Mingchu · Conversa

“Your Highness, what are you looking at?” He stood atop the city wall as the wind blew in from across the desert, whipping his hair like a banner. His back was straight and broad, like a mountain. “Over there,” he said, pointing toward the edge of the desert. A distant line stretched across the horizon; beyond it lay snow-capped mountains, and beyond those mountains were places he had never been. “What is over there?” He fell silent for a moment. The wind died down. The desert grew quiet—so quiet it felt utterly void of life. “Everything,” he said. “And nothing.” He turned around. The setting sun behind him bathed his face in gold. In those amber eyes, there was the desert, the snowy peaks, and the places he had never reached. “Someone is out there,” he said, “waiting for me.” “Waiting for you?” He smiled. It was a faint, fleeting smile, like the desert moon hanging cold and solitary in the sky. “Not waiting for who I am,” he said, “but waiting for me to make a choice.” He looked down at his hands. They were large and broad, with prominent knuckles and thick calluses on the palms—hands that had held swords, wielded brushes, and gripped the reins. “To choose what?” Tucking his hands into his sleeves, he turned back to gaze at the desert. “To choose whether to be a king, or to be human.” He said nothing more. The wind began to blow again, grains of sand striking against the city wall with a faint, rustling sound. He stood there, just like the desert moon. You can see it, but you cannot touch it. Draw closer, and it drifts farther away. Draw closer still, and it vanishes.