Chapter Text
Seon-ho finds out he can get pregnant after the exam that should have never happened and before the war that can never happen.
He’s training, trying to forget the blood on Hwi’s face, his screams of rage as he was dragged away and Seon-ho futilely tried to crawl towards him, the blood on Yeon’s head as it cracked on the porch of their unfinished family dinner, the blood as his arrow pierced the examiner, the blood on his face and hands after that deputy caught him and tried to force himself on him, all that blood blood blood, spilled around him, because of him, by him, when he starts to feel dizzy and collapses.
He thinks it’s just overexertion, training day and night like he’s trying to punish himself.
If he had been just a little stronger, maybe he wouldn’t have had to rely on his father’s name.
Maybe Yeon would still have her memories and be with her brother. Maybe he and Hwi would be training together as military officials, preparing to leave with the army. Maybe they would spend more nights drinking together with Hui-jae in Ihwaru as they philosophized and joked and danced.
Maybe Hwi would still be here, instead of miles and miles away across the Amnok river, in a warzone, because Seon-ho would rather that he live in hell than be dead.
He wakes up to their family physician looking down at him, the one who treated Yeon after Seon-ho threatened his father when shouting didn’t work.
He tells Seon-ho that he’s one of the rare men born with a womb, euphemistically referred to as ‘river-blessed’ from a popular tale where three holy pilgrims become pregnant after quenching their thirst in the Woman Kingdom; he tells him that he is with child and has been so since about three weeks. He doesn’t congratulate him.
The man is scared, understandably so: if this were to get out, he along with his family would be the first ones to die.
With slightly shaking hands he gives him a small porcelain bowl filled with dark liquid. Seon-ho already knows what it is even before he’s told: a herbal mixture meant to kill the growing fetus in his body.
Nam Jeon already ordered for it to be prepared while Seon-ho was passed out. He doesn’t ask for Seon-ho’s opinion. He tells him to drink it.
Under his father’s dark, heavy gaze, Seon-ho opens his mouth, drinks the concoction.
He knows if he doesn’t drink it now, it will still wind up in his food or one of his drinks somehow.
He spends three days sick in bed.
Later, when he actually has time to think about it, process it, he will conclude that it’s the best decision right now: he still needs to go to war, avert it before it can break out by supporting General Yi, and find Hwi.
The fall of Goryeo will not wait for him to give birth.
And it’s not like he wants a child anyway, not after growing up as one in Nam Manor.
He doesn’t mourn. He doesn’t remember a time he hasn’t had to hit the ground running. He still puts down little stones and flowers in a corner of the garden right next to the spot he reserves for his mother’s offerings. She never got a grave, so it’s as good as any.
He puts it out of his mind, doesn’t think about it again like so many other things he’s trying not to think about. It doesn’t get mentioned again.
Not until the night he presents Jung Sa-jeong’s head to Yi Seong-gye, general-turned-king, tiger-turned-dragon, intending to become his sword.
*
Seong-gye is circling his kneeling form on the ground as he stares straight ahead. Clowns wear masks for their performances, but Seon-ho’s face is mask enough.
“How far would you go for the authority to go anywhere and challenge anyone? To even free slaves?”
“As far as necessary,” Seon-ho replies without hesitation.
“Then, would you even warm my bed and become my concubine?”
He tenses up, not sure if he’s heard right. “Your Majesty…”
“Did you know that I learned something interesting four years ago? When I forced your father to choose between you and the country, he chose to abandon you, as you surely remember. But he also told me about all the ways he has used you… including getting you pregnant and forcing you to get rid of the child, in an attempt to sway me.”
That, Seon-ho hadn’t known about. His stomach clenches.
All this time, he thought the way Seong-gye looked at him was just lust for power, but he’s wrong; the man has been lusting for him, too.
A deep chuckle. “I’ve rarely seen him get so emotional. But I suppose even a man like him isn’t immune to beauty and wit.”
He comes to a stop to his right, just a little behind him, black dragon robes rasping softly, close enough to feel the heat and desire rolling off his body, filling the entire hall like smoke from a fire, thick and oppressive. "Would you rather be loyal to your father and whelp his children, or be mine?"
Seon-ho is frozen. There’s so much resting on his shoulders. Too much. His mother’s dream. Hwi and Yeon who are still under Nam Jeon’s power, just like him.
It’s not an offer he can reject.
What the king wants, the king gets.
A tan, broad hand palms his temple, lifting the samo and dropping it to the floor with a soft thump. Fingers start to caress the side of his neck and slide underneath his collar, taking off his blue gwanbok, everything underneath, a flame eating away at clothes. At skin.
As he is laid down on his back, a mouth covering his own and a heavy weight pressing him down like rubble and debris, like the roof of Injeongjeon hall groaning and caving in, he wonders if Hwi is killing General Jung right now, staining his innocent hands with even more blood.
He wonders if it feels just as suffocating.
*
“When I tried to have an audience with the king last night,” Nam Jeon says the next day, while Seon-ho is helping him get dressed, smoothing hands over his shoulders and lightly tugging at his collar and sleeves, “I was turned away. You came home late last night. What were you doing?”
His eyes narrow, forbidding. He only thinks that Seon-ho gave the king information about Bang-won’s weaknesses that he withheld from him, warning him of the consequences. He doesn’t suspect what it really is that Seong-gye asked of Seon-ho.
The following day, he storms into Seon-ho’s room, face dark and his steps like thunder, grabbing him roughly by the arm and pulling him to his feet. The formal proposal letter is in his hand.
Seon-ho only glances down at it, aloof, bordering on disrespectful. “So it has arrived?”
“That night, you did more than just give him information. You seduced him just like you seduced me.”
A cold, elegant laugh. “Me, seduce you? I was just a child.”
“You’ve always been a whore. It’s in your blood. You thought you could betray me and get away with it unpunished?”
“Kill me then,” Seon-ho challenges, subtly baring his throat. “You can even kill your own child. But then, I should have known since you’ve tried to kill me too. More than once.”
“Are you talking about this?” He lays a hand on Seon-ho’s lower abdomen, drawing his thumb over hard, tense muscle through cloth. “Our child?”
Seon-ho doesn’t say anything and Nam Jeon smiles knowingly, sardonically. “Of course, blame me as usual for making the hard decisions because you don’t have the guts to make them yourself.”
“You should have at least given me the choice,” Seon-ho whispers, tears in his eyes that he refuses to let fall. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I belong to the king now, and you will never touch me again.”
When Nam Jeon leans in for a kiss as though to test this statement, Seon-ho turns his face away so only his nose brushes his cheek, his breath warming his skin.
His own fists are curled into tight fists.
“This is all your fault,” he whispers, furious, trembling. “If you hadn’t told him about everything, this would have never happened. You chose to abandon me in the end anyway, so why…” He can’t finish the words, throat closing. “You don’t get to pretend to care when we both know you don’t.”
The tears spill over after all, a warm hand coming up to cup his cheek and wipe them away.
“Did he force you?” It’s almost gentle.
Seon-ho pushes his hand away, wiping his face with his arm and watching the lilac sleeve soak with darker spots. The shade reminds him of some of the flowers growing in the garden, lying in that corner full of the prettiest stones he could find. “No one forced me. I chose the king, just like you chose your country over your son back then.”
“Aren’t you afraid of what I might do to Yeon?”
“Afraid? Why should I be? You had better treat her well because only that will ensure that I will keep coming back.”
Nam Jeon stares at him, dark-eyed, jaw rolling. They both know Seon-ho has won this one.
“You just wait and see. I'll get you back. Once this country is mine, I’ll make you my concubine again.”
“Then you should better hurry up.” Seon-ho lets his hand drop down to his stomach. To his womb. “With how fond the king is of me, it’ll only be a matter of time before I conceive a child of royal blood.”
*
It doesn’t take long before Hwi finds out.
Seon-ho has to reiterate that it’s his choice and that no one forced him. Strange, he thinks, how similar his questions are to Nam Jeon’s. They would both resent the comparison.
“It happened the night I killed General Jung, didn’t it?” Hwi says, putting the pieces together. “He made this a condition for becoming the king’s sword, didn’t he?”
Seon-ho doesn’t confirm anything, but he doesn’t deny anything either, and Hwi curses.
“That greedy bastard. How can you go along with this? He tried to kill you in Liaodong and now he wants you to warm his bed.”
Seon-ho wants to bark out a laugh, wild and bitter and fraught.
What would Hwi think, if he knew that Seon-ho has been warming his father’s bed for much longer already? Suddenly he doesn’t feel like laughing anymore.
“We could have made a different plan and tried again, offering something else that the king wouldn’t be able to resist. You didn’t have to give in to his outrageous demand.”
“And make you toil away for another four years?” Seon-ho shakes his head. “It was too good an opportunity to pass up.”
Hwi growls, eyes flashing. “Don’t use me as an excuse.”
“You are right. I shouldn’t be making any excuses for myself. I wanted it. It was my choice.” Seon-ho is holding himself where he leans back against the wall behind him, fingers curled around his own arms, shoulders hunched, head sinking forward so his hair sheets over his face, hiding it from sight, like a turtle retreating into its shell. “My fault.”
Despite his attempts to keep his voice steady, unaffected, it cracks slightly on fault. His mouth twists.
Whore, his father had called him.
Hwi immediately backtracks, looking dismayed. “No, no, not at all, I didn’t mean to imply—”
A hand rubs over his face as he lets out a harsh exhale, clearly forcing himself to get a grip on his temper and calm down.
“I didn’t know you could get pregnant.”
“I didn’t know either, not until—”
Seon-ho cuts himself off here, before he can say too much.
Hwi raises his head, a hound finding a scent trail. “Not until what? When did you find out—how did you even find out?”
Only silence meets his question. Spring on the cusp of summer spills in through the cracks of the shack, leaving them both untouched.
“Talk to me.” It’s nearly a plea.
Seon-ho doesn’t.
A loud bang, groaning wood, as Hwi buries a fist in the wall right next to his face, ruffling his bangs and dangerously rattling the thin planks making up this shabby little hut. Seon-ho wishes those knuckles had kissed his jaw instead. He feels like a paper doll in a paper house.
“Damn it! I can’t help you if you won’t say anything.”
“I never said I wanted or needed your help.”
What use is Hwi knowing? It wouldn’t change anything.
On his way out, his former friend spits out, “As one of the king’s concubines, it wouldn’t do for you to be seen alone with an uncouth thug like me.”
Left alone in the hut, Seon-ho turns around and touches the faint indentation in the wall, pressing his palm flat against it.
Power always comes with a price.
*
In the end, it’s only Yeon who’s happy for him, though it’s bittersweet.
It is a great honor to receive the king’s grace, but she does not want to part with her orabeoni.
He will still visit often, share his time between the palace and the manor, he reassures her. But they both know it will not be the same.
Although she tries to put on a brave face, she breaks out into tears which she tries to hide in his chest, hugging him close. His own arms come up to wrap around her, shaking, and he allows himself to press his face into her shoulder, so small and yet so strong. She said he could cry on her shoulder, and so he does. He does.
“Orabeoni?” she asks, when he holds on for too long and doesn’t let go. “Are you alright?”
He remembers himself again and lets her go, pasting his usual smile on his lips. “Yes, just—overjoyed.”
Looking at each other, blotchy, teary-faced, they both burst out laughing. “Look at the both of us!” Yeon says, grinning.
She never looks more like her brother than when she’s smiling like this, wild and free.
She jokes that the king must have fallen for the manly, heroic figure he struck on the battlefield, or his sharp-tongued wisdom and wit in court, or his fair-skinned, dark-eyed beauty that he must have glimpsed underneath a wisteria tree, weaving a romantic story.
She’s hungry for all the juicy details, how it all started and he caught the king’s eye, won his heart. At her prodding he tells her about their first encounter, his father taking him along on a hunt, how terribly nervous he had been when he met the famous General Yi whom he had long admired, making a fool out of himself in front of him in his eagerness to impress him.
She sighs dreamily, saying that the king must have already been charmed by his endearing clumsiness even back then. It must have been love at first sight!
He doesn’t correct her assumptions or tell her the ugly truth, that it’s only about men and greed and power. About taking what they want just because they can. That he’s nothing but a pawn in the grand scheme of things. He only smiles and nods and plays along.
She makes it her mission to help him learn the proper decorum and etiquette, reviewing Zhu Xi’s Elementary Learning and other such books with him that he already knows inside and out. She even has the servants set up two rows of candles so they can practice walking between them in perfect courtly fashion, without even disturbing the flames. Seon-ho passes the test without any trouble; he’s had to learn how to be silent and walk as though treading on ice or a tightrope all his life. When Yeon tries the same, her skirt catches fire, which they have to quickly put out, leaving a ragged edge of black, scorched fabric.
There’s much teasing and laughter. It makes him feel light, dizzy; makes his chest ache.
*
Seon-ho invades nobles’ homes and disbands private armies, crippling the hand of the man who mocked him for being a bastard, even asking him if he sucked the king’s dick to get this far. It feels good. It feels like it’s worth what he traded, in turn.
Everyone now knows that he is the king’s sword. His favorite, in all ways. Seong-gye asks him to stay behind more often too.
“You did well today,” he says, referring to the verbal sparring match that Seon-ho won against a few high-ranking officials opposing the new military reform. “When they tried to discredit you by mentioning your position as my concubine, I wanted to step in. But you proved yourself with your eloquence and sharp wit. They are no match for you. They fear you, as they rightly should.”
There is pride in his voice, and Seon-ho is hard-pressed not to feel the same. He’s earned this, no matter what anyone says.
“You are too generous, Your Majesty. I was only doing my duty as your subject.”
“And as my concubine.”
“And as your concubine,” Seon-ho dutifully repeats without even blinking. He keeps his gaze carefully underneath the king’s neckline, the golden dragon emblem stitched into his robe. He hasn’t yet been given permission to look upon the face of the heavenly son. A usurper and traitor, others might say.
“They desire you too. I can see it in their eyes. But you are mine.” He pats the spot next to him on the throne. “Come here. I would like to look at my concubine more closely.”
Seon-ho rises to his feet, hands primly folded over each other in his lap, head bowed as he does so, taking a seat in the spot coveted by so many. It’s rather anticlimactic; it feels like any other ordinary chair covered in an army of cushions.
Fingers find his chin, tipping his face up, allowing him to look at the king. Those almost feline eyes are filled with amusement. And desire, hot and palpable enough to scald.
“Close your eyes.”
Seong-gye is like a big, old cat, fond of playing games. Seon-ho has to resist the urge to sigh, but does as told.
A soft rustle, then a weight drapes over his back and shoulders, bringing with it an animal kind of musk.
Seon-ho opens his eyes, surprised. The tiger pelt has been fashioned into a coat, with a clasp in the front. A fang is pressed into his palm next.
“I felled it on my last hunt. It was a great beast, killing some of my hunting dogs and biting the leg of one of my men before it went down. You should wear it when the seasons turn and the days start to get colder.”
A great beast, certainly, though it is nothing compared to the one that sits on the throne.
“I thought you might appreciate this more than jewelry.” A low chuckle and a thumb dragging across his cheek. “Although someone with your face deserves that as well: to be garbed in the finest silks; bedecked in jade, gemstones and gold.”
Seon-ho’s fingers curl around the fang. It’s big and sharp and could rip out a man’s jugular. He knows what it means: the king doesn’t just want some tame kitten. He wants a fanged and clawed thing that’s going to tear his enemies apart, or at least take them down with it when it dies.
The other man is right; he does prefer this. “Are you courting me?”
“I meant to court you from the start, but I was too impatient. Hasty. When you offered yourself to me, to become my sword, I couldn’t resist. I knew I had to have you right there and then.” Seong-gye takes his hand, patting it with his big paw. “Let me make it up to you.”
It’s the strangest thing. Nam Jeon would never bother with such pretense and almost-apologies that aren't really apologies at all. With such sweet, saccharine lies.
Seon-ho demurely thanks the king, eyes lowered and gazing up at him through his lashes.
He knows what follows after these kinds of gifts; what men like Seong-gye want and feel entitled to, after paying for their goods in advance.
The king starts to press slow, heated kisses to the side of his face, his temple, the high point of his brow, his cheekbone, lower, until he reaches the corner where his lips dip into his cheek, lingering there, just breathing against his skin, teasing him, the both of them, before finally capturing his mouth and hungrily licking into it.
He has him right there on that tiger’s hide. Seon-ho’s fingers sink into the thick, soft fur, curling into it, spine arching off of it, as a mouth trails over his neck and shoulders, biting at his pectorals, closing around one of his nipples to lick and suck like he wants to taste milk. The king is gently stroking his cock while fucking him on his fingers. They are thick enough to make it burn. He has strong, sturdy hands belonging to a hunter and warrior and father of the nation.
They are hands that could hold him as he falls apart; hands that could break him.
He comes to that thought. Seong-gye massages him through it, both inside and out. He looks down at him like he derives satisfaction even from just this, waiting for him to come down from his orgasm before putting him on his knees in front of the throne.
“Open your mouth,” he says, low, gentle, though his eyes are anything but.
Seon-ho does, the image of guilelessness.
Seong-gye doesn’t finish on his tongue, laughing when Seon-ho looks almost disappointed. “I’m old,” he explains, fondly patting his cheek.
He would rather have him all pretty on his lap, riding him while facing the wide, spacious hall, looking down at it from high above. From where the king would usually see it.
This is the power Seong-gye could give him. Seon-ho has made the right choice by picking him, and he could have more of this. So much more.
“I should have you like this during court meetings. Let everyone see you like this, looking all pretty speared on my cock. Let them kneel and worship you, wanting you and wanting to fuck you without ever being able to touch you. They should never dare to look down on you again for being my concubine. For being mine. The king’s.”
Seon-ho’s thighs burn from the strain of lifting himself up and down the old king’s fat cock, fucking himself on it. He’s thick here too, filling him in a way that’s bordering on too much, threatening to split him apart at the seams. It makes him feel like a child, being bounced on the lap of a grown man. A fist is wrapped around his throat from behind, slightly constricting his airway and forcing his head back against the man’s shoulder while Seong-gye’s face is pressed tight into the curve of his sweat-slick neck, kissing and licking it and letting teeth graze skin. He’s too close, everywhere at once, encompassing, overwhelming, stifling, domineering.
“Good boy,” he calls Seon-ho, punching a broken moan out of him as he shudders and clenches around the thick cock fucking his insides raw. A large hand that feels like sandpaper kneads his hip, holding him in place, nothing more than a tight, wet channel for the man to drive in and out of. “Such a good boy for me.”
He murmurs a lot of praise and promises into his skin. Seon-ho would be a fool to believe any of it. Men say all kinds of meaningless things in bed. Even someone as cold and disciplined as Nam Jeon does it too.
A northern accent colors the words, the mark of a country bumpkin who grew up far from the capital, one that he shares with Sung-rok, almost comforting. There’s a very faint hint of a Mongolian accent too, underneath, from when the man and his father still served the Yuan. He’s not just a beast on a throne. A beast still, but not only that: he didn’t start out as a cushy royal, though he still came from noble blood and a long line of military officials. He grew up in the countryside, on the steppe, in the wild, riding with the Mongols and Jurchens, learning to appreciate foreigners, people of low birth, even bastards like Seon-ho. As a boy, did he ever dream of defecting to Goryeo only to overthrow the royal Wang family and become King himself?
This is only a means to an end.
But it’s not the worst it could be, all things considered.
That night, Seon-ho sleeps with the fang underneath his pillow, drawing a finger along its body like it’s a knife. He sleeps wrapped in that pelt, pulling it tight around him, up to his neck and ears, turning his face and burying his nose in it. It smells of Seong-gye, the both of them.
With time, he thinks, he could maybe warm to this.
*
One time when he’s leaving the king’s quarters, he sees Bang-won outside, feet firmly planted in the ground, hands sternly clasped behind his back, chest puffed like a rooster, coming to visit his father not in his office but in a more private setting. It’s likely another vain attempt to get an audience.
“Inspector Nam—or would sukui be more appropriate?” comes the deep rumble of his voice.
“Inspector Nam is fine, Your Highness.”
The purse of Bang-won’s lips is disdainful. “So you are the reason why my father has been occupied since early morning, refusing to see anyone. I thought it might have been that Kang whore again who calls herself my mother, and her bastard, but it seems like there’s no shortage of their sort in the palace.”
Sometimes Seon-ho wonders how someone like Seong-gye who is so open to reforms and willing to share his authority with his subjects could have a son as bigoted and small-minded as Bang-won. It’s rather astonishing.
“Waiting to be fed scraps from your father’s table again? Don’t blame me for your family issues just because the king doesn’t want to see you. Jealousy doesn’t become you, Your Highness.”
“Jealousy? Why should I be jealous of someone who spreads their legs for the right price, no different from a common prostitute? The rumors of you sleeping your way to the top must be true.”
“We aren’t so different, Your Highness. We would both use any means to achieve our goals.”
“I’m nothing like—” He cuts off there. A sudden, intent look, then he’s leaning in, far closer than propriety would allow, taking a whiff at the bend of Seon-ho’s neck.
“How impertinent and shameless.” Each syllable sounds like it’s pulled out through his teeth. “You still smell of sex.”
“What of it? I’m just fulfilling my duty and relieving the king of his burdens unlike some others who cause him nothing but a constant headache.”
“Even a king must hear some uncomfortable truths sometimes instead of letting a pretty thing beguile him into neglecting state affairs.”
“That’s a rather unfair assessment. I keep His Majesty up to date with everything he needs to know and advise him on various matters.”
A derisive snort. “First he listens to the words of a woman, and now he listens to the words of a mere bastard.”
Seon-ho only smiles blithely. “I should thank you, Your Highness. You were a good stepping stone for making your father pay attention to someone as lowly and unworthy as me.”
Let Bang-won think he’s some kind of temptress who seduced the poor, hapless old king. It’s what everyone already thinks anyway. It’s what he’s meant to do: divert the fifth prince’s dangerous focus away from the king, away from the queen and her young, defenseless children. He’s a sword and a shield. He’s strong. He can bear it. He can take it.
He's not scared of Yi Bang-won.
Unexpectedly, the other man laughs. “You are trying to provoke me.” His painted fan snaps open, the white of it catching the sun, almost blinding, as though to underline his mirth. “How do you feel about my father putting a target on you? Using you as bait? Tell him his little distraction isn’t working.”
“Isn’t it?” Seon-ho’s head is angled to the side, subtly putting his neck on display. Taunting him.
The smile fades from Bang-won’s lips and he steps into his space again, somehow looming over him and larger than life, despite Seon-ho being the taller of the two of them.
“It’s a dangerous game you are playing, Inspector Nam,” he whispers into his ear, with a low thrumming tension threading the words that makes Seon-ho feel like he’s walking on a bed of blades like some kind of street performer or young shamaness, cutting the soles of his feet bloody and raw. “You should stop now before it’s too late.”
His head dips further, the tip of his nose almost brushing skin, as he seems to smell him again. Then he’s gone, a fading figure that lazily fans itself and disappears around the next corner. It seems like he’s given up on trying to speak with his father.
Seon-ho watches him leave.
Somehow his palms are sweaty and he feels out of breath, heart pounding in his chest like he’s just run a few miles.
*
Sung-rok was the first one to find out about what happened in the throne room, the night of General Jung’s assassination, waiting for him outside of the palace. Maybe he smelled it on his skin too, or maybe it was the way Seon-ho had been shivering from something other than the cold.
Blissfully, he didn’t ask any questions, already knowing without Seon-ho needing to say anything. He’s far too observant and knows too much about him already, most if not all the secrets he’s locked away in a chest like those for jewels or perhaps those for hearts. Maybe he knows even more than Seon-ho knows about himself. It’s as frightening as it’s a relief.
“You only need to say the word,” was all he said, as assured and cold as one of his curved blades, “and I will kill him.”
He stood guard outside of Seon-ho’s room all night.
What Seon-ho doesn’t expect is to see Sung-rok and Seong-gye in the same room again, sharing the same space, breathing the same air. Sung-rok shows the required politeness and subservience owed to a monarch, but Seon-ho knows him well enough to notice the quiet, cold rage underneath his neutral expression; the sarcastic edge of his one-word replies to the king’s questions.
The worst thing is that Seong-gye can probably tell too. He’s known Sung-rok for a long time. Longer than Seon-ho.
“Your Majesty, please forgive my retainer for his lack of manners. It’s in his nature to be forthright and blunt. He means no harm by it.”
The king just laughs and waves him off. “I’m used to it. In fact, I’ve always liked that frankness about him. We go back a long way, don’t we, Sung-rok?”
His next words make Seon-ho’s stomach drop:
“Come and serve me again. I’ll give you a rank and position, restore you to your former power and glory. Everyone will know you as Captain Hwang—or no, better yet General Hwang. They will come to respect and fear you as my right hand. What do you say?”
How dare he, Seon-ho thinks, vision red and fingers curling in fury. Is it not enough that the greedy old fool already has him? Does he mean to take Sung-rok from him too?
His gaze unwittingly finds said man, lips slightly parted, wondering, hoping, dreading...
“I say horseshit and cow dung, Your Majesty,” Sung-rok sneers, before actually spitting on the ground. “I serve a new master now, and no one else. Anyone who suggests otherwise should crawl back into their mother’s womb before blighting the world with their face.”
Seon-ho is so shocked he can’t speak for a moment. He thinks Sung-rok’s head is going to roll for his impudence, but the king only laughs, head thrown back and slapping his thigh. It’s a full-chested, hearty sound like a roaring lion.
“It’s been a while since anyone has dared to talk to me like this. It’s quite refreshing. It seems like I’ve offended you. Please accept my apologies.”
A scoff is his only answer, though he doesn’t seem to mind.
“I must confess that I’m curious… Why did you decide to follow Seon-ho, instead of someone else? Were you also enchanted by his beauty and sharp mind? By his strength and dark, seductive promises? Have you ever touched him?”
“No,” Sung-rok says in disgust. “I’m not like you. Seon-ho isn’t like you either. He’s a better master than you will ever be.”
“Good answer. I would have killed you if you had said yes.”
Seon-ho’s frozen blood doesn’t have a chance to warm over again before Seong-gye turns to him with amused eyes, chuckling. “It seems like you are not the only one I’ve offended.”
He’s rising from his throne then, descending the steps until he’s standing next to Seon-ho. It’s manipulative, giving off the illusion of evening the ground between them when it doesn’t. They will never be equal. The king tries to mollify him with gentle touches to his shoulder and back.
Seon-ho shrugs off his placating hand, holding his own elbows, face turned away, playing the part of scorned mistress. “I don’t appreciate you threatening my subordinate.”
“It won’t happen again now I know he’s not some kind of secret lover.” Seong-gye plants a kiss on his temple. Seon-ho can feel his smile against his skin. “And I can hardly let someone guard you who’ll switch loyalties at the drop of a hat.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m making him your personal guard. That way he’ll be able to follow you into the inner court. I said I’d make it up to you, didn’t I?”
Sly old fox. “You should have told me from the start.”
“But where’s the fun in that?”
“Then, since he passed the test, wouldn’t it be only fair to reinstate Hwang Sung-rok to his former rank and position as a captain? To even promote and reward him, for his exemplary service during the coup?”
But the king is not the only one who can be sly.
Seong-gye has never acknowledged his former Jurchen captain again after their return to the capital, out of pride or perhaps pettiness over the fact that Sung-rok chose to serve another master.
“You strike a hard bargain, my clever little concubine.” A hand takes his jaw, nearly dwarfing it, thumb heatedly tracing his lips. “But how could I refuse anything you wish?”
They kiss. The king pilfers and pillages his mouth, laying siege to it the way he did to the capital four years ago when he retreated from Wihwado, capturing General Choi and the last true Goryeo sovereign before executing them, horns blowing as his yellow dragon banner streamed in the wind. Seon-ho muffles a moan against his conquering lips and tongue, a large hand on the small of his back pressing him closer, not allowing him to escape, helpless to do anything but hang on. Hang on as he is slowly bent backwards and shoved down to the ground, clothes pushed aside just enough for big hands to pry his legs apart and a hard cock to slip inside. He lets out high, needy breaths, hands clawing the dark wooden boards above his head as each powerful thrust rocks him sliding across the floor.
He doesn’t look at Sung-rok, nor does he wonder what he thinks about this, about any of this. About Seon-ho.
Later, Sung-rok says, “You didn’t have to do that.”
“It’s only what the king owes you.” It’s what I owe you too, Seon-ho thinks, but doesn’t say. “And I never forgot your plan to hold me hostage and negotiate with my father in exchange for both your survival and a promotion. It was quite impressive, and I suppose congratulations are in order: you’re a colonel now.”
They are on the way back to the manor. The night breeze is cool and pleasant on his skin, the drying sweat on it; the soft, grey haze of his mind.
“It was stupid of you to refuse the king’s offer. You won’t get a chance like that again. You could be a general instead of the personal guard of some minor concubine.”
A huff. “It would be even more stupid of me to go back to the man who already abandoned me once.”
“You shouldn’t trust me. I could end up abandoning you too. Maybe I'm just like the king and my father.” Seon-ho can’t help but think of Hui-jae’s words, harder than any slap she could have delivered.
“You are not.”
Sung-rok’s voice rings with such absolute certainty that Seon-ho is almost tempted to believe it himself. He wants to lean into it.
“Do you think me weak? I couldn’t protect myself from my father. Not even from the king.”
“You aren’t weak, just stupid. And you think too much.”
It’s gruff, and then Sung-rok is pressing small stones into his hand, along with a flower he seems to have plucked from palace grounds and the gardens there. Technically, he stole from the king who owns everything within those walls and nine gates.
Seon-ho presses his nose to the flower head. It smells sweet. “Maybe you do like me, as the king said.”
“You wish.”
Then, more seriously: “You should be careful. Yi Seong-gye is full of tricks. Even after years of serving him, I didn't know his heart. If you don’t watch out, he’ll devour you even before your father does.”
“I know. I’ll be the one to devour them before they do.”
*
They go through all the necessary steps of a royal wedding for a concubine. It’s scandalously fast, with the whole of Joseon tittering that the king is like a young man blooming in the spring of love, eager to hold his sweetheart in his arms at last and enjoy him in full marital bliss, but the gifts are more lavish in turn. Seon-ho supposes it’s the price Seong-gye is willing to pay to own him.
A golden cage is still a cage, and a good master is still a master.
A messenger arrives in the manor with the royal edict that summons him to the palace, and Seon-ho and everyone else around him fall to their knees in a wave of reverential bows to receive the king’s word.
After a bath in petals and fragrant oils, he takes out the wedding garment from one of the chests the king sent him. It’s a blood-red hwarot of loose-woven silk for the warmer seasons, though that won’t matter much with the many layers he’s going to be wearing. Delicately stitched leaves and flowers sprawl over the white hem of the sleeves, the thin inner stripes of blue and yellow, like wild growing roots. The rest of the gown is densely packed with other such extravagant embroidery, from peonies and lotuses and ocean waves crashing against rocks and phoenixes and butterflies, the usual symbols for longevity, good luck and marriage, to the more unusual like the near-phallic swords or fierce-looking tigers baring their fangs and claws.
It’s as beautiful as it is violent. It’s far too ostentatious, with a touch of old Goryeo hedonism, for a mere concubine.
“It’s utterly breathtaking,” Yeon gasps even as Seon-ho clucks his tongue.
It’s unwise; the king should have chosen something plainer for him. Those ornery, crusty old officials at court will have a field day—not that Seong-gye has to worry about that: Seon-ho will have to take the rap for it, as usual.
“Is it not to your liking?” Yeon asks, a little unsurely.
He puts on a smile for her. “No, I like it. It’s just… far more than expected.”
“The king must be head over heels for you. I’m jealous. I wonder if I’ll be able to wear a hwarot half as splendid as this one for my own wedding.”
Seon-ho's chest aches again at the thought. “You are a little young to be already thinking about that, aren’t you?”
“I’m a grown woman now.”
“I guess you are. Little Yeon-ah, all grown up,” he teases and Yeon pouts. “You’ve gotten a lot better at using makeup too. Seems like I won’t have to worry about walking out of here looking like a clown.”
“Orabeoni,” she whines.
“I’m just joking. I’m sure you will do great. I trust you.” He means it.
Yeon’s eyes actually get a little misty at that, but she rubs at them furiously with her fists. “Don’t worry, I’ll make you more beautiful and dashing than anyone else in Joseon!”
She absolutely insisted on doing this for him on the day of the wedding ceremony, gathering his hair back into a chignon now, pushing the long and heavy phoenix hairpin through it as he sits in front of a large bronze mirror. She powders his face just a little, traces a coal stick over his eyebrows and lash line with a light hand to make them look just a bit cleaner and sharper, applies very light dabs of rouge for some rosy freshness, and holds out a piece of saffron wax paper for him to close his lips around, pigmenting them deep crimson. She finishes putting the rest of the jewels and ornaments on him, long dangling gold earrings and a headpiece with colorful corals and beads.
Then the female servants and slaves assist her in putting the other layers on him. The clothes have at least been modified for a man: there’s no chest band or light inner jacket or wide underskirt, just a simple and sleek dark blue jeogori above the usual underclothes with shimmering silvery-white embroidery that peeks out underneath the hem of the outer hwarot, so the gown thankfully doesn’t flare as much outwards as it normally would. Two strips of fabric are attached to each end of his hair stick, patterned with black and gold, trailing down his front and back like the long tail feathers of a swallow.
By the end, he feels swaddled like a baby. He would hardly be able to fight or dispatch an assassin in this state and he already feels like he has a crick in his neck from the heavy headdress, but he mentions none of this to Yeon.
“How do I look?”
“More bewitching than any of the Four Beauties and more majestic than any Yuan or Ming emperor!” Yeon says, proudly admiring her handiwork and giddily grabbing his hand in her excitement. “I really outdid myself.”
“Thank you, Yeon.” He squeezes her hand back, suddenly feeling emotional.
She jumps, a sudden hush falling over the room, as the door slides open. He already knows who it is before Yeon bows her head and says my lord, scurrying out of the room along with everyone else, leaving the two of them alone.
Those eyes aren’t unlike the black coal Yeon used to darken some of his features. Darker. So much deeper. They frightened him as a child, always filled with such cold disdain and hungry intent.
Nam Jeon walks closer, one step after the other, as though helplessly pulled by a rope, a captive in a long line of war prisoners or perhaps tributes. It’s a strange thought, for a man so repulsed by weakness of any kind.
His fingers drift over wide sleeves, touching his shoulder, his arm, restless, as though not sure where to settle, before taking his hand into his own to look at the jade rings adorning it. Then he follows the bridal ribbon up to Seon-ho’s face, brushing his bang aside to cradle his cheek.
His touch is feather-light, whispering of something like tenderness. Even reverence. Maybe he finally realized he’s about to lose him. It almost makes Seon-ho want to laugh.
“Little Yeon isn’t unskilled,” his father murmurs, eyes heavy. Aching.
Before he can dip in and sip from hawthorn-red lips, Seon-ho halts him with a palm on his chest. “You forget yourself. You are not my groom, and I am not your bride.”
Those eyes become stone, along with his touch. “You think these resplendent clothes and jewels can turn you into a real phoenix? Don’t fool yourself. You will always be mine. My slave, my sword, my son. My concubine.”
Seon-ho can feel his fury, the dark, wild drumbeat of his heart, against his palm. “I belong to the king. You should be proud of me, Father. I rank higher than senior third now, don’t I? I’m part of the royal family. Far, far above you.”
“Greedy boy, you are nothing more than a fleeting fancy. You think he won’t abandon you as soon as he's done using you and fucking you?”
“Like you, you mean?”
Nam Jeon backs down, though not without showing his teeth. He lifts the black-and-gold ribbon attached to Seon-ho’s hairpin to his lips, kissing it in the mockery of a bow while gazing up with dark, simmering eyes.
“I will see how high you can soar before you fall, sukui.”
“Watch me.”
*
When Yeon sees him off, she gives him his sword with a ribbon tied around it. A flying crane is stitched on it, along with his name. She hurried to finish it, working on it day and night. Apparently Sung-rok helped her too, taking over the task of actually cutting and sewing the fabric so it would have the shape it does now. He was the one who came up with the idea of it being for Seon-ho’s sword, since Seon-ho is still a warrior first before he is anything else.
It feels like an answer to his question, of whether Sung-rok thinks he’s weak or not.
A faint smile touches his lips as he feels the silk and raised embroidery underneath his fingers. “Thank you. The both of you.”
“Lord Nam is not the type of man to bare his heart,” Yeon says, “but I saw him standing in your room earlier, after you left. I thought he looked quite lonely and sad. He may be too proud to admit it, but I’m sure he will miss you terribly.”
Seon-ho rather doubts it. Why should his father miss the spare who had killed his favored son? The bastard and unfaithful concubine who betrayed him by choosing the king?
“What about you then? Will you miss me too?”
“Of course. How could you even ask?” They hug each other tight and close, and Yeon feels warm in Seon-ho’s arms, like a part of him, like his own beating heart. He never wants to let her go again. Though she’s crying against his chest, he knows better than to ruin her hard work with tears.
He forces himself to pull away first, smiling, as Yeon dries her eyes and sniffling nose.
“If anyone bullies you in the inner court,” she says, voice thick, “the queen or any of the other concubines, I’ll fight them.”
“My hero!” Seon-ho laughs, a little wetly. “I’ll count on you then.”
They tell each other to take care and then it’s already time for farewells. For him to enter the bridal palanquin that’s going to take him away from his natal home to his new one.
He knows he’ll have more liberties than other royal concubines. He’s still an official and the king’s sword first and foremost, but it’s hard not to feel like his world narrows down to this small space. That this is all it’s ever going to be.
Sung-rok accompanies him as his personal guard, a calm, reassuring presence he draws strength from.
He never had something like a personal maid since he’s not supposed to get attached to anyone, but he chooses one of the older female servants to go with him, a woman who had once been his mother’s friend. She has smartly kept her distance from him to survive, and she’ll be able to survive in the palace too.
He doesn’t choose the girl lingering in the back of the other household staff seeing their young master off; the one with pockmarks all over her face like constellations of little gouges in her skin. Like gaps in a woven basket. She’s too young, not to mention that he needs her in the manor more.
He found her years back, rotting in a side street leading away from the marketplace, among piles of corpses, among the poor, the old, the crippled, the sickly and ill. The outcasts. Among buzzing flies and the near bestial stench of pus and excrements.
When he talks about Goryeo rot, this is what he means: the greed that starts at the top and consumes those at the very bottom.
It’s strange how such places can exist right next to the bustling main streets, with most people turning a blind eye to it. Seon-ho regularly visits them, bringing food and medicine. He takes the necessary precautions like he did in the army camp when tending to the soldiers who had caught dysentery; he knows how quickly these diseases can spread. Aside from him, there are only a few others who do the same, women who treat ailments just as well as any physician, but aren’t allowed to legally practice their knowledge, unrecognized by the state.
It was on one of those visits that he saw her: a little malnourished girl that was all bird bones in a bag of skin, suffering from smallpox and looking like death warmed over.
He’d fed her soup and removed the hairpin from his topknot to place it in her hand, small enough that she would be able to hide it and pawn it off before it got stolen, and sharp enough to defend herself with, from the rats and crows and other beasts, along with those in the shape of men, that would prey on the weak.
He’d also left the umbrella that Sung-rok had been holding for him before taking it into his own hand to shield the girl from the rain, telling her to—
“Survive, and come to Nam Manor asking for work. Pretend that you do not know me. When the master of the house asks why he should let you stay, say that you will not leave until he gives you work. Say it even when he calls you an ugly little beast and starts to threaten you. He will kill you if you are too loud and talk too much, but he will also kill you if you are too timid and prove to be spineless.”
She has done exactly as instructed and survived so far. As she lacks a name to be called by, the other staff have taken to calling her Little Basket. It makes Seon-ho think of the stories where Guanyin disguises herself as a beautiful fisherwoman or sends one of her disciples in her stead, with a fish basket always being involved. There are many different tales, but his favorite is where even the dragon king and his sons prove to be helpless, nothing more than flopping fish, when on land.
She’ll report to him if anything happens to Yeon.
*
As his sedan is carried through the capital, his mind can’t help but turn on itself, ever restless like a nest of serpents where the stronger ones, the adults, eat the young, half-grown hatchlings.
He’s seen the clowns. Their skits about Queen Sindeok are particularly cruel.
Many spit on her for being the second woman who stole the king’s affection, taking the fifth prince’s side by calling her a concubine and her children illegitimate even though they are not. It’s more proof that Bang-won is dangerous and craven, spreading false rumors and negatively influencing public opinion to gain their pity.
Seon-ho has seen them play-acting the queen as a snake dripping honey mixed with poison into the king’s ear who is ever jealous of the concubines and abuses the first wife’s children like some kind of evil stepmother, wearing bone-white masks made from papier-mâché and lacquer, spots of bright red on them like blush. Exaggerated. Garish.
It’s a discredit to Yeon, but he cannot help but wonder if he looks the same way now, and what kinds of stories they will tell about him.
The tides can turn as easily as flipping a hand: he could be a saint comparable to a bodhisattva or Confucius one day, and a wicked, greedy, promiscuous demon the next.
He’s constantly sticking his head out of the small window even though he knows he’s not supposed to, looking for a familiar shape and not finding it. He tries not to feel disappointed.
He and Hwi haven’t talked much since their emotional confrontation in the hut. They still discuss their plans to catch the fifth prince and Hwi still reports to him, but his replies are short and his tone is icy when Seon-ho tries to push for more.
For a concubine there will be no coronation ceremony or greeting of the king in front of an audience of royal relatives and officials with colorful ribbons fluttering in the wind. Seon-ho couldn’t care less about that, but he still asked Seong-gye for a charity event, for the distribution of millet and rice to the peasants, to celebrate the occasion.
Aside from feeding the hungry, it’ll be a shield; insurance. In case anything happens in the future, he will at least have the people’s support. There are enough voices opposing his appointment as a concubine as it is, worried about the growing power of the Nam family in both the outer and inner court. They fear him; they have every reason to.
“Bless you, sukui,” the commoners and lowborns say as he passes, and he gives the masses a demure smile.
A scraggly-haired beggar runs in front of the palanquin, interrupting the procession by throwing himself to his knees and crying that they refuse to give him rice because he’s an Untouchable. A baekjeong.
Sung-rok and the other guards have their swords drawn, but Seon-ho calls them down. He tells the carriers to set him on the ground before pulling the curtain aside and stepping out, showing the face of the king’s bride when it should be hidden away.
Those crotchety old officials at court will already find enough fault in him anyway, so why not give them even more to be scandalized about?
“Rise,” he tells the man, touching his elbows and helping him to his feet so he can put a bag of rice into his hands.
“Aren’t you scared of getting dirty by touching me, sukui?”
“Why should I be? You are a man just like me. No matter what others claim, people cannot be so easily divided into dogs, tigers or dragons.”
Then he raises his voice so everyone will hear. It rings loud and clear, like the bell in a temple. It’s like the roar of the sea, the boom of mountains being split in two.
“Confucius believed that each person was capable of cultivating into a moral being. Everyone should be able to partake in the festivities today and be treated equally without any discrimination!”
He slides out his earring, dripping it into his palm to give it to the man too. As the crowd sways closer with open, hopeful faces, his rings and heavy bracelets are soon to follow. He already feels much lighter for it.
Royals shouldn’t be splurging so much when the people are suffering. This way, the ministers also won’t be able to criticize him or the king for being too luxurious and wasteful after all.
The man bows to him many times, weeping and thanking him, saying that he is as boundless and giving as a river. All around Seon-ho the peasants have folded to the ground like golden crops cut during harvest, bending forward on their palms and foreheads, calling him sukui, sukui, sukui.
Chanting it until it becomes a song.
Becoming a royal concubine is not how he imagined going down in history, but if this is how it’s going to be, he’ll at least do it with style.