the aftermath: quiet, laced with a raw truth.

"Good morning, jeonha."

The winter snow at your back, you open the door to his chambers and find your king already seated at the table before the mirror. He stares blankly at his reflection with his bandaged arm lying across his lap, robes slightly disheveled, smooth hair falling heavily over his shoulders.

"I've brought your meal," you say, crossing the room to place the tray carefully before him.

Looking at the several silver bowls before him, he lifts the lid from the rice porridge, but then raises his head to meet your gaze through the mirror instead. Gestures with his right hand absently at his head. "Can you..." He starts, trailing off like he has every morning for the past two weeks. At least he has long dropped the expression of discomfort; exchanged it for something more natural that routine always brings.

Smiling, you say, "of course."

You find his favorite comb where you left it yesterday. With one hand, your naked fingers weave between the delicate strands, feeling the cool texture slip past your skin. With the other hand, you grip the wooden brush and begin to run the thin teeth over his scalp, the pressure you use just enough to make his muscles visibly relax as the minutes slip by. His eyes soon flutter shut, his spine curving back into the chair so he can submerge, so he can wholly sink into the feeling of your touch and know nothing else for this precious moment. (Or so you wishfully think, as you chart the contours of his brow, his nose, his cheeks with your eyes, wanting to tuck kisses there instead.)

Eventually, you slide the comb into your waistband as you begin to gather the hairs at the base of his neck, nails scraping lightly across the nape. He sighs, the softest breath that seems to carry so much more than sound. You almost want to ask but end up holding your tongue as you always do while you tie his hair, secure the manggeon headband above his forehead with string.

"Are you not going to eat, jeonha?" You ask instead, the thought that he'll rebuke you for the question no longer lingering in your mind. "The janggukjuk will grow cold soon."

The king reluctantly opens his eyes and picks up his spoon. Stares down at the bowl, the beef and mushrooms floating amid the white, hesitating.

"Is there something wrong?"

He bites his lip. "...The advisors and landlords report to me that our country's people are managing through this winter." He lets the spoon clatter to the table. "Tell me the truth."

You watch the steam from the bowl coil up only to disappear in the cool air.

"They are starving."

You twist the topknot, securing the base with a thicker fabric.

"There was barely enough food to survive autumn. They didn't have enough extra cabbage to prepare the kimchi for winter and now... Now, with the snow, there'll be no chance to grow more crops. What stores the citizens have are dwindling by the day."

"What about the merchants? The foreign traders?"

"They're not doing much better. They are selling what little they can spare to others, but prices— they're becoming more and more inflated due to demand. The people that run out of money are... well, frankly, they are dying."

"Tch." He levies a glare off to the side at nothing in particular as you push the final pin into his hair to keep it upright. Automatically, he reaches up to smooth the band but winces when he flexes his left arm, cursing quietly as he drops the limb back down.

"Let me check your wound." You immediately shift and kneel, gently peeling away the layers of bandages until the injury is exposed in the slow, slow process of healing. To see it is to swallow a bittersweet draft, to know the truth that he was shielding your worthless life with his gilded one. "It should be much better before the year is over," you say as you pull your medical supplies from a nearby drawer to give him a fresh dressing. "Try not to use it at all, if you can."

"Useless," he mutters, "just like the rest of me."

"But you saved me, jeonha."

He scoffs. "That was selfish too."

He refuses to elaborate any further as you finish your work on his arm and promptly run out of excuses to be this close to him. But he doesn't ask you to move, doesn't ask you to leave.

Instead, he pushes the bowl of porridge towards you, places the spoon in your hand before he begins to pick at the side dishes with chopsticks. The king knows full well that the cooks prepare elaborate, excessive meals for you every day since it has been his longstanding order for so long, but perhaps it's the companionship he wants now, over anything else.

You can give him that. You will always give him that, especially as he asks for it, asks for you more and more.

You slip the first mouthful of warm grain into your mouth and think that this small luxury should not be only yours. There must be something you can do on your own for the people. There must.