Chapter Text
I.
The mark on your collarbone says you do not belong to yourself.
It lingers there. A jagged, diagonal scar inches above your breastbone, staining your skin like a craftsman’s brand. As it is, your scar can barely be hidden by the overlapping lapels of your jeogori, red and grotesque for wandering eyes to feast on.
In too-long minutes and passing conversations, you are helpless against the pointed glances and frigid fingertips that trace through its callused length. LIke old bones and whiny joints, its affliction to you is chronic, lifetime; something you are never allowed to forget.
So the truth sings, stings each time. That, if not for your scar, the naemyeongbu would have claimed you as a concubine during your coming-of-age ceremony. That, instead of your lowly station now, you could have been provided a house, a title, a lover…
A life of comfort.
You cannot fault the throne for upholding tradition. This is, after all, the truth: women are only worthy when they are unblemished in both mind and body, and you – scarred, impoverished, low-born you – could never, ever be more than a handmaiden.
If there is anything else meant for you – something profound, a life beyond docility and imperial subservience – you endlessly hope for it to come. But for now, as the days blend by, you live by your means, and do all that the palace asks of you. You do not complain.
At least not yet.
II.
Autumn has come, and there are two rumors circulating the palace.
The first one is close to confirmed: that the seven sons of the Emperor Sihyuk are to finally reconvene at home. In fact, many years have passed since the boys were sent away to learn under the nation's leaders, and the court ladies have been gushing non-stop about their slated return. Some courtsmen even tell tales of the princes’ accomplishments during their stay in the far-flung regions, but you do not pay them much mind.
You are the last handmaiden in a long line of court assistants – you doubt your service will be called for at all. Your steady hand for embroidery ensures you will be relegated to the seamstress’ station sooner rather than later, and, well, there are hundreds of other jobs to do in the palace.
The second rumor treads more on the macabre, dampening on the excitement of the court: reports of young women disappearing, only to be found lifeless and defiled.
Disquieted, you inform your mother of these stories, but she only scoffs and chides you.
“Lies are all they are, do you not understand yet? No-good people spread those tales to warn us palace women to not abandon our place at the keep. If you fall for hearsay, that’s how the guards will get you.”
Your mother has assisted the royal physician for more than a decade. Illuminated by her fidelity and discernment, you steel yourself.
You are loyal to the throne. You are loyal to your duties.
Nothing will sway you.
III.
The seven imperial princes have arrived.
The palace sends for their seasoned court attendants, and as expected you are appointed to wait for any command. Despite the matron’s initial disapproval, you spend long hours trying to help various departments, fussing with laundry and helping at the kitchens, too useful by yourself to take on the full-time responsibility of idling.
One late afternoon, you bump into crown prince Seokjin at the palace gardens. It is odd that he is wandering alone.
“Nain shouldn’t be handling these fabrics,” he scolds you, as if he, a newcomer, knows all about the lives and obligations of hard-working palace women.
Overtaken with disdain and fatigue, you shove him with your wicker basket, filled with clean sheets and folded garments.
“And you shouldn’t be skipping your classes,” you parrot back before you can help yourself. “Didn’t I just pass by Master Hyun and your handmaidens searching for you in the temple gazebos? Hmm?”
The crown prince doesn’t even pretend to look sheepish. He changes the subject, squawking at your maligned use of honorifics instead. Pleasantly surprised at his easy-going nature, you two share a look, then hearty laughter bubbles out from both of you.
From that encounter on, you begin to think that the crown prince is strange, but lenient. Because instead of having you punished, he grins and waves whenever he sees you.
IV.
One week into the princes’ return, two handmaidens are found dead over the courtyard steps at dusk. Their slender necks slit and eyes peeled open, red liquid seeped past the linen fabric of their hanbok and into the dry cracks of pavement, down, down, down until they finally pooled to the sandaled feet of the guards-at-bay.
To quell the growing commotion, the guards seal off the courtyard until noon the following day, just enough time for the groundservants to scrub the stone paths back to their utmost possible polish.
As if nothing was out of the ordinary, the royals come out of their designated palaces in the afternoon, one by one, heads held high.
V.
“Wow! You’re nearly as talented as my mom!”
You’re leaning against the trunk of a tree, embroidering in peace, when you’re startled by the appearance of young prince Jimin’s face next to your sewing project. Before you can stop him, he accosts the long yard of finished fabric next to your person, inspecting the quality up close.
“I take it back, you might even be better than her!”
“Young lord, please…” His own handmaiden, Eunchae, pleads with him, “Leave the peasant to her chores.”
Your eyes flash hotly at his handmaiden. Peasant?
Eunchae arches a brow at you, daring you to speak up in a young lord’s presence.
You remember your lessons well and bite your tongue.
One whipping has given you enough scars.
“Maybe I can teach you someday, daegun.” you bravely offer instead. “The arts always welcome a willing student.”
“I’d love to learn! My father never lets me,” Prince Jimin acquiesces happily. “Maybe you can even help me make one for each of us brothers!”
All six? “It might take a while, but… it will be my pleasure, daegun.”
You’re not sure if the young royal notices for himself, but you do as you bow your head, just in time to see his handmaiden step on the remaining hem of your project, running its delicate fabric into the soil as they move to leave.
Immediately incensed, this time you do not bite your tongue.
“Yah, you troll-footed woman,” you snap, causing them both to turn back to you with wide eyes. “We’re both handmaidens here, how dare you step on my handiwork?”
Unbelievable! Hours of workmanship and intricate needlework, gone!
Eunchae obviously hadn’t expected you to cause a scene. “I don’t know what you mea– ah, that, I guess it was in the way–”
Your left eye ticks in annoyance. You repeat incredulously, “‘In the way’?”
Prince Jimin winces, trying to intercede. “Ladies, calm down–”
You stand up. “‘Calm down’?”
You don’t care what this young lord will think of you. If you don’t stick up for yourself at crucial moments like these, the next time will happen and happen and happen again.
Without another word, you take your embroidery needle and poke it through the flesh of his handmaiden’s arm. She flails and shrieks, but you only scowl at her and bundle your things.
“You crazy bitch!” Eunchae cries, shrill. “I hope the next corpse is you!”
Both you and the young prince stiffen.
“Let me impart some words of advice, daegun.” You tell the young prince with a severe look. “Defend yourself unless you want to be trampled on here. You’re just the fifth son, after all.”
With gritted teeth, you march away.
VI.
You don’t like the rain. Especially when it occurs in strong, short bursts at odd intervals in the presence of the sun, leaving you soaked and stranded at the inner forest.
Fortunately, you’ve gathered enough spring onions and mushrooms to fill your basket. This will earn you extra pieces of fish at tonight’s dinner. Unfortunately, your skirt is filthy, and your shoes are caked with mud. You have to get back soon or else your white cotton top will become completely see-through–
Dark movement catches your attention from afar, tall grasses rustling.
Beast, stranger, or palace guard, you do not wait for your demise. You break off into a run.
VII.
The next day, fourth prince Hoseok accosts you in a hallway. Two of his brothers are snickering next to him.
“I’m sorry if I scared you the other day,” apologizes Prince Hoseok. “Seokjin-hyung and I were meditating nearby when the skies poured. I was just going to offer you our spare cloak, but…”
You do not know what to say to him. “A-Ah.”
Prince Jimin presses, “What, no sagely advice for my favorite hyung? I told him you were going to tear him apart once you found out it was him! Only I must be special.”
You wrinkle your nose at Prince Jimin, then smooth out your expression when wonja Seokjin laughs. From the way they’ve searched you out, you figure they must miss their sisters out in the provinces, and they confirm as much.
Hoseok adds, sullenly, that the ladies are very uptight at the palace capital.
“But very beautiful,” you assert.
Eyes never leaving yours, Prince Jimin agrees.
VIII.
Unlike most of your peers, your mother wasn’t born in the palace. You weren’t even supposed to live amongst the gungnyeo. Had your mother escaped the provincial draft for female scholars, she would have raised you out in the rice paddies on her own, safe from imperial castes and political machinations. The two of you would have planted vegetables, slept amongst violet blooms… Managed, somehow, without all of this.
You believe it.
She’s told you frequently not to dwell on what-could-have-beens. Your life in the palace is a life of luxury too, in a way. But because she enjoys drawing pictures of mountains and waterfalls and town festivals – the world beyond the palace walls – it’s hard not to.
You could be out there, flying, not a care in the world.
Free.
IX.
Emperor Sihyuk is down with a bout of illness, your mother tells you, and has perhaps been for a long time. The staff of the royal physician’s department have been working at odd hours to aid him in his rest, and she has been making herbal concoctions all morning. She complains that her arms are sore, and that if she taste-tests one more medicinal brew her hair will turn green.
Overtaken with sympathy, you hound your mother into accepting your assistance for the day. Ten liters of fresh medicine won’t sift itself into vials, and at the meticulous rate your mother is going, she is sure to finish by daybreak.
Come sundown, as if the unrest among palace attendants were not enough, the matron’s hysterical cries resound throughout the halls as she finally finds the body of her missing handmaiden, swaddled in an unused closet, stinking to high hell.
Horrified accounts of Eunchae’s desecrated features make it to the royal physician’s clinic before the guards can lower her blanketed corpse into a dug-up open pit. Tattling around anxiously, the medical apprentices are affrighted to learn amongst themselves that the shrine priestesses have refused to pray over the late handmaiden’s remains, claiming the advent of great evil upon the palace.
Like the first two victims, Eunchae had been found with her neck cleaved, eyelids seared open.
“Y/N?”
The hall finally clears, and your mother turns to you. She knows you too well, reading into your growing panic.
“Were you close? To this Eunchae?”
You shake your head adamantly. A subtle quiver in your tone, you recount what had happened between you and the victim. The petty altercation in front of the prince, the prick of your embroidery needle. How Eunchae had shrieked, “I hope the next corpse is you!”
To your surprise, your mother takes your admission without launching into instant admonishment. Instead, her brows furrow together as she inquires, distracted, “Which prince?”
“J-Jimin.”
After a period of quiet consideration, your mother opens her mouth again. “The first two who were found on the courtyard steps... Hana and Soo. Weren’t they his handmaidens, too?”
“I’m… not sure, mother.” Were they?
“I see. Forget it.” Your mother dispels whatever thought she had with a shake of her head. She reaches into her pocket to press a protective charm into the skin of your palm, curling your fingers closed into the comfort of the token. “Live quietly. Make no more enemies.” she cautions. “Promise me.”
Your response comes easy this time. “I promise.”
X.
Rounding the corner, you notice a crowd of handmaidens passing around a soiled duffel bag, whining and bickering noisily with each other. The duffel bag being tossed from hand to hand was scuffled up with grime, each tussle sounding out metallic clinks from its contents.
“You do it!”
“No, you do it!”
“No way! I went last time!”
“I won’t! It’s disgusting work!”
Curious, you shift closer to the growing commotion. With your clear schedule, you offer to your senior peers goodnaturedly, “Can I help?”
Whirling to face you, the older handmaidens deem your presence with owlish eyes. Suddenly thoughtful, they exchange pointed looks before turning their frowns into wide, artificial smiles.
“Y/N! You’re just in time!” They promptly hand the duffel pack to you. “The princes asked for a handmaiden to accompany their hunting party.”
A hunting party? “But why do they need a handmaiden?”
“What do you mean, why?” They eagerly push you to the direction of the palace gates. “Don’t you want to see the outside of the palace? Just go!”
Inside the bag had been a cleaver, a brass cup, and some rope.
XI.
“It’s good you are not squeamish.”
You startle, nearly tipping over the brass cup catching the remaining droplets of blood from the doe’s slit neck.
Seventh prince Jungkook laughs.
“I think I will not be volunteering to help the other handmaidens again.” You breathe out, haggardly. “I have learned my lesson.”
“Ah, but you have proven yourself a capable assistant.” Jungkook says. “Yoongi and Taehyung will call for you to dress their trophies again, I’m sure of it.”
As you remove the bindings from the deceased creature’s limbs, you respond offhandedly that it is unlikely that you will be assisting any of them in the future. Your sisters are more than capable with daily tasks, and anyway, you are only waiting on the permission of the matron now. Soon you will be far from the happenings of the inner palace and living at the provincial temples as a religious servant instead.
At your words, Jungkook’s eyes take on a calculating look.
XII.
You don’t know exactly how it has come to this, but you have seven imperial princes learning how to embroider from you. You’re sure it has something to do with the blabbering mouths of princes Jungkook, Hoseok, and Jimin, but you cannot ascertain it.
After all, whatever the matron says, you do.
Technically, only five of them put effort in trying: Prince Namjoon has been forbidden from getting within an arm’s width of a needle and has been designated to read aloud for ambient commentary instead; while Prince Yoongi is infinitely more interested in prolonging his slumber than any afternoon activity known to man.
The youngest princes Taehyung and Jungkook are very charming despite their childlike demeanors when together, and even when their threaded designs resemble chicken scratches instead of phoenixes you do not complain.
For the first time, the palace feels like a lively, homely place, and that the gods are smiling down at everyone.
The feeling does not last long.
XIII.
You wake slowly, disoriented from hysterical cries not your own.
“Blood! There’s blood!”
The matron’s shadow is running the hallways, crying for help.
At her behest, there are palace guards armed with spears and lamps, piling thunderously into the handmaidens’ shared sleeping quarters. Revealed by flickering lanterns, you are horrified to register the sight of a massacre before you: your handmaiden sisters, laying in their cots, moribund. All their eyes are gouged out, necks bleeding, limbs growing cold in their separate beds.
You do not recognize your own screaming until your very throat catches fire. Your hands feel around your neck, your face, your eyes.
You can see. You can see. You are not wounded. You are fine. You are fine.
XIV.
You want to be free.
XV.
That late morning, despite your catatonic state, you were retrieved from the infirmary by strict instructions of the matron and forced to assume your new station. You are the final handmaiden, and by the understanding of the emperor, that means you are the only woman who remains to serve the seven princes of Joseon well.
The princes take delight in your arrival at the morning banquet. However, as you explain the situation, they deem the collective demise of your sisters as uninteresting news and excitedly consider the possibilities of having your constant company amongst themselves instead.
It takes you one incredulous moment to understand their behavior, but eventually, you do.
You cannot weep or grieve when you neither have the time nor freedom.
This is what you are, and this is how royals live.
When your back is turned, you miss the approving gesture Crown Prince Seokjin gives Prince Jungkook, the wet, gleaming cleaver stowed next to Prince Yoongi’s feet, and the brass cup Emperor Sihyuk drinks from.
You miss it all.
END OF ACT I