"do you... trust me?" it's a low whisper, the king's soft lips pressed against the stuttering pulse in your throat. but you think, or maybe you hope, the implications are trying to delve much deeper into your heart. regardless, your answer has never...
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"No."
Alone atop his throne, King Yoongi does his best to stare down the almost two-dozen court officials that avert their eyes from him, standing from their proper place below the raised platform. His fingers, spread over the wooden armrests, tighten furtively.
"But jeonha! We believe it is the right decree, if we are to have any chance of quelling the rebellions." The men beside the speaking advisor, Minister Choi, nod enthusiastically along.
"I do not believe it will be as effective as you think."
Another advisor pipes up, his grey beard trembling. "If we execute the leaders, the rest of the uprising will lose their morale and cease their protests and ransacking. It will be the best method of control."
"Please consider it, jeonha!" The rest of the men chime in a chorus, like birds that keep on fucking twittering in the morning when Yoongi just wants to sleep.
When he doesn't respond immediately, Minister Choi interjects yet again. "Be assured that I only say this out of loyalty for your family," even though his smarmy tone implies otherwise, "but this strategy has worked in the past for your father."
Yoongi's downturned mouth twitches then, betraying his deepening irritation. He despises that phrase. It's true, his time on the throne doesn't add up to two years. Most of the advisors here have been working in the palace for more than ten times that length, and they haven't been afraid to challenge him at every turn. But he is the one on the throne, plagued with uncertainty or not. The decisions are his to be made, no matter how much he questions if they are correct.
Exhaustion pulls at his brain, wanting petulantly to dismiss all of the men for some temporary relief. It's out of habit that he casts a glance to his right and his chest aches at the empty spot where his mother used to sit, offering him guidance or at the very least, comfort.
Wrong decision.
That one look starts up the murmuring, the not-so-subtle glances amongst the men, his psyche no doubt their concern. The blame all falls on him, he knows. Two months was too long to spend distraught. Without a strong leadership watching over the land, he'd been the one to give the rebels time to rally and flourish. His fault. His fault. His fault, and the skepticism towards his reign seems to spread faster than anything else.
"Jeonha—"
"They are peasants!" Shit. His harsh voice cracks through the space, temper lost when it needed to be kept most. He's horrifyingly aware that he sounds like a kid, throwing a tantrum when things don't go his way. He hates those stares that seem to be mocking his authority, questioning it at every turn. What he wants to say is that the rebels are only lashing out because they're hungry, because there's not enough grain in the land to feed their families, but so what if he does? He doesn't know how to fix that either. He doesn't know what to do, when all these officials are looking to him for answers and he has nothing and every decision feels like it's damning him or his people further. His people. All those people. If he can't even control his court, how is he meant to rule the country?
"Peasant or not, they are breaking the law. Your laws, jeonha."
Yoongi sets his jaw. Clenches his teeth so hard they hurt as tension fills his mind, shoving against his skull itself until the pressure is all he knows. The ache demands his attention, just like everything else, as if he isn't just one man. But the reality is, he isn't any longer. He is the king and he needs to do better. He needs to be stronger than this. He'll lose control soon completely if nothing changes.
"Do it." He forces his tongue to move. Tells himself it'll be easier the next time. "Schedule the execution." If this is what it takes, he'll do it again and again and again until it's enough.
The relief that sweeps through the room is instantly tangible. "Yes! We shall!" The men cry, dropping into a row of bows.
Yoongi's already standing before they rise. He takes hurried, barely-controlled strides towards the door, issuing a firm "dismissed!" right before he bursts into the heat of the afternoon. The bright, sunny weather only feels stifling with all his robes dragging behind him. He kicks up dust clouds as he turns, not quite knowing where to go from here but craving something else, anything different to distract him.
"Jeonha!" Eunuch Kim's voice rings out and Yoongi can hear the man's steps trying to catch up but even the presence of his oldest companion irritates him right now.
"Leave me be," he growls, and keeps going.
Stooped at the corner of the private palace gardens, you smile as you tend to the small collection of herbs your mother was allowed to plant here by the former king. They're growing well these days, enjoying the bright sunshine that summer always brings. "It'll be time to harvest you soon," you murmur in-between your humming of a folk tune. You don't get to check on these plants often since you live near the other uinyeo on the other side of the palace grounds, and well, being in such close proximity to the king's quarters these days is... You're just grateful he let you stay in the palace at all.
"Jeonha!"
There's a sudden clamor at the exact entrance you were trying to avoid.
Trepidation bursts in your heart as you look up, squinting in the sunlight to see the king entering the grounds at a startling pace. Despite your instincts telling you to flee, you don't dare make any sudden movements for fear of drawing his attention. But you can't seem to look away either, sleeves dragging in the dirt as you follow his rush to the pavilion, unconsciously holding your breath until he slams down onto the seat so furiously that you can hear it even across the pond.
Then, and only then, when he is half-shielded by the pavilion's low walls, does he huddle into himself. Cradles his head in his own arms, shoulders heaving with the strain of deep, quivering breaths you are too far away to hear. But this time, you know that he doesn't need you. He'd said it himself, and not a word more has he spoken to you in all these months, as if that awful point needed proving.
So you force yourself to stay exactly where you are, despite your wanting. You keep your distance, even when he's crumbling before your eyes.
