pairing: joseon king!yoongi x reader
genre: drama
words: 750
contains: historical au, the dreaded, the inevitable, the unexpected.
moonlit throne index. this is drabble 17. start from the beginning?
A bundle of incense clutched in a tight fist, Yoongi stands in front of the funeral chamber with trepidation trickling in his chest.
He doesn’t know how long he has been standing here, only that the ministers are undoubtedly staring at him, waiting for his next command. It’s a feeling he still has yet to fully get accustomed to, but he must learn to take it. He must.
“Open the doors,” he says, thankful that his voice doesn’t shake as eunuchs rush forward to do his bidding. Just beyond the creaking doors and stone threshold lies the body of the king. Not my father, he reminds himself. That position had to be earned. Too late now. Yoongi bites his bottom lip and forces his feet forward.
It’s over quickly.
Standing before the raised platform, Yoongi holds his spine as straight as it will go. “Jeonha. I am assuming the royal title as monarch over this country,” he announces, letting his voice ring out to the people behind him. Then he lights every stick of incense he holds with one smooth movement. Wisps of smoke curl into the air like the rapid coil of a snake as he stabs the tapered ends into the prepared pot, taking one last long look at the man before he decides that he’s had enough.
Walking fast, it takes him but minutes to reach the throne room. Here he finds every occupant of the palace, regardless of rank, waiting for him and it makes his pulse pick up. He gives a deceptively casual pass over the sea of faces, but doesn’t quite find the one he seems to always be looking for, so he keeps going.
Up the stairs, through the doors, Yoongi approaches the seat with a kind of incredulity that it really now belongs to him. All those people crowded and crammed outside those doors, all the ones across the entire goddamn country are now his to look after and if he fucks up…
“Yoongi.” The queen’s voice is soft, drawing his attention to her place beside the throne. She so rarely uses his name outside of their private chambers and it reminds him that not everything has to change, that some things might always be the same. “I’ll be here to support you every step of the way.” He can still see remnants of tears in her eyes, but her shaky smile is brave.
“…Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you, mom.”
He spins around, catching in his peripheral vision the navy of the robes that he will never wear again after today, for he will soon trade them for the royal red of a ruler. With his stare trained on the horizon, he takes a seat on the throne.
“Long live the king! Long live the king!”
The traditional chants ring out across the courtyard, carrying far with the whirling wind and all these emotions are stuck in his tight throat as he watches them bow before him again and again and he wishes he could have had more time but there has never been room for regret in this court and so he decides, tells himself, reminds himself, to have none.
He is king.
That night, his bones aching from the strain of walking around the entire day performing rites, Yoongi wants nothing more than to crawl beneath his blankets and not think about anything for the next several hours. But just as he is about to close his eyes, a shadow appears at his door.
“Jeonha. Jeonha.”
Yoongi suppresses the urge to throw his pillow in that direction.
“What?”
“May I enter?”
“If you promise to leave quickly.”
The door opens, revealing Eunuch Kim’s face contorted in worry as he hurries inside. In his hands, he holds an unfurled letter that he hurriedly thrusts at Yoongi. “Read this, jeonha. It was delayed due to the coronation so I only just received it. I came right away.”
Yoongi grabs the parchment. His frown deepens as he scans the inked characters, expression going from annoyed to confused to shocked in less than a minute.
“What? No.” He reads the letter again, biting down on his lip. “He didn’t. There is no possibility he arranged this. Is this true? Is it real?”
“It is.” Eunuch Kim bows low, as if that could make up for the news he just brought. “I’m sorry, jeonha. The woman you are to marry will arrive in just a few days time.”
you were a child with a lot to say , and not the words to say it. tore your dress and picked the sword first and formost, walked out in the garden to come back with muddy dress and ignored the nanny calling a name that did not belong to you. ‘ ⬛ ⬛ ⬛ ⬛ is such a little tomboy ! ’ the maids would chatter, about how you’d make such a fine knight one day, like your brother.
glenn followed you out into the garden one day, watched you swing your sword for a few moments, corrected your posture, and watched you frown. he always knew when something was wrong. he always knew. barely seven years old, legs bare and frown creased, you had the intention, but not the words.
‘ what’s wrong? ‘ hushed and gentle, he asked. you had not the words until that moment.
‘ i think i’m a boy. i don’t want... to be a girl. ‘ seven years old, and you didn’t know what the world had to throw at you, but you knew enough to be scared. glenn had never turned you away before, but something in you still feared ... something.
‘ sure. what should i call you, then? ‘ the relief you felt was heavy, not light. not anything like that.
‘ felix. ‘ you’d read in a book that it meant lucky in some language long dead, and you’d like a name that brought you good things. maybe... it would bring glenn good things too. and it was as simple as that. no questions asked ( not from glenn, anyway. ) ; and if there was one thing you learned on that day, it was that life goes on.
the fear you had felt had been so aching, so absolute, so terrible, and yet your brother had just taken your new name and replaced the rotting one your parents had pressed on your forehead at birth. and, well... if glenn said something, the whole household had to as well.
there were no more dresses. the word tomboy didn’t rest like a shackle on your ankles anymore. dimitri and sylvain and ingrid accepted it as easily as anything. your father slipped up a lot, but... you could forgive him. glenn would always correct him , anyway. ( years later, and your father didn’t slip up anymore. in the absence of glenn, he needed a son. you just happened to be the closest in reach. )
life went on. life went on. life went on.
felix: noun ( name. ) from a roman cognomen meaning ‘lucky, successful’ in latin. now here’s the truth : luck doesn’t exist. fate doesn’t exist. words don’t mean anything, and names certainly don’t either. your name had no bearing on how happy your brother was. did your name save him in duscur ? did your choice of sylables matter beyond your childish wishes ?
( you were born with something wild and angry in your blood that glenn did not have, something an ancestor or cruel god decided to give you instead of him : if he had had it, would have he survived ? you asked yourself that over and over and over, thirteen years old and so deep in grief that you could feel that disgusting thing in your blood burning and your eyes glowing and and and and and and )
( you learned that day, thirteen years old, suddenly heir of a mourning house that had never expected to have a son like you at its head, that fate doesn’t exist, and if god does, then she doesn’t care. the only thing that can change anything is the force of human will and the strength with which they persue their goals. )
