Wins All

The massive mahogany doors swing open as the organist’s crescendo rears its grand head. Otherworldly light fills the room and reflects off the eyes of every single guest to make the journey to the celebration of the millennium. Muted oohs and ahhs flit about the onlookers as the carpet shifts from the array of colours from a grand autumn to a swirling ocean of azure and crimson shades. Lanterns lining the aisle come to life, explosions barely contained in the shimmering glass bulbs, following the gentle march of the center of attention: the hearth, the bride, the future queen.

It's a song all too familiar to her even if a little bit corny; it’s your country’s national anthem sprinkled in amongst the phrases of the wedding march. She finds you at the end of the aisle, shooting you a smile as if saying “Can you believe these saps?” But she shrugs it off anyway, breathing deep, paying only the slightest bit of mind for the lanterns blazing to life on either side of her as she continues her march down between the pews. She knows why they had to be corny and throw in the national anthem: it’s a stark reminder of the duty Jieun has to fulfill. She’s to be queen, and this is more a political alliance than anything, and gods forbid she forget it. 

With all eyes on her, the pressure mounts ever greater. The weight of the nation, its people, and a marriage she never wanted yet has to make do with would be much too much to bear for anyone else. And yet, as she makes her way up the stairs, her feet light and barely making indents on the carpet, and wearing that smile that made you fall for her at first sight, you can't help but feel pity for the brave woman carrying the world on her shoulders, along with an unsubtle admiration for how she faces it anyway. 

“Now play nice,” your caretaker chides, “she’s special.” She leaves you alone finally, and your attention falls back onto the yet-white page of animals and flowers to fill in. You should know better, of course, than to pluck the black crayon from the box and start scribbling your own shapes yourself to fill in later. But you shouldn’t—you really shouldn’t. 

Barely ten years of age, right in the middle of your toddler years, and you’ve been told time and again that you should’ve picked by now. Or at least shown some talent in a field you can take up for the rest of your life. You think back, as the cartoonish zebra stares back at you from the paper, at how the wood felt taut against your palm as it took on the power you embedded into its bowstring. The sensation of it straining and waiting to fly straight and true, and how it was so easy to find your mark. But you put the bow down just as quickly as you were given it, knowing it wasn’t for you. 

The first stroke of blue on the page, right between the stripes. You continue on for a little while, never adjacent, but not at all too far in between. Never mind that the memory of even picking up the blue crayon escapes you; reach for the orange next. A bit closer to the blues and blacks of the cartoon zebra, but it doesn’t matter. The blues and blacks, mimicking the runes and circles of magic you were made to weave, swirling in patterns you could copy but never understood the hows and whys behind. It wasn’t even the fire that shot out of your father’s fingertips, nor the air that swayed and flowed where your mother’s hands would shape it. No, yours was a tone of confusion that rang out across the hall, not knowing whether its own pitch was high or low, duration long or short, what note it might have tried to be. 

“What’s that?” she asked, looking more at you than the black-blue-orange zebra you’ve been colouring in. 

“Zebra,” you shrug, but she keeps her eyes on you anyway. 

“It’s the wrong colours, dummy.” 

“Says who? You don’t know that.” It doesn’t matter—it’s not real anyway—anything to shut her up and have her leave you alone. But she never does. You can already feel the caretaker eyeing you, and her “play nice” command comes crashing back to the forefront of your mind as you prepare yourself for a sharp slap on the wrist. In the grand scheme of things, in the vast pool of causes and effects that could lead you to the stick rather than the carrot when it comes to your little pastimes, this is all you were destined to be. You continue on, colouring in your orange in places where it isn’t meant to be, expecting this girl far too important to be involved with to leave you alone.

Instead, “That’s true,” she giggles, “can I play too?” The green crayon is plucked out of the box and joins yours, colouring in the head and mane. “I can do this?”

There’s nothing to say, especially against it. “If you want,” as if what she did so far can be undone, as if it needed to be taken back. The caregiver does get in the way, yanking you by the arm up from the table and making you face away from the colouring book, and finally delivering a sharp snap at the back of your hand. It doesn’t help, past the light stinging, how when you rejoin her at the table she starts crying for you like it was personally her fault. Play nice, after all, and as the caretaker coddles her, trying to calm her down, all the while you rub the pain away, you get the feeling that maybe the blacks, blues, oranges, and finally the greens might be worth this sort of sting. 

Jieun’s dress flows around her feet, just smooth enough with the mythril woven through allowing light to dance across the threads. As she makes her way up the marble stairs, each careful step closer and ever closer to her betrothed, it’s all but obvious that she tries even harder to keep her tears from spilling early. You see everything: the way she blinks so quickly to keep her emotions at bay, the way her fingers flex around the bouquet trying to keep them away from her eyes, the way she takes in air to replace the breaths that would be destined to turn into sobs had she been a little less prepared, a little more carefree—all because you know where and how to look. It’s the same old Jieun, the little girl who coloured your zebra green with you, the one who marveled at all the gifts you got her through the decades, the one who sat you down and made you promise that you’d stay with her forever and ever. 

And so, as she finishes her short journey up the marble steps, finally facing the man she’s all but promised the rest of her long life to, you can’t help but meet her smile, knowing that she’s about to be the happiest she’s ever been, and ever will be. There’s a peace in your heart, one you can’t quite explain, seeing her like this, and knowing that you’re part of what makes her everything she is. Even though she was made to do this, you have a hope bigger than it deserves to be that this union might not be too bad for her at all. 

You hear her even from outside. 

“He’s here, he’s here! Everyone settle down!” but it’s obvious she’s the only one causing that ruckus. Hurried yet hushed footsteps emanate from behind the heavy wooden door, and you’re just again reminded how heavy you knew them to be. It’s rough against your palm, and you’re not nearly strong enough to make any respectable knocking sound with your knuckles; luckily, you don’t need to. 

The doors swing open slowly, just as any would if they weighed tons. On the other side is Jieun, positively shaking with excitement but trying all the same to stay still and look regal. The long green dress flows over her arms, swaying with each little hop she can’t contain—surely your gifts aren’t that big of a deal—but she looks forward to each and every single one of your visits anyway. 

A deep bow, and at its trough the slyest smile you’ve ever had to hide, “Lady Jieun,” before she feigns to kick you back up. As you bend down, you try to show off how full your pack is, and with each corner and edge of your various trinkets poking against the thick fabric, but the sight of only your pack and not its contents, plus the fact that you’re taking so godsdamned long, runs her patience ever thinner. 

“Come on already, sit down!” and she pulls you away, back to the mess hall, where the table is big enough to lay out everything you could have brought back and more. And that you do, gizmos and doohickeys Jieun can’t even bring herself to recognize, but it’s all awe-inspiring to her all the same. She picks up each one as you lay them all out: among others is a sword with swirls throughout the blade, a sphere that opens to talk as if its upper and lower halves formed a mouth, an artifact that looks like both a spoon and a fork, and Jieun loves each and every single one all the same. 

Her favorite though, and the one “I absolutely must have, by any means, with no expenses or labors spared,” a small metal capsule, not any bigger than her head, and certainly none the lighter, but the seal around the lip where it should open is tight, and the dial on one of its face ticks down ever so slowly to depletion, and the tantalizing rattle of something hard yet light inside against the steel shell drives her crazy. “What is it, what is it?” as if you knew, as if you could open it for her. 

You place a hand on each of her shoulders, set her back down onto the chair she’s forcing to its limits holding her bouncing, “It’s obviously a clock, and it’ll obviously open when the time is up.” Try as you might, the symbols are foreign, but you can sense that there’s a logic behind them—it’s a clock, you can feel it in your gut that it’s a clock—but if anything, telling Jieun that it’s a clock for sure is the only way you’ll sate her for this. “I’ll find something to translate, but I’m thinking it’ll open in its own time.”

She sets it down slowly, the little capsule nearly slipping through her fingers as it clatters lightly on the table, all the while her smile fades before your very eyes, and you wonder with the slightest bit of guilt that you may have said something wrong. “You… you’re going again? So soon?”

And you’re reminded again, for the millionth time, why you love her. 

Her eyes drift with a silent determination, as if memorizing: eyes, nose, lips. You’re almost sure that she’s not paying attention anymore, and just trying to make a game of the whole thing just to entertain herself. You know her so well that you know she’s just passing time, waiting for the big moment where all of this ends and you can all go and start eating and partying. The tears she was fighting back are long gone, replaced with a smile you recognize as the one she wears when she wants to start playing eye-spy with you.

It’s amazing, even if a bit absurd, to see. This is the future queen—you have to keep reminding yourself—but underneath all the jewels and glamour and royalty is still good old Jieun, who was excited for a tiny little clock as a birthday present. In hindsight, you could’ve gotten her something more special, but you know better than that. More than anything in the whole world, she’d want something to discover for herself, and you have to keep reminding yourself every now and then that a time capsule is perfect for her. It’s a story she can tell you, and there’s nothing more precious than to just sit down with her in the shade of a nice tall tree, give her a break from all the fuss and fumble of royal life, and just… be with her. 

You suppose there’s time for that whenever. For now, it’s the climax of the ceremony. The minister finishes most of his yapping, and everyone’s breath catches in their throats. It seems everyone had stopped paying attention, or at least it’s how the scene looks to you. 

Her veil rises, flips, flits down and cascades onto her long black hair. All the while, her eyes are gently closed, only to open again once the sheer cloth clears her face, revealing a radiant smile that could light up the world better than both Lune and Mara ever could. The minister pauses, as if even he marvels at the beauty that is Jieun, before he comes back to his senses and announces, “Please join your right hands, and offer to one another your vows.”

It’s different this time, and by the gods will she rub it in. You’re a foot into the grave, aches in spots you didn’t know could ache at all in the first place, and looking like you were dragged across a bog tied by the ankles to a rampaging zebra. It’s unseemly for someone of such high regard in the royal family’s eyes, and for anyone else to present themself as such in front of them would be met with a not-so-gentle toss back out of the gate. 

And so, you are more than fortunate to be tended to, mended even, by the crown princess Jieun. The goose-down cushion bends and molds to your ass, and she slathers oils and ointments worth more than you could ever reasonably make in a lifetime even as the greatest bard in history. It’s strange to think of yourself as deserving of all this, and yet you have a tiny inkling that Jieun would say—

“I know that look. Sit still and behave, you can’t replace this if I ever spilled any.” 

“I’m not a child—” but she shuts you up with a particularly scathing dab of ointment on what you can only assume is a large gash down your back. You hiss and grip what’s left of your trousers, allowing the medicine to burn and sear the wound away like Jieun said it would, though you’re only at the “burn” part right now. 

“Sorry,” she scolds, not minding your pain and continuing on anyway, “but what were you thinking? Jumping off a cliff like that.” She screws the cap back onto one bottle of salve, unscrewing another, and you prepare yourself for more of the same. “I’d like for you to be alive for a little while longer, you know.”

It’s one thing to put up with the humiliation of being slimed down like a slug, but another to be nagged about by something like this. “Excuse me? It was either this or a horn embedded through my chest—ah, fuck!”

And she does apply some on your chest, right where the battle and following retreat had left horn grooves on your ribs, “Yes, yes, swoon and sigh and bliss and glee for the daring adventurer.” You almost forget the humiliation in the face of the cream singeing your flesh, but it comes back as the flames dancing on your wounds freeze over into calming cool. 

You sigh, knowing you’ve already lost, “So… didn’t you start with your royal training or whatever it’s called?”

Jieun freezes, her eyes shoot up to meet yours. In them is a sparkle you’ve never seen before, holding a colour of excitement she’s never worn in front of you, or at all. “You… you wanna hear my stories?” And she practically bounces in her stool, trying her best to believe what she just heard from you. “Oh, I was so busy! You know I started learning a bit of magic, just a bit of divination for seconds into the future for now, and also herbalism from the apothecary! Did you know I made some medicine? Nothing I can use on you yet, or else I’m told it would burn your throat, but I’m getting there!” 

As she recounts more and more of her activities, you watch that sparkle in her eyes a bit more: Jieun’s finally got the upper hand on you. For once, she’s the one with the stories, and you’re the one with no choice but to listen. But with the roles reversed this one time, hearing how excited she is to be the one with the more exciting life, the humiliation starts to melt away just as the pain does, just as the ointments and oils start to freeze over and bring a calm cool to the wounds already starting to heal. 

She’s gorgeous, and the world slows its spinning to a gentle halt. 

The sight fills you with a strange sort of excitement: here she is, bathed in the glow of a warm summer’s day, her hair shimmering as the rays of sun dance and flit between the dark strands, her fingers gracefully wrapped around the bouquet of roses, chrysanthemums, and her favorite lilies. She stands tall and proud in front of the gathered sea of faces she and you can and can’t recognize, in front of the only face she’ll ever need to know. Here she is, face-to-face with her future, and the smile she wears is nothing short of magical.

She looks over to you, and her eyes crinkle at the corners; she never could hide how you made her laugh. You recall how she told you how hard it is to keep it in with you around, and it seems like today is no exception. So, as the corners of her mouth pull up ever so slightly, her teeth show just a little bit more, her face rushing to hide behind the flowers she so carefully chose for herself this fine day (only to tear them back away—it’s the worst time to hide, after all), she just lets go. And Jieun’s smile is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever had the privilege to see, even more so the fact that it’s you that gets her like this. She fixes her hair, mouths a simple “hi,” shifts her focus back to the task at hand. 

She’s gorgeous, and you’d do anything to make her smile like that again and again for as long as she lives. 

“Hey,” she breathes slowly, looking out over the most beautiful sights she’ll likely ever get to see. Jieun’s planted herself on the parapet, her legs dangling over the edge, and shoes waiting to be caught by nothing but the wind if so-and-so happens. “Tell me something.”

You share the sight with her: Lune and Mara fuller than you’ve ever seen, one bigger than you’ve ever seen your whole life, the other a perfect crescent waning away into the dark of the deep abyss beyond it. The light from your sun strikes both hard, but the two are just kind enough to reflect in the gentlest of beams towards your eyes and Jieun’s. 

“Hey. Don’t ignore me,” she pokes at your shoulder, and you stifle a laugh. You’re slow, sluggish even, but eventually you do shift your weight off your elbows on the parapet she’s sitting on, turning around to lean back on it, and looking towards the big, dark, looming palace Jieun has lived in for the past two hundred and seventy years. 

“What is it?”

“Do you ever think about how old you’ll live to be?”

You don’t feel her eyes on you. They’re surely right back to the moons, taking in the mysterious strawberry glow that bathes the otherwise deep, deepest of blues that soak the night sky. Yours stay fixed on the daunting walls of her home, on the windows lit by candle from deeper in the corridors, counting the guards frantically moving past them in search of their lady. 

“Not really, no. Why, you?”

“Mhm… isn’t it scary to be three hundred years old? Four hundred? Five?” She scratches her fingernail against the weathered stone of the railing, no doubt looking for something to ground her back to reality. 

“Is it something to be scared of? Would it be so bad?”