent. I fear this sense of self-loathing will never go."