You are nine years old, and you are breaking into your father’s grave.
Not by accident, but by design.
Darkness provides cover for you to break into the royal family’s mausoleum, where your father was entombed along with his father, and his mother, and all the royals before him. Your father, who was originally meant to be king, before he was passed over by his younger brother; your father, who did not care for rank and wanted only to serve his country; your father, who would not die in an accident.
Kye-sook’s story sits with you – what the man witnessed with his own eyes. Even as you muscle open the coffin with your small hands, with your hands who are dirtied by this act of desecration, you think about what your father would have wanted. What he would have thought, if he could see you now.
“If we don’t apply our reasoning with efficiency to swiftly arrive at answers, the country will be ruined.”
The people are saying that Lord Yu-hon died by accident. An eyewitness said that he was murdered.
To swiftly arrive at an answer, the simplest way would be to check the corpse.
Your father is broken.
His body is mangled, bloodied, and torn. His skin is cold and ripped in places where tree branches punctured him upon his fall. He is not your gallant father, who would tell you to beat your colds into submission, or lavish you with praise when you finished another book.
At first glance, it would look like an accident.
You turn him onto his back.
It takes time, but your fingers eventually run across it – a wound that is in the middle of his back, the incision wide and deep, of a blade that ran through his body.
You think of what Kye-sook said he saw. The report that he gave to you before you entered this place, and the words exchanged by your father and uncle.
Uncle Il will entrust this country to gods he has never met, and hope that will be enough to serve the people.
You think of the strategy books you’ve read as a child. Economics, agriculture, trade, war strategy – all necessary items to consider in the ruling of a kingdom. There are no chapters on the gods providing rescue.
You hope that Uncle Il’s rule is fair, and he will wake up from this dream of godly rule.
You lay your father back into his resting place, you don’t cry.
(You want to cry. Your mother hasn’t stopped crying since the day your father was taken. You have to be strong for her, who has become so afraid – you want to go back to vibrant days, but if they’ll never return, you have to give vibrant days. You know you can’t cry. You know you can’t cry.)
There is no waking up from this.
but then - he falters as it's over, blinking in surprise and then - almost nervously glancing over his shoulder to look back at her.]
[ Dorothy gazes back at him, her mouth a little open in shock from-- whatever that was that had washed over her and placed her in a situation she's fairly sure she had never experienced.
She remembers being nine. She remembers corpses. She remembers being unable to cry, as badly as she had wanted to. But not like this.
That memory was of a child witnessing a cruel, terrible truth and being forced to grow - forcing himself to grow - for the sake of those around him. For a mourning mother. A father who had been ripped away from him. A kingdom that needed so much more to prosper.
It's... so, so terribly desolate and lonely.
Tears drip down her face before she's even realized they've formed. ]
[and he rushes to her side then, worried over her tears. he reaches out before he can think better of them, as if to try to wipe them away from her cheeks if she'll let him.]
No, Dorothy, you needn't... You don't have to cry for me...
[not when that was a choice that he made - when everything that followed were simply more choices that he made.]
[ It's embarrassing, honestly, to cry like this and to let Soo-won just reach out and try to wipe them from her while the rest of her is catching up with what just happened. And still, Dorothy makes a sound of protest, because she knows she doesn't have to cry for him, but she knows now that he refuses to cry for himself, just like he refuses to get upset on his own behalf and--
The bubble behind her, she doesn't notice. She moves just enough that her elbow knocks back into it and before she can reply... ]
[ A little girl, likely no older than nine, has her arms raised above her head. Not out of jubilation, but sheltering. Defensive. Her long sleeves are ripped, tears streaking down her face, her little fingers bruised, bloody and broken as new injuries accumulate with each blow that rains down upon her.
The man that towers over her is shouting near-incoherently, his words slurred, and the stench of alcohol washes over her as a metal claw that seems to have replaced his hand comes down on her. Again. Again. Again and again and again.
Snippets can be heard through the girl's faint sobs, about how "you'll leave me, just like she did" and "you're laughin' at your old man behind his back, aint'cha".
And it continues until the girl stops protecting herself, lies limply on the floor with her clothes torn and her face swollen from the force of his ire, and the man lets out a loud wail and scoops her to his chest. She stares blankly over his shoulder and he cradles the back of her head, apologies falling on deaf ears.
"Daisy, my sweet Daisy, I didn't mean it, darlin', I didn't mean it--"
[it's not as though he's unfamiliar with the idea of it - of men whose hearts become corrupted and black under the influence of alcohol and power. but to see it happen in front of him, so suddenly and violently - to feel it from her side, it very nearly takes the breath out of his lungs. his eyes go wide with the memory, with the realization that this happened to the strong, intelligent, capable young woman in front of him.
and he can only think to wipe away her tears, similarly stunned beyond words for a moment.]
Dorothy...
[his voice is soft, in case she might still feel the whiplash of being in such a traumatic place in one moment - and then here now]
You're - safe now. We're in the saloon - and I won't let anyone harm you.
[ It helps-- because part of her is in a tomb, another part of her aches with phantom blows that she still remembers (small scars her body still bears) and then she's back in the saloon and there are no bodies, no furiously raging fathers, just Soo-won.
Dorothy takes a breath, something clearing in her eyes as she properly looks at him-- and she nods, slowly. ]
I-- I know. [ Though she doesn't sound as though she does. ]
I'm sorry - that you had to experience that, even second-hand.
[nine years old and examining a corpse of someone dear to you isn't great and - while he subjectively chooses to push down his emotions, he's aware that objectively?
No, please don't. There's no power or land under my name here so - really, it's why I told everyone that I'm a merchant. I'm not interested in sudden odd perceptions of me based on a title that means nothing.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[ She says this absolutely straight-faced. ]
[1/2]
[though of course as he says that, he doesn't realize a bubble creeping up behind him as he turns and accidentally pops it]
Ah.
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You are nine years old, and you are breaking into your father’s grave.
Not by accident, but by design.
Darkness provides cover for you to break into the royal family’s mausoleum, where your father was entombed along with his father, and his mother, and all the royals before him. Your father, who was originally meant to be king, before he was passed over by his younger brother; your father, who did not care for rank and wanted only to serve his country; your father, who would not die in an accident.
Kye-sook’s story sits with you – what the man witnessed with his own eyes. Even as you muscle open the coffin with your small hands, with your hands who are dirtied by this act of desecration, you think about what your father would have wanted. What he would have thought, if he could see you now.
“If we don’t apply our reasoning with efficiency to swiftly arrive at answers, the country will be ruined.”
The people are saying that Lord Yu-hon died by accident. An eyewitness said that he was murdered.
To swiftly arrive at an answer, the simplest way would be to check the corpse.
Your father is broken.
His body is mangled, bloodied, and torn. His skin is cold and ripped in places where tree branches punctured him upon his fall. He is not your gallant father, who would tell you to beat your colds into submission, or lavish you with praise when you finished another book.
At first glance, it would look like an accident.
You turn him onto his back.
It takes time, but your fingers eventually run across it – a wound that is in the middle of his back, the incision wide and deep, of a blade that ran through his body.
You think of what Kye-sook said he saw. The report that he gave to you before you entered this place, and the words exchanged by your father and uncle.
“If you rule righteously as king, I’ll gladly swear my loyalty to you! I’ll dedicate whatever life I have left to you! But don’t clutch at a useless straw of hope in a position like yours!! Do you think you can entrust our country to the gods!?”
You know it then.
Uncle Il killed your father.
Uncle Il will entrust this country to gods he has never met, and hope that will be enough to serve the people.
You think of the strategy books you’ve read as a child. Economics, agriculture, trade, war strategy – all necessary items to consider in the ruling of a kingdom. There are no chapters on the gods providing rescue.
You hope that Uncle Il’s rule is fair, and he will wake up from this dream of godly rule.
You lay your father back into his resting place, you don’t cry.
(You want to cry. Your mother hasn’t stopped crying since the day your father was taken. You have to be strong for her, who has become so afraid – you want to go back to vibrant days, but if they’ll never return, you have to give vibrant days. You know you can’t cry. You know you can’t cry.)
There is no waking up from this.
but then - he falters as it's over, blinking in surprise and then - almost nervously glancing over his shoulder to look back at her.]
no subject
She remembers being nine. She remembers corpses. She remembers being unable to cry, as badly as she had wanted to. But not like this.
That memory was of a child witnessing a cruel, terrible truth and being forced to grow - forcing himself to grow - for the sake of those around him. For a mourning mother. A father who had been ripped away from him. A kingdom that needed so much more to prosper.
It's... so, so terribly desolate and lonely.
Tears drip down her face before she's even realized they've formed. ]
no subject
[and he rushes to her side then, worried over her tears. he reaches out before he can think better of them, as if to try to wipe them away from her cheeks if she'll let him.]
No, Dorothy, you needn't... You don't have to cry for me...
[not when that was a choice that he made - when everything that followed were simply more choices that he made.]
1/2
The bubble behind her, she doesn't notice. She moves just enough that her elbow knocks back into it and before she can reply... ]
no subject
The man that towers over her is shouting near-incoherently, his words slurred, and the stench of alcohol washes over her as a metal claw that seems to have replaced his hand comes down on her. Again. Again. Again and again and again.
Snippets can be heard through the girl's faint sobs, about how "you'll leave me, just like she did" and "you're laughin' at your old man behind his back, aint'cha".
And it continues until the girl stops protecting herself, lies limply on the floor with her clothes torn and her face swollen from the force of his ire, and the man lets out a loud wail and scoops her to his chest. She stares blankly over his shoulder and he cradles the back of her head, apologies falling on deaf ears.
"Daisy, my sweet Daisy, I didn't mean it, darlin', I didn't mean it--"
And it ends, with Dorothy sitting frozen. ]
no subject
and he can only think to wipe away her tears, similarly stunned beyond words for a moment.]
Dorothy...
[his voice is soft, in case she might still feel the whiplash of being in such a traumatic place in one moment - and then here now]
You're - safe now. We're in the saloon - and I won't let anyone harm you.
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Dorothy takes a breath, something clearing in her eyes as she properly looks at him-- and she nods, slowly. ]
I-- I know. [ Though she doesn't sound as though she does. ]
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.... I'm right here.
You can take my hand, and hold onto it - I won't be going anywhere. I'll stay with you, until you no longer need me.
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I'm fine... that just startled me.
[ Badly. ]
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It startled me as well.
[he'll hold onto her hand then, a gentle but firm touch if only to help establish that he really is right here with her.]
I'm sorry - that was a private matter that you didn't wish to trust me with. But even so...
I won't repeat it to anyone.
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And likewise. I'll keep what I saw to myself.
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I'm sorry - that you had to experience that, even second-hand.
[nine years old and examining a corpse of someone dear to you isn't great and - while he subjectively chooses to push down his emotions, he's aware that objectively?
that shit is haunting.]
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... You were very mature for your age, weren't you?
[ That's not something any kid should have to go through. ]
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he sighs a little bit at that even as he pulls his seat up next to her. so much for drinks.]
.... you could say that I had to grow up fast, maybe.
But I only did what had to be done.
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[ she's not sure if that's a question she should ask. But still, she's doing it. ]
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well.
is there a point in hiding it anymore?]
... it's mine to watch over now, as king.
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Your Majesty?
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[he raises a hand at that]
No, please don't. There's no power or land under my name here so - really, it's why I told everyone that I'm a merchant. I'm not interested in sudden odd perceptions of me based on a title that means nothing.
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Except when I flirted with you, of course.
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a little embarrassed already]
Erm - well.
It's not as though I put off any airs on purpose...!
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[ And she leans in a little closer. ]
Have I ever told you that dignified men are just my type...?
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[HE'S YEETING HIMSELF OUT OF THIS SITUATION]
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There he goes.
Dorothy just doing her best not to burst out laughing. ]
Well, aren't you a darling? I feel rather like royalty myself now.
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