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randomprose · 3 years

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MoShang Week Day 02: forced marriage, seasons, literature

Shang Qinghua arrives in the Northern Kingdom in autumn.

Well, he’s pretty sure it's still autumn. At least that’s still the season when he left his kingdom.

Former kingdom, he reminds himself. How can he forget the whole reason why he’s traveling with what meager belongings he has in a cramped sedan?

It’s only been a full week, surely it hasn’t been that long that it’s now winter? Or do winters come in the North way earlier?

“It does not, my Lord,” a voice outside by the side of his sedan speaks up. Ah, Shang Qinghua didn’t realize he had said that out loud. “It is always this cold here. Practically freezing in the winter.”

“Ah, I see.”

“It will be best for Lord Shang to acclimatize himself to the northern climate fast.”

How nice to still be addressed by his title. Shang Qinghua has never cared for it for as long as he’s had it and now that he’s been stripped of it—or at least he will be once he reaches the Northern Palace and meets with its king—he finds a sudden appreciation for it. Shame he could only hold on to it for the remaining duration of this trip.

The sedan stops and a knock is heard outside. They’ve arrived at the Northern King’s palace.

Shang Qinghua expected to be led to the throne room, instead, he is led to a huge set of chambers, twice the size of his own back in his former kingdom and extremely lavish to the point of absurdity.

It is well lit with elaborate tapestries decorating the walls and thick rugs covering the floors. There is a fireplace where a fire is already lit chasing the coldness of the room away but not quite warming it and Shang Qinghua sighs at the reprieve from the cold no matter how meager it is. The bed is piled up high in down pillows, furs that look soft to the touch, and blankets possibly with the highest thread count available. He deduces that this must be the chambers of the king and he is led here to meet him instead of the throne room.

For a moment, fear runs down his spine of what being led to the king’s quarter’s entails especially to someone like Shang Qinghua.

Except he is then told by the attendants that these are his own chambers, actually, and that they wish Shang Qinghua find his accommodations to his liking.

Shang Qinghua gapes. To his liking??? This is more than Shang Qinghua thinks he deserves!! He’s a fucking war prize!! Practically a prisoner of war!! He’s not a fucking consort!! This room is so large and extravagantly decorated it fits someone of a royal stature rather than some former lord!!

“Uh, pardon,” Shang Qinghua calls after the attendants before they can fully leave. “When will the king see me?”

“The king will send a summons for Lord Shang when he is available,” one of them says a vague answer if he’s ever heard one. “We’ll let Lord Shang rest from the long journey.” And then they all bow and leave him to his own devices.

Well, Shang Qinghua thinks, best to enjoy the top notch accommodations while he’s able then.

—

Shang Qinghua doesn’t meet the King of the North until the next morning.

True to the attendant’s word, a summon was sent for Shang Qinghua in the form of servants barging into his quarters, hauling him up in bed, bathing him, and dressing him up not in the robes he’s brought from home—which honestly feels threadbare in the cold of the North— but in new thicker and much fancier robes in the colors of the Northern Kingdom. They fit well and snug almost as if it was specifically tailor-fitted for him. Then his hair is done in an elaborate updo complete with expensive pins and hair ornaments before he is swathed in jewelry. An attendant tips his face up with a brush in hand and Shang Qinghua draws the line on them putting cosmetics on his face, but relented when he sees her frown and allowed her to put a light blush on his cheek, line his eyes, and a bit of lip shiner.

By the end of it all, Shang Qinghua feels like a bride being sent to be married instead of a prisoner of war meeting his jailer. Robes fitting his form well and keeping him warm his hair falls in artful waves and matching jewelry to complete the whole ensemble. Shang Qinghua idly notes that he has never worn so many accessories in his life even at the peak of Cang Qiong’s wealth.

Shang Qinghua’s heart is jackrabbiting in his chest the whole time he is being led to the throne room. He has heard of the Northern King’s battle prowess and how terrifyingly quick he has conquered lands to add to his territories. He has heard stories of how he has taken the throne through battling his brothers and others who dared challenge his birthright. However, Shang Qinghua has not heard of anything else about the man besides his capabilities in the battlefield. Not his appearance or his age or even how tall he is. Only that he is as icy as the kingdom he rules over.

The doors to the throne room open. Shang Qinghua looks up to stare at the man perched on the throne and is suddenly very confused why he is the one sent over.

Look, the guy on the throne, he—he’s a King in every sense of the word. A face so handsome Shang Qinghua couldn’t even begin to know how to describe it (it’s just really handsome okay?! Words fail and pale in comparison to describe it!!), a powerful warrior’s physique that not even his layers of robes could hide, and the aura of someone who knows for a fact that no one else but him deserves to sit on that throne.

Meanwhile, the An Ding clan is only the fourth in line in Cang Qiong’s rule. Shang Qinghua is not even royalty. The An Ding patriarch doesn’t have any children to offer so he sent his most trusted and highest advisor instead. He didn’t even know he was being sent as The War Prize until he was told to pack his belongings and was summarily shoved in a sedan bound to the Northern Kingdom.

“So, you are the one who Cang Qiong sent from An Ding,” the king says, looking at Shang Qinghua as if assessing goods purchases, which in essence he is. “What is your name?”

“Shang Qinghua, my king,” he isn’t quite sure how to address the man but he figures it’s appropriate. He is a king after all. “Forgive this one’s forwardness, my king, but are you sure you want this one as your prize for conquering Cang Qiong?”

See, the thing is, in the week he has to travel to get here, Shang Qinghua has had time to accept his new status. So, he’s a war prize. Big deal. He used to be a commoner from a remote and very desolate fishing village before coming to Cang Qiong in a slave trade caravan. As horrible as it sounds, he’s used to being transported and traded like cattle. Mobei Jun conquered Cang Qiong fair and square and in a bizarre show of mercy, only asked for someone specifically from the An Ding clan which no one knows why but, again, as their conqueror, seems fair. He can demand them whatever he so wishes without having to explain himself. That’s just how the game is played as far as the rules of conquering lands and kingdoms go.

But Shang Qinghua’s real concern is...is the king really sure that he wants him, Shang Qinghua, as his prize for overthrowing Cang Qiong?

“Are you implying that this king had a lapse in judgment?”

“Oh, not at all, my king. It’s just that, well,” Shang Qinghua trails off before gesturing to himself overall. “I’m not war prize war material as you can see.”

Mobei Jun looks amused. “So Lord Shang says whilst decked head to toe in the North’s colors and jewelry from this king’s personal coffers.”

Shang Qinghua startles at the lazy smirk on the king’s face. Of course, he would look goddamn attractive with it.

“W-well,” he stammers, “when my king puts it that way.” An unfair assessment if Shang Qinghua has anything to say about it. He didn’t see him yesterday when he arrived travel-weary and in his regular robes. “It’s different under all these embellishments, my king.”

“It does not matter to this king.”

Well, then if he insists. He shouldn’t blame Shang Qinghua then when he inevitably gets disappointed in the long run. He can’t imagine always dressing up like this for the rest of his life.

“What do you plan to do to this lowly one, my king?” Shang Qinghua asks, cutting to the chase. He knows what usually becomes of those met with the same fate as him and if he's going to live and acclimate himself for the rest of his life in this kingdom this king might as well give it to him straight. “If this king had this lowly one dressed in the colors of the north and decked in jewelry from his personal coffers then surely this one is not to be treated like a common prisoner of war nor a slave? Unless this is a special brand of hospitality that is unique to the north?”

“Marriage of course,” Mobei Jun answers swiftly, the smirk on his darnedly handsome face never letting up. If anything else, it only grew more amused. “Lord Shang is to be this king’s husband and the Northern Kingdom’s consort.”

“Pardon, my king. This one thinks he didn’t quite hear my king right.”

“You heard right, Lord Shang.”

“M-marriage?” Well, whatever it is Shang Qinghua is expecting, it is most certainly not that. “Y-you picked this lowly one to be the North’s consort?”

“Is there a problem with that, Lord Shang?”

There is no problem. The truth is there are many problems with that. Plural. Along with questions. Also plural. They’re all swirling in Shang Qinghua’s head like a buzzing beehive, each one of them overlapping each other.

For instance, won’t the northern throne need heirs? How is the king going to do that with a man as his consort? Will he take a wife to bear him an heir? Wives perhaps? Oh, Shang Qinghua could think up ten more additional problems with that on the top of his head. Harem politics are brutal and savage and definitely not something Shang Qinghua wants to be a part of. If he is to be the first northern consort does that mean he will be the one to rule beside the king? What does a royal consort even do? Run the palace household, its servants, and finances? Shang Qinghua could do that, sure, but all his other skill sets lie on being an advisor, not a ruler.

These are some of the things that plague Shang Qinghua’s mind at the moment, but in the end all he could say is, “None at all, my king.”

Mobei Jun looks satisfied with his answer. “The wedding ceremony will commence before the first day of winter befalls us.”

“A question instead, my king.” Mobei Jun nods his permission and Shang Qinghua continues. “How does one know when the seasons change in the north? It is still autumn now, correct? How does one know when winter comes? Or spring and the summers for that matter?”

Of course, of all things he could be asking, Shang Qinghua chose to ask about the changing of seasons. What an idiot.

“Winter arrives when the first petals of the cerulean crystal poinsettias start to bloom.”

“Ah, I see.” Come on, stupid. Ask the real and very important questions! “One more thing, my King.”

“Speak.”

“What are–why do—” Shang Qinghua tries to start asking the questions he really wants answers for but then backtracks. Instead, he asks, “Is it always this cold here?”

“This is the north, Lord Shang. The coldest lands in all the realm. Of course, it is always this cold.” Mobei Jun explains in a tone that says it should be obvious and that basically called Shang Qinghua an idiot without saying the words. He looks amused as if the question was a particularly funny limerick. “It gets particularly brutal in winters. You should get used to it.”

Shang Qinghua just sighs and resigns himself to having his real questions unanswered. “So I’ve been told.”

They get married just before the first blue crystal poinsettias start to bloom.

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