"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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They said it was an accident.
She had slipped reaching for a precious herb around the side of the cliff. It had been raining the night before so the stones had still been damp. Too damp to support the weight that had been placed a smidgen too far, a tad bit wrong and then mother was just... gone. They couldn't stop the bleeding in time. And even though you told her to be careful with a warm smile that morning, even though she said she would be back very soon with a pat of your head, none of that means anything anymore.
You stare at the empty, unused bedspread beside yours and feel the warm wetness slide down your numb cheeks. You barely register the tears. Not when they've become so commonplace.
It's been three days since they gave you the news; it's been three days since you've ventured outside this room. It hurts so much to stay here but you are afraid it might hurt more to leave. If not for the kind person leaving meals outside your door (you managed to make out a swish of green robes once; one of the eunuchs it seems), you surely would have starved. But even the heat of the rice porridge doesn't seem to spread through your body, your fingers stiff and cold from lack of use.
Mother would absolutely scold you if she saw you like this.
It was she who always insisted on being independent, regardless of the strict rules that society placed on your gender and your rank. She taught you how to make the best of the resources you had, but also never to take any opportunities for granted when they came by chance. She is the best person you will ever know, and you... you owe it to her to take care of yourself.
Borrowing her strength, you push up from the blankets. You've relied on the mystery benefactor enough. You can get yourself a cup of hot water, damn it. Wrapping your mother's coat around your hanbok, her scent hugging you in comfort, you pad down the halls towards the kitchen with your head bowed.
It's a bit of a walk down, but the air helps clear some of the fog in your mind, even if you know it'll soon return in the end. Having a goal helps move you forward. That's all you need right now. To just keep going.
"Jeonha has issued a full funeral procession for her?"
Your quiet steps hesitate just as you cross the closed door of one of the tea rooms. The words worm directly into your brain. The voice is vaguely familiar, one of King Min's concubines maybe? But there is no chance that they would be talking about...
"Yes, for a mere uinyeo! Who would have thought?" A second speaker, this one harsher, sharper. She punctuates with a laugh.
With a frown, you move closer. Pretend to inspect a piece of the building tile that has come loose.
"She did help deliver the crown prince all those years ago. That would buy her some favoritism."
"Hmph. That wouldn't warrant such a fuss as this. But... I did hear that jeonha picked her off the streets himself, and that's how she first entered the palace. Imagine that — a cheonmin coming to live here!"
"How vulgar."
"But that's not all one of the maids told me. That cheonmin..." Her voice lowers so you barely catch it. "She gave birth not long after to her daughter."
Another low laugh. "You don't think it's the king's bast—"
You rip away from the door, desperate not to hear the end of that sentence.
You're going to be ill. Violently so. Or burst into the room and do something you'll heavily regret later. Your feet move so fast you nearly fall over as you back away from the room, clutching the jacket before turning. You run back the way you came, water forgotten, the fresh sting of tears in your eyes.
Is that what they have thought of your mother all this time? Twisting her hardships and the kindness of the king into something so dirty when they knew nothing of the truth. Speculating so wildly when it was your father had abandoned you both. The truth: mother had been near death when the king happened upon you. She used the resources he allowed her to teach herself literacy, and then proper medicine to repay him with a lifetime of pure, untainted loyalty.
You throw aside the door to your room with a furious slam. You've never wanted so badly to break something, anything as you scan the place. Your temper flares hotter when you think of all the times mother refused to come to bed and rest because she was too concerned about the concubines and women like them who came so frequently to her for help. She talked to them, hand-fed them, cared for them. She sacrificed so much and this is how they thank her—
You make a wild grab and your hands land on unfolded laundry.
The first smack of it on the floor feels good. No permanent damage but the exertion of grabbing and hurling towards the ground is a like welcome release.
You do it again, again, again, something so deeply satisfying about seeing everything precise rumple and come undone before you as a result of your own actions. Not anyone else's. Not even the universe's. You snatch up another handful and prepare to throw.
"You're packing? You're leaving?" It's a sharp voice, bordering on frantic.
You whirl.
It's the prince, holding a pastry box, his eyes blown uncharacteristically wide with surprise. If this were any other time, you'd probably laugh at his thinking this scene has any semblance of proper intention and order.
"No," you snap. But then you consider it.
You... You could leave, couldn't you?
After all, there's nothing tying you here any longer. Being in the palace will only remind of you of life before she was ripped away. The memories of her smile and her love have yet to scab over and you're so terrified that they'll always be there as festering, chafing wounds. You could still serve and be loyal to your king from within the town walls. Maybe open that clinic mother often talked about as a wild dream. It'd be difficult, so difficult, but you could maybe run it yourself, with a few helping hands. Yes... Yes, you could!
The more you think about it, the more you want to do it. An escape from this suffocating place. The easy way out.
"Actually, yes," you hear yourself saying. "Leaving."
No one would miss you, a cheonmin's daughter. The thought of those women and their poisonous words makes you scrunch your fist, only to find you're still holding clothes. Your heart catches when you realize it's mother's blouse. Yours now, you suppose. Yours to take with you and never look back.
"Don't."
Your heart leaps as you jerk your gaze up.
"Don't go."
You shake your head. "The uinyeo will be fine. All of them are more experienced than me."
"No, they won't be." He grits his teeth. "They need you."
"Seja-jeonha, I—I don't belong here."
"Bullshit." Always stubborn to the end. "Stay."
"I can't—"
"Please."
The way he looks at you now... you've never seen it before. The wobbling of his lip. The irregularity of his breath. It's like he is truly, completely uncertain. Almost to the point of fear. As if he knows that your paths won't cross again if he lets you leave now.
"Stay," he says again, and you think of mother. You think of how much she loved living here where it was safe. How much she loved helping the women even if some of them were undeserving of it in the end. You think of the queen, and the affectionate kindness she always extends to you without fail or question. Then you look at Yoongi. At that charcoal storm in his eyes, and you think maybe there's more left here for you than you thought.
