not you. not you. not you.

JULY

Her name is Seong-min.

She is to be the bandage pressed onto the disaster the Americans have left behind in their hasty retreat to China, after the king redirected forces and sent further reinforcements to Jakyak Island to fully drive them out of Joseon waters. Indeed, while the foreign soldiers might physically be elsewhere, the threat of them, bolstered by fresh memories of the initial brutality at Ganghwa, continues to leer over the country you love.

Thus, a royal marriage, with all the festivities it brings, becomes the perfect distraction.

It's an all-encompassing way to reinforce the people's pride in Joseon and the ruling family, while providing a needed boost to the economy. Even the royal advisors on Yoongi's side have to admit this. Even you must admit this, even though the taste of it lingers unbearably bitter in your mouth.

These days, Yoongi is kept far too occupied with his duties, all the international politics, to visit you. It is just as well, you think as you crush herbs to smithereens in your stone bowl. The distance will prepare you, ease you into the life you will have after the official ceremony. An existence without him, since you cannot ever be an official concubine. Besides, he has never suggested such an arrangement in the first place. (And you are smart enough to understand what that implies all on your own.)

The smallest blessing is that so far, you have managed to mostly stay away from Seong-min. She tends to spend her time in her own quarters, the temporary ones allotted to her pending a move to Gyotaejeon Hall after she officially becomes queen. You've caught a glance of her only once, by accident, when you were walking across the grounds to treat one of the palace maids. She was surrounded by attendants, draped in luxurious clothes. You purposefully turned your head away then, not knowing if she would recognize you. Afraid of what she might do if she did, with all the power she now has.

The bowl in your hands slips. It clatters, spinning away on the table as it nearly plummets to the ground. "Ah—!" You fumble for it, catching it just in time to save its contents from spilling everywhere.

But then a small knock sounds, interrupting your relief. You brace. What now? What could come for you now?

"Uinyeo-nim?"

The soft, calming voice sends a new ripple of comfort through you.

"Come in."

Scholar Park pads into your workspace clutching books, one of which being a volume of Master Taehyun's work that he borrowed a few days prior. He sets it down on the table. "Thank you for letting me borrow this! I was scolded by the head scholar when I overslept this morning but..." The darkness under his eyes can't stop his mischievous glimmer. "I couldn't stop reading."

"Glad you enjoyed it," you say, trying for a smile but you can feel how your face strains from the small effort. Your tone is no more cheerful either, despite your want to put on at least the illusion of normalcy.

Scholar Park smiles, but falls quiet as he slides into a chair. He watches you work for a few minutes, his tiny hand tucked under his chin. Then, to your surprise, he gets up and slides the door closed behind him.

"Um," you start. Confucius convention dictates that you and him, being unmarried and of opposite genders, are never to be alone in the same room as each other. The door, at the very least, must remain open to prove the lack of wrongdoing, that he is not taking advantage of one of the palace women.

"I won't stay long," Scholar Park says at the alarm in your expression. "I just didn't want to be overheard." He takes his gat off his head, holding it in his hands. "I just... Are you... Are you alright?"

In this moment, he looks so much like the young boy you often forget he is, his eyes huge and full of worry. You almost want to lie to him anyway, to not involve him in this mess of your own making but there are so few people you can confide in. Even less you can fully trust.

You shake your head. Even though you told yourself no more just a few hours ago, the prickle of tears threatens to crest. "No." Your body feels so heavy, suddenly fatigued as if it were the fault of the admittance itself. "Not even in the slightest."

AUGUST

Trapped in the sticky throes of a summer afternoon, you lie in bed and imagine what it would be like to simply fade away. Wouldn't it be cool and quiet if you could just let your mind drift into the royal gardens' pond? If you could float in its clear waters and forget everything?

You have just come from meeting Seong-min.

It was part of your duties as the su-uinyeo, of course. Who else but you would be better suited for taking care of such an important woman? A most cruel punishment, that it will have to be you to aid her for the rest of your lives. You squeeze your eyes shut at the haunting thought.

The first thing you'd noticed when you entered her chambers was that she was different from Beom-su. Whereas the daughter of the Minister of Taxation had been a young girl, fragile and delicate in her beautiful elegance, Seong-min was strong. She demanded attention with her presence alone as she sat upright on her chair, her hanbok a vibrant, almost bloody red.

"Su-uineyo-nim." She'd greeted you politely, with a nod. Her voice was deeper than you'd expected, and carried a confidence that was fitting for a future queen. "Thank you for coming to see me."

"It is my honor," you said, bowing to her, reminding yourself to keep your face neutral. "Please let me know if you have any medical needs or concerns in the future."

"Certainly." Her made-up face revealed nothing of the answers you desperately sought. How much did she know? How much had she been told? Did she know that her betrothed still came to your door at his whim, leaving invisible traces of himself like fingerprints all over your life and soul?

Your short visit soon ended like this, unanswered questions simmering in your mind like they had been for months. A new puzzlement was in there too: one about Seong-min herself. You hadn't been able to read her whatsoever. Her red-dyed lips had been smiling, but it didn't feel friendly. But it hadn't felt vicious or fraudulent either. It remained a mystery you could not solve, for your brain felt as jittery as your legs.

You have no idea how you made your way back to your room. And though you carried a vague idea to continue your work on the returning journey, you somehow ended up here: on your back, limbs useless by your side, as if they've lost the will to animate altogether.

"You've done this before," you say out loud to the empty room, as if that could convince yourself more effectively. "You've let him go."

But even as your mouth forms the words, lungs forcing the sounds out into the air, you know it's a lie. You know damn well what Beom-su had done to you. You still carry that fear around with you like a knot, one that refuses to unravel no matter how you pick at it in the late hours of night.

"Let him go," you repeat, voice thickening with each syllable. You press the bottom of your palms into your eyelids, push harder until all you know is the pressure of oncoming darkness. "Let him go."

SEPTEMBER

Because you have now admitted that love makes you foolish, you don't protest when Yoongi comes to your door bathed in evening's moonlight, even though he is to be wed in a few short weeks.

Because you have always been weak, you let him strip you wordlessly even though the fingers that stroke down your body are the same that were bestowing royal regalia upon Seong-min a few days prior at the coronation ceremony you could not bring yourself to attend. The mouth that kisses you is one that declared another woman his formal queen to most of the palace. And yet, you want him.

Atop a mess of silk bedsheets, he rocks into you, naked skin sliding against skin. Your noises are louder than usual, his heavier next to your ear. He takes pleasure and returns it to you here, the only place where the line is made somewhat equal between you both. His broad hand links into yours, fingers entwining as he thrusts with a lazy, easy pace. As if you had time.

"You are mine," he says, gasping it as he takes you so deeply you can feel him in your stomach.

And yes, yes, you have always been his, but he is about to be someone else's. You cling to him anyway, let the petty part of you dream about scoring his back with your nail marks again as you greedily accept all he is willing to give.

Even after he has driven you both to a rough, noisy climax, after his seed is sent into a handkerchief and all you can do is pant, he doesn't move from his knees. He looks down at you, chest pumping as he regains his breath. He looks like he wants to say something, so you wait. You are accustomed to waiting.

The king clears his throat.

"How I feel towards you," he starts carefully, his voice soft, "that will not change. Even after the ceremonies have finished."

Won't it?

Hasn't it already?

"Oh, jeonha..."

From beneath, you cup his face. Run your thumb lightly over the jagged scar, feeling the proof of how much he has already suffered for his crown. Can you truly add more, another complication, to his life? He is so warm under your touch, as you try to chisel this feeling into your palm. This is always the way it has had to go. Still, your voice shivers violently, uncontrollably when you whisper, "shall we end this? End us?"

He stiffens. Shock, and maybe hurt, crosses his expression when he straightens, but doesn't rear back or away. He grabs your wrist. You expect him to yank your hand away from his vulnerability but instead he holds your skin flush against his scar. "Do you know how I got this?"

Your ignored question still rattling in your mind, you fight the tears that threaten to resurface. "N-Not the details, no." What does he mean by this pivot? Is he trying to distract you, knowing that you don't have anything near the strength needed to ask him again?

"It was one of my father's concubines. She was pregnant, and the soothsayers predicted it would be a son."

You say your realization out loud. "She wanted the throne."

"Yes. So she hired assassins. Five of them, to ensure it was done."

Gods. He was only nine. To have grown men looking to slaughter him simply for being born royalty. And Queen Jeonghui had faced them on her own to protect her child.

"My father covered it up. Even though it was rare for a viable pregnancy, he exiled the concubine. Renounced the child. Couldn't have there be a precedent for such actions going unpunished, since I was his only guaranteed successor. The child was lost soon after anyway, before birth could occur." He can't stop anger and pain from seeping into his voice. "But even with her gone... She was far from the only one who hated my mother for being the official queen."

You've never told Yoongi about what you have endured from his father's concubines and certain palace women, but from the way he looks at you now... you get the sense he somehow already knows.

His fingers constrict around your wrist. "I've said it before." He looks down, blonde hair waterfalling around you both. "I don't want to put you in that position. Even though... Even though at one point, at my worst, I thought that was the only way I could have you. If I told myself to think of you as..."

"A whore."

He exhales. Pushes back onto his knees. You miss his warmth almost immediately, a poor sign for how well you'll be able to bear this loss when the night is over. For now, you let your instincts draw you up onto your elbows. Closer.

"Yes." He shakes his head. "I... I was misguided. And I refuse to do that to you again."

You think, absently, that you didn't need to know this truth. That it only adds yet another reason why you could never truly be together. In the end, your luck could only carry your skipping stone so far and as you look at him, you can almost hear the thunk of rock plunging down and down into the icy depths of that hidden pond. Never to be seen again.

"Okay," you say, quietly, because there is nothing else you could say. "I understand." This is the end.

"No. No, you don't." His voice is rushed and if you didn't know better, you'd think him nervous. "Despite all this. Fuck." Formal language gives way to the casual, to the vulnerable. "Even though I know what a king should do, I— I want to ask you to stay. I want to promise that I won't do the same things my father did."

Your heart leaps. He's looking at you, full of expectancy. He holds so much of you in his hands. Let him go. Staying in this ambiguous thing means endless uncertainty. You would be stuck in limbo, having none of the respect of an official concubine but still subject to the cruelty, the judgments of the entire palace. Wouldn't you truly become a whore then? Let him go.

You push up all the way now, the biggest fool in the universe. "Jeonha." You think you know now what flowers must feel like at the onset of winter, how they cling to their last petals so desperately even though it all must fall. "I am yours."