My Sin

Conversation

"Your Majesty, the Empress has come to visit along with the children," the head eunuch reported to the sickly emperor. His voice was very low, almost a whisper, as if raising it even slightly might startle the fragile ruler. After witnessing the emperor's deteriorated state the previous day, many eunuchs treaded carefully around him.

"Yue'er," the emperor called out hoarsely, causing the eunuch to furrow his brows in confusion.

"Should I refuse the Empress?" the eunuch asked, still perplexed.

"Let them in," the emperor decided, his voice strained. The decision prompted the eunuch to exit and welcome the Empress. This choice only further humiliated Hereditary Consort Xuilan, who was still kneeling at the threshold of the chamber, her body trembling from both exhaustion and the sharp sting of disgrace.

The Empress, regal and composed, acknowledged the eunuch with a slight nod before turning his gaze to the kneeling consort. "Continue to kneel for six more hours," he commanded coldly. "That will help you reflect and recognize the difference between the Empress and a mere concubine." His words, sharp as a blade, drained all the blood from Hereditary Consort Xuilan's face. The other concubines, watching from the sidelines, could only lower their heads, their hearts pounding in silent fear and submission as they respectfully sent off the Empress with lowered eyes.

As the Empress entered the emperor's chamber, he was greeted by the sight of a eunuch assisting the emperor into a sitting position. His movements were slow, pained, each breath a labor. Tao'er, the younger of their children, immediately bolted to his father's side, his eyes wide with fear. "Father, are you okay?" he asked, his small voice trembling, on the verge of tears. The boy's hands clung to the emperor's robe, his worry palpable in the way he refused to let go.

Ruan Li, who usually maintained a careful distance from her father, stood a few steps behind Tao'er. The sight of the emperor, once so vigorous and commanding, now reduced to such a feeble state, stirred something deep within her. For a moment, she hesitated, her emotions warring within her. Then, almost tentatively, she spoke.

"Father," she uttered the word softly, as if testing it on her tongue. The syllables felt foreign, awkward, yet somehow, saying it brought a sense of release, a small comfort she had long denied herself. "Father," she repeated, this time more firmly, as if familiarizing herself with the term.

Her words stunned the entire room. Ruan Li had always kept a clear boundary between herself and the emperor, addressing him only as "Your Majesty," never allowing herself the intimacy of calling him "Father." This sudden change, this willingness to bridge the gap between them, shocked everyone present—especially the emperor. The emotion that surged through him was too much to bear. He buried his face in his hands and began to sob, his body shaking with the force of his remorse.

When he looked at his daughter's face, seeing how unfamiliar and yet earnest the word "Father" was to her, the reality of his failures hit him with crushing clarity. What else could he do but cry? He cried for all the times he had been absent, for all the moments he had hurt her, and for being the reason that such a simple, affectionate term now felt like a stranger to her lips.

But not everyone in the room was moved by this display of emotion. The Crown Prince, who had been standing near the door, watching the scene unfold, did not soften. His gaze remained hard, his posture rigid. While his siblings showed signs of breaking through the walls they had built around their hearts, the Crown Prince remained unmoved. His eyes, cold and unforgiving, locked onto the emperor with a bitterness that had only deepened over the years.

"You shed tears now?" the Crown Prince's voice cut through the tension like a blade. "For what? For your own guilt? For the years you lost to your selfish desires?"

"Feng'er" The Empress, sensing the escalating tension, turned to their eldest son, his voice gentle yet firm.

But the Crown Prince was not swayed. "No, Father," he continued, ignoring the Empress's attempt to calm him. "You may have fooled Ruan Li and Tao'er with your pitiful display, but I won't be fooled so easily. Your tears mean nothing to me. They're too little, too late."

The emperor flinched at his son's words, the venom in them piercing his already fragile heart. But what could he say? What defense did he have? He knew his son was right. His past mistakes, his neglect, and the pain he had caused could not be undone with a few tears.

The Empress sighed, understanding the depth of his eldest son's pain. "Feng'er, take your siblings and go play in the garden," he instructed softly, hoping to diffuse the tension. The children hesitated, glancing between their parents and their eldest brother, unsure of what to do. But the Empress's tone left no room for argument.

With a stiff bow, the Crown Prince turned and led his siblings out of the room, his expression hardening even further as he passed the emperor. Ruan Li cast one last, worried glance at her father before following her brother, and little Tao'er, with a final, hesitant look back, reluctantly let go of his father's robe and trailed behind his older siblings.

Once the children had left the room, the Empress moved closer to the emperor's bedside. The silence that followed was thick, weighted with unspoken words and unresolved emotions. He reached for a bowl of congee that had been placed on a small table near the bed. It was a simple meal, meant to be easy on his weakened body—just rice porridge with a hint of salt and ginger. He stirred it gently, blowing on the spoon to cool it before offering it to the emperor.

As he fed him, the emperor's thoughts drifted to the past, to the reason why he always called the Empress "Yue'er." It was a name from their youth, from a time when the world seemed simpler, and their hearts were still untainted by the harsh realities of the palace.

The Empress was the beloved son of a powerful Duke, his family's pride and joy. His bright smile and warm demeanor made him the heart of every gathering, and it was during one such festival that the emperor first laid eyes on him. The festival was a grand affair, with lanterns illuminating the night sky and the sound of laughter and music filling the air. Amidst the crowd, the emperor—then still a prince—spotted a figure that seemed to shine brighter than the lanterns themselves.

He was captivated by the young man's beauty, but it was the brightness of his smile that truly struck a chord in his heart. There was something so genuine, so pure in that smile, that the emperor found himself irresistibly drawn to him. From that moment on, he knew he had to make the young man his. He pursued him with a determination that surprised even himself, showering him with attention, gifts, and promises of a future together. And because of his moon like features, he gave him that nickname. But the name just sounded for distant now.

The young man, who would one day become the Empress, was charmed by the prince's sincerity. He was not unaware of the power dynamics at play, but there was something about the prince's earnestness that made him believe in the possibility of a true partnership. Their courtship was swift, and soon they were married, their union hailed as the perfect match.

But the emperor's hatred and a curse began to erode the love they once shared. The bright smile that had once captivated the emperor began to fade, replaced by a mask of duty and decorum and even madness.