Chapter Text
The scent of pine hits your face, an invisible cloud blooming over you like a lid lifted off a boiling pot. Shifting in your dress, a maidservant pins something through your tight bun, head bobbing lightly from the bustling flow of her hands. Taking in another deep breath, she completes the final touches, and you watch her in the mirror as she takes a step back, reviewing her effort. Together, she and another maidservant lift a headpiece adorned in jewels and gold. It’s been sitting on the table for what could be hours, and you do your best to stay still as it’s fastened to your head. It obstructs your peripheral vision as it sits on your head — as if you needed more hardship on the day of your wedding. Although the headpiece itself is heavy, you find that the chin strap they’re tying beneath your chin is the most uncomfortable part.
“We are ready.” the prince’s advisor says from the open doors, sending your stomach bounding down a flight of stairs. You turn to look at him, recalling the prior days when Jisung showed you around the palace, escorted you to the rehearsal wedding, and introduced you to the kitchen staff. In the short time you’ve known him, you’ve learned he is a vibrant man with not much age or restraint, and has cheeks that resemble that of a harmless, round rodent. Although Jisung and his people seem polite, there is an unease dwelling within you, one that cannot be quelled with the promise of safety, prosperity, and unity that an arranged marriage is said to bring.
Nevertheless, you rise from the vanity, thanking the maidservants who handled you with great care, to which they remain silent and bow. Both Jisung and the guards stationed at the doors also bow at ninety-degree angles as you approach, overwhelmed when you see the throng of female aristocracy meant to accompany you for the ceremony waiting outside your quarters.
It is at this moment that you understand that the months leading up to this did not prepare you to play your part in the political alliance between your home country and the Atasoan Kingdom. It is at this moment that you realize you have to do this whether you wish to or not.
You are a pawn, an offering, a gift. Soon, an Atasoan princess. But not a wife.
Beside you sit your bridesmaids, four high-ranking daughters of council members and ministers who are around your age, but whom you only met yesterday. They whisper in their native tongue, and you turn over the three words you recognize in your head, succeeding after some struggle to identify the two that mean “tired” and “pretty.” The third you know immediately: foreigner. Looking into the crowd of people seated, enjoying lively discussion, you search for your parents. Marrying you to the Atasoan prince meant surrendering you, stripping you of your friends, family, and identity. They would not attend — they had given you away as a present — and presents are not to be returned. But you look for them, still.
A silence rushes over the audience, heads turn to watch the prince saunter down the aisle at a controlled pace, a square black veil held taut by two sticks in either hand that cover his face. The ceremonial golden wooden goose is bestowed upon him, prompting him to lower the veil.
His nose commands his face, framing the perfect picture of a brilliant and capable man. Internally, you curse your imperfect vision for not being able to make out much else. Focused on carrying out the ceremony, his eyes have yet to meet yours. When he walks to the opposite side of the dais to place the goose on a golden table as an offering to your parents who are elsewhere, you’re ushered to your feet by two of your bridesmaids.
Suddenly grateful that they’ve been instructed to hold onto either side of you, your feet are feeling very limp as you approach the dais. Your groom rises from the table, turning in your direction and stepping closer, unaware of your inability to tear your eyes from him. While his gaze is locked on the floor, you remember to do as you’ve been told and slowly drop to your knees, bending over onto the floor completely into a submissive bow before rising to your feet and doing it all over again. After you finish, he, too, drops to the floor and bows to you. But it is not out of submission, but acceptance. That is what this marriage is. Your submission and his acceptance of that submission.
The room is still dead silent as the officiant who stands at the center of the dais powerfully announces something you cannot understand. But while you’re directed to the gold-plated bowl in the corner of the dais, you know it’s time for the bride and groom to wash each others’ hands.
Cautiously shuffling to the bowl, you glance down at the decadent gold embroidery adorning the crimson hanbok that you wear, afraid to be this close to him. A particular embroidered phoenix catches your eye, and you ask for its strength as your hands reach into the bowl, the prince’s fingers hovering above. He, too, smells of pine. Pine and tobacco.
Dousing the back of his hands with the water, you take in a shallow breath. The protruding veins catch your attention, but you continue to do your part just like rehearsed, careful not to make a mess. He turns his palms face up, heat rising to your face while you gather more water in your fingertips. There is some shame that comes over you as you massage the liquid into his hands, feeling unbarren for everyone to see, and most of all, him.
When it’s your turn, your hands shake considerably while they hover over the bowl, jealous of how composed your counterpart appears. One at a time, he takes one of your palms with his, gathers up water with the remaining free hand, and pours it over yours while massaging from knuckle to tip. When he moves to wash your palms, your eyes flicker to his. His eyes reside in a straight line, lids lax, the brown irises peeking out beneath his long eyelashes. There is a slight twitch on one side of his full lips, but his square jawline remains motionless, knitting together a tapestry of sophistication and grace. You stare at him, breathless in the existence of his beauty.
“The towel.” he says in English.
The bridesmaid to your left is holding a white towel, and you take it, breath quickening as you wrap the towel around your partner’s hands, pressing the fabric into his skin. You feel sick as he watches you, and then returns the favor, the towel keeping your hands from his.
The rest of the wedding runs smoothly. When the chalice of rice wine is offered to you, you accept, hoping you avoid the place where his lips were just moments before. To drink from the same place would be too weird, you think. Of course no one but you would know it had been done, but you find it much too early to be smitten. Glances are stolen every so often, mostly him catching you staring, but once you look up to find him observing you. There is no feeling in his gaze; just two empty eyes looking, consuming.
Then the ceremony is finished, a fully-formed ache in your back as you bow to the audience, who receive both your husband and you completely. All return the bow except the king who bends to a forty-five degree angle from the side of the dais. He gives his son a slight nod.
« ————- ♔ ————- »
“Yongbok?” you repeat his name back to him, wondering if you’re pronouncing it correctly.
“It means ‘lucky dragon.’ I am your personal advisor.” Unsure of how to reply, you stare at him beneath your lashes. Fumbling around for words, he gestures towards you with a hand, “Congratulations on your union.”
Yongbok is a cheerful young man with long dark brown hair, the bulk of it residing in a tight bun in the back of his head. He tucks a wayward strand of brown silk behind an ear before bowing. Standing sturdily in his crimson robes, the round plunging neckline shows a layer of white fabric underneath. Around his waist sits a belt dyed in matching crimson, with gold plates in the center.
“Thank you.” is all you can muster, forcing a half-smile.
“The prince is a brilliant man, he is preparing to attend Seonggyungwan.”
Yongbok starts to inspect the room; looking at the prepared summer bed — a large bed frame with thin silk cushions to act as the mattress. Atasoans sleep on the floor year-round thanks to heated floors, except in the summer when they sleep on modest beds to avoid the unnecessary heat.
You blink. “Seong-gyoo…”
“Seonggyungwan,” he says so easily, “It is the nation’s highest educational institution. Once finished with their studies, the graduates go on to assume official government posts.”
“I thought he was destined to be king?” You watch him wander around the room, enjoying the movement of his robes as his feet.
“He is. Whether or not he wishes to take the throne is unknown, however.” He smooths out a cushion.
“Ah,” you nod gently, “a substitute plan.”
“Indeed.” he turns to look at you, a warm glow in his eyes, “I must be going now. Your husband will surely arrive soon.” The use of the new title surprises you.
“Wait,” you call for him, sounding more desperate than you intended, “Won’t I be needing an interpreter?”
“Prince Chan speaks perfect English.” Yongbok gently shakes his head before heading for the double doors, “Additionally, I am afraid not much interpreting will be necessary tonight.”
With that, he departs from your chambers, the lingering words leaving your head spinning.
Minutes pass, and out of boredom you resort to running your fingers along the walls, passing over the frescoes that depict the Atasoan Kingdom’s history. Dozens of soldiers with swords, the flag of the dynasty billowing in the wind overhead. A self-assured king who points at the mountains, giving his people a blessing to move west. But what you can’t shake your focus from is a queen who sits on the throne in the background, looking at her husband.
How dissatisfying her life would have been to be married to a man she did not love. You wonder if she silently bubbled with rage, faithful always, until she died and returned to the earth. Or if she lived her life with exciting secrets, taking lovers like sips of tea and replaying the escapades in her pretty little head while beside her husband who babbled and planned and schemed.
“That is my father’s great great great grandmother.” a familiar voice says behind you. You almost fall over, turning on your heel like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t have.
“I, uh…” just like you’ve been taught, you bow deeply to the prince. He does not reciprocate. “I was appreciating your country’s great history.”
He strolls closer to you, hands clasped behind his back, standing upright. His voice is warm despite him being a complete stranger, “Nothing quite like staring at banal, centuries-old art.”
“Nonsense! It is gorgeous. As is your country.” Your response seems to have satisfied him, as he grows quiet, taking in the art before him.
He turns to you, straight long hair flowing past his shoulders, taking in the state of your white undergarments. A strand of hair brushes over his eyelashes, clouding his gaze. There are several layers of pajamas you wear and yet the scan of his eyes down your body makes you feel bare. “I just came to properly introduce myself before gathering with friends at a jumak in the city.”
Befuddled, you look into his eyes, brows furrowed, holding back a shake of your head, “I do not understand.”
“It is in celebration of our marriage.” He grins, baring an exceptionally straight set of white teeth. He is gorgeous.
“Can I join?”
“I am afraid not. Much too dangerous for women. Your sex are fragile creatures, and men are unruly beasts. Most notably when drunk.” Prince Chan turns around to toy with a book on the bookshelf behind him, “In addition, my people do not speak your language, and making conversation would prove to be hard.”
“I…” His middle finger runs down the spine of the book before he looks back at you, his head tilting back, eyebrow raising.
His mouth falls open slightly before he speaks, the tip of his tongue running along the back of his top teeth, “I will return before dawn, drunk, stumbling like a fool, knowing that my wife will be here to help me to bed.” He withdraws his hand from its distraction, finding its familiar place: clasped with its counterpart behind the prince’s back. He brushes something off his hanbok, the dark blue silk making waves beneath his fingertips.
“But…” a fear grows within you. Consummating a royal marriage the night of the wedding is tradition, you were told.
The prince bids you farewell and leaves his quarters so silently and swiftly that you’re certain he’s snuck out many times before. Proceeding to bed, you toss and turn long before falling asleep. Trying hard to not think of the nothingness that is here with you, trying hard to think of the opportunities that await you here. You fail to do either. Sleep comes after you flip your pillow over, damp with tears.
He does not return before dawn. He does not return at all.
Chalking it up to a misunderstanding of tradition, ultimately you brush off your husband’s slight, figuring that there’s always tomorrow. But when tomorrow night comes, it is just as the one before.
“I will be leaving to gather with friends.” Prince Chan is here again in his quarters, only the second time you’ve seen him since your wedding. He is still gorgeous, much to your dismay.
“Yes…” you reply, too much to say, giving up on a conversation that hasn’t begun, “I will remain here and await your return.” You cannot bring yourself to care — where he is going, what he is doing — sleep is what you shall concern yourself with at the moment.
For whatever reason, he is disinterested in sex with you. Is it all sex? Or just sex with you? Either way, it’s a blow to your self esteem, but mostly stressful, and given his beauty, it’s an act with him that you would not mind. Before you can think about it any longer, you fall asleep.
He tells you that he'll be back before dawn, but you both know he won't.
« ————- ♔ ————- »
When morning comes, you check the other side of the bed, knowing it will hurt when you find that he is absent. As expected, it’s just you. But there is someone else in the room.
Yongbok is there to greet you, readily bowing. “Good morning, Princess.”
You haul the sheets up to your chin, taken aback by a man’s presence in close quarters with you in just your undergarments, fresh in the morning.
Unfazed, he lists off today’s schedule, “Breakfast, etiquette lessons until eight, Atasoan lessons until eleven, diplomacy lessons until one, and-”
You close your eyes, fingers pinching your temple, “But breakfast first.”
“Breakfast first, princess.”
Bellies full of rice and stew, you both scurry off to etiquette lessons, which are confusing and senseless. Despite being born royal, you’ve never understood etiquette; all rules are made up, why choose to uphold the most meaningless ones about how to hold a spoon? Atasoan lessons are even more confusing, but fluency is not only necessary but advantageous. After nearly falling asleep in diplomacy lessons and getting scolded by the instructor, both Yongbok and you head to the palatial garden.
Once past the gate, the fine gravel hugs the soles of your shoes, making that crunchy noise that reminds you of the sound of snow in the winter. Oh, how you miss the winter on today of all days — you’re sweating buckets, checking your hanbok for any signs of perspiration. Not even a breeze has whispered its way across your face, and swatting bugs is becoming tiresome. But you stop in your tracks when the green of the garden comes into view.
Elm trees flourish around and above you, coating the dirt hillside and lining a rectangle pond, full of rich green water that stays as still as the clouds. Beneath the pond water you see fins of orange and white, mouths that puncture the surface for a second only to submerge themselves in the water once again. The dark brown bark of the trees are sprinkled with moss, and are spaces for homes and meals for the insects. A tinge of jealousy trickles through you at the thought of the tiny insects that belong here — that have a purpose here. Bleeding through the leaves of the trees is the sun’s rays, its white hot light faintly illuminating their veins.
“Beautiful,” you say, mouth agape, “Perhaps the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”
Yongbok stays silent for a moment, looking up at the trees like you do, “I am glad you think so.”
Breathing deeply, you take a long pause to admire the view before lowering your gaze to look at the pond, “How long have you lived at the palace?”
Yongbok takes a second to think, sharply intaking breath through his nose before he replies, “Four years. I was invited by the king himself.”
“Four years… That seems like forever ago.” You’re already forgetting what you had for breakfast while making your way to a tree a few paces away, pressing a hand to the bark.
“The last two days have been two forevers for you, I am sure, Princess.” he trails not far behind, while you run your fingers down the roughness, the patterns dry like the cracked clay ground of a desert. He continues, “You have handled it exceptionally well. You should be proud of yourself.”
Your heart grows two sizes, and you turn to look at him, withdrawing your hand from the tree. “You are very sweet. Thank you.”
Several seconds of silence pass by before you continue to walk amongst the plants, wandering over to a cherry blossom tree, teasing the pink felt leaves with your fingers. In a garden of green, it sticks out like a sore thumb, and it is still blossoming despite being out of season.
“What did you do before I came here?”
“I was recruited to be an economist.” he scrunches his nose at the thought, “But after I taught myself the language of your people, the king saw value in me otherwise. Been interpreting ever since.”
“Have you ever thought of being an ambassador?” you retrieve your hand from the rosy petals and spin on your heel, facing him totally.
“I have,” Yongbok shrugs, pulling a pocket watch out of his pocket to glance at the time, “But that involves politics, a game I never quite liked. And far too divisive for my tastes. Interpreting brings people together.”
You smile at that. “You taught yourself English — that is quite impressive.”
Yongbok reciprocates the smile, nervously itching the inner corner of one eye, “It was just a manifestation of consistency.”
You narrow your eyes at him, “Do not do that.”
“Do what?” Innocent doe eyes look back at you.
“Downplay your achievements. It is hard to learn a language. Especially that of such a significant difference to your native one.”
He pauses, unashamedly smiling three times, with mouth and both eyes. “You are different from what I expected, Princess.”
“Different?” your head tilts to the side, “Different, how?”
“You are kind. You care.”
“I am just making conversation.” Wishing he would stop.
He doesn’t, “You will be good for our empire.”
Unsure of how to reply, you keep quiet. You don’t want to hear about the high hopes someone has for you out of fear that you’ll only disappoint. Not even you have had faith in yourself to do this country some good in the last forty-eight hours. Meanwhile, here is somebody you barely know bestowing that very thing of which you are lacking.
Downstream, you spot a gazebo hovering above the water and begin walking toward it at a leisurely pace. Your flats tap the wood of the gazebo with each step, your fingers creeping up the round banister to hold it loosely. Yongbok steps foot into the gazebo shortly after you, intently watching the trees as though a breeze is dancing through them.
The vibrant green surrounding you exhausts your eyes, seeing red every time they fall closed. Last night all you saw was white. The white of the moon beaming through your window, keeping you company while your husband did not. Eyes welling up, you wish you had someone to tell. You wish you had a friend. That is the only thing running through your head when you turn to Yongbok and ask him, “Can I tell you something? To keep between us.”
He nods and forces a smile, “Of course, Your Highness.”
You sigh, trying to piece together the right choice and sequence of words as you go, “The prince. He is never in our quarters — he…he goes out all night, says he will return before dawn, but does not. I wish to consummate our marriage, b-”
The remaining bits of Yongbok’s smile fade as his eyes pierce yours, voice hushed, “You have not bedded the prince?”
“No. He leaves at night.”
“You cannot tell anyone else of this.” Your face falls, lips quivering, because you already know what he’s going to say. Gaze fixed on his white shoes riddled with swirls of black, Yongbok continues, “What you speak of, it does not fare well with the king. If he finds out the marriage is unconsummated, you will not remain in his good graces for long.“
“Maybe I can go to Jisung, or-”
“No!” The exclamation surprises you, jumping as you watch frustration shooting across Yongbok’s face. He’s swiftly shaking his head as his eyes scrunch together before he takes your hands within his own and holds them tightly. “No, you must not. The strongest marriages, here in the palace, are ones that the king never hears about.” You attempt to protest, but he explains, “And who will trust your word that Prince Chan neglected to bed his wife? He is a man with a large sexual appetite, and you are a woman.”
Your eyes widen at that last bit, feeling panicked and saddened and angry. The gut feeling that something was off about the prince was right, and this fact makes you dizzy. Everything is at risk, there is nothing and no one to go home to if you fail here in the Atasoan Kingdom.
“Your Highness,” he whispers, “I believe you. I am not sure they will.”
You stand in silence, hoping that maybe if you ignore what you’ve just learned it will disappear. Slipping your hands from Yongbok’s grasp, you turn back to admire the trees, the sun now hiding behind the tops of them.
Yongbok’s voice comes out nearly a whisper, “There was a sword teacher that Prince Chan was under the tutelage of when he was a boy. This man pushed him in hopes to realize his full potential, so much so that the prince spent nearly all of his time practicing.” He sighs, and you can feel him watching you without shame, “One day Prince Chan faked an injury, went to his father, told him a tale of how his teacher lost his temper and nearly killed him in sparring practice that day. It was believable — his teacher had an awful temper — had a terrible drinking habit. Prince Chan had a bandage on his arm for weeks, omitted from his usual habits like playing with the other children of the palace and got much bed rest. So…the teacher was banished — lost his job, his family, everything — no one knows where he is now.”
Christ, you wish you could forget that, too, “That is heinous,” you say.
“But brilliant.” You shift to look at him by your side, watching the sincerity in his eyes as they never leave your own, “My point is that the prince is acting on a plan. I am certain of it.”
« ————- ♔ ————- »
The strongest marriages, here in the palace, are ones that the king never hears about. You turn over what Yongbok had said earlier in your head like a playing card. No matter how many times you flip it over it will not change. It’s been dealt to you, and you can’t make a jack an ace.
You lift yourself from your bed, passing over a cherry wooden desk, running your fingers over its surface before picking the golden top off an inkwell that sits in the corner. The black liquid pools inside like an abyss. As you scan over the papers on the desk, a cream envelope with an address written in English catches your attention. You look at its destination: the Colony of New South Wales. Hurriedly, you snatch it, fingers itching for its contents, crestfallen when it’s sealed.
A knock at the door delivers you from your snooping, placing the envelope back on the table, burying it back underneath a few loose papers. When you invite them in, you see Jisung standing before you in crimson robes, hands clasped behind his back. “Prince Chan wants to meet.”
“Why?”
He responds in Atasoan, and then closes his eyes under a furrowed brow, calculating what he is able to reply back with. After a moment of him muttering under his breath, he opens his eyes, sighs, and walks out the door. Utterly muddled, your eyes dart around the room, and when your feet don’t move, Jisung backtracks into view. He stands in the doorframe and says one word: “Come.”
The center courtyard is empty under the moonlight, the ghosts of aristocracy debating, gossiping, and laughing while shuffling to and from the corners of the palace fresh in your mind. You look around for the prince, opting to sit on a bench, once copper, now withered with mint green patina.
“Wait.” Jisung says to you at once, and then walks away, eventually turning a corner to disappear behind a large elm tree.
So you do. You gnaw at the inside of your cheek and wait. It is late, maybe a quarter to one in the morning, and you are alone in the courtyard, waiting for your elusive husband. The mosquitos nibble at your skin while the crickets chirp. A desperation fills you from within, how badly you wish to forget the story Yongbok told you earlier in the gardens, how badly you wish to go home, how badly you wish your husband would show up. You traveled far and sacrificed nothing short of everything, and he does not care at all. He’s playing a game of cat and mouse, and your blind hopefulness has led you to sit on a rusty old bench, completely alone in the dead of night.
A tear rolls down your cheek — you are a fool who is waiting for him again.
« ————- ♔ ————- »
Murmuring hisses in your ears, a blaring headache throbbing behind your eyes. The sun bleeds through your eyelids until you’re seeing red, and then white once they open. You jerk up, hurtling your legs off the bench, feet in their flats brushing the stone ground. An outcry of people explodes through the crowd, and they teeter backwards, dozens of pairs of eyes scrutinizing you like a reckless wild animal. Jisung is in the crowd, silent, watching you beneath a straight brow. While the crowd buzzes with beautiful blabbering women and clamorous, disgusted men, he stares at you underneath black bangs. His jaw twitches, like he’s holding back a smile, unable to hide an upturn in his lips. With conviction, you hurl yourself up from the bench, stomping through the crowd, evoking shrieks from the ladies of the palace and gasps from the men as they back away from you.
When you stop a foot in front of him, your face is inches from his, you open your mouth, an enraged huff of air blowing in his face, “I need to send a letter.”