violette sorrows

You were a princess. He knew that much. He had purposefully picked you out of the crowd because your royal blood meant few would dare disturb you.  

At first glance, you weren’t much to look at. A small, skittish princess, too shy to even meet his gaze. With plenty of older and younger siblings, the chances of you inheriting the throne were next to none. Not that he cared. The two of you would simply share a dance, and then your shared business would be done.

He extended a hand your way. A silent offer that needed no further context. 

For a split second, your skittery disposition vanished, replaced with a mild annoyance. Your obvious dislike was quickly hidden as soon as it appeared, but Osric still managed to catch sight of it. And he could not lie—it amused him. 

You obviously did not want to dance with him, but his status meant his request could not simply go ignored. And at this point, your hesitation had garnered more eyes than you’d like on you, so you took his hand in yours. 

He bowed to you, and you returned the favor, and then the two of you began to dance. Your steps were perfectly in sync with his. Every step measured, every pose practiced with poise. Although the dance and all its poised moves were second nature to you, you deliberated stepping on his foot. An easy way to end a rather unwelcome social situation. But if you did, it would certainly draw attention towards you, a cost you weren’t sure you were willing to pay. 

For all the rumors you’ve heard about his callous exterior, he did not treat you harshly. He held your hands delicately as if they were more precious than his own. 

“I must say, Your Royal Highness, the rumors of you being frigid are unfounded.” Osric said with a half smile. “You dance quite beautifully, like a skylark.” He twirled you in his arms, your pale blue robes flowing in time with the music. “Despite your interest in my left foot.”

He didn’t miss the way your nostrils flared. You hadn’t realized you’d been staring. Oh well, there went your perfect plan. 

"Thank you, Your Grace.” Your pleasant voice definitely lived up to the skylark’s reputation. “Apologies, Your Grace; given current company, I find your left foot most fascinating.” 

Osric prided himself in many things, and he considered his greatest skill his ability to read people. Had to admit, you had him fooled at first with your little act, but now he could see you clearly for who you truly are: a proud lioness pretending to be an unassuming cat. 

Much to Osric’s dismay, the courtly dance came to an end, the music coming to a slow halt. He pressed a kiss to the back of your hand as custom dictates. You hid your disgust well, but he could see it plainly bubbling behind the surface. When you thought you were out of sight, you rubbed the very same hand against the fabric of your dress, as if it could somehow erase the memory of him.

You obviously detested him, the same way you despised every person in this room. The nobility, for trying to use you as a pawn for their own advancement. Your parents, for having you born a royal. And most of all, your royal siblings, for always overshadowing you. You despised this world and all its pointless intrigue and endless monotony. 

Osric recognized the hate in you and knew it well, for he felt it in himself. 

The hairs on the back of his neck stood. At that moment Osric felt it—genuine excitement. It overtook his being, and made his heart pound in his chest. And before he knew it, he was discussing your marriage over a glass of wine with the king. No one would take the treasure he’d just found away from him. 

And that night, he saw it in a near-prophetic vision—you, in a world you no longer had to hide yourself in. He would burn the world you hated so much and reshape it in your image. 

He would make a Queen out of you yet. 

---

Where did it all go wrong?

“You're doing so well, my sweet, sweet skylark. "Your husband's voice. Osric, your beloved. A gentle squeeze of your hand as he guided you with such tender care, never once breaking eye contact. “You are so, so good. Just keep looking at me—don't look away—I need your eyes on me.”

Normally, his honeyed words could assure you, but today you couldn't find a lick of comfort. Today was your execution day.

And Osric, your doting husband was at your side. 

How strange it was to be one day a queen with all the power in the world and the next a criminal with none. Hundreds, if not thousands, gathered for your execution. All of them come to presumably personally witness your downfall. Some might be spreading ugly rumors in hushed tones, and others must be screaming, crying out for the spilling of your royal blood.  Not that you could hear any of it. All your attention was stolen by the man before you.

He never stopped softly praising you, squeezing your hand so tightly his knuckles turned white. But it wasn't his words or his loving caresses that captivated you; no, it was his eyes.

In all your years of marriage, you'd never once seen him cry. He was always so composed, so composed and calculating. And now his tears came freely, seemingly without rhyme or reason. And through his overflowing tears, his gaze held such kindness, such unmitigated affection, you'd think he was marrying you a second time.

He knelt with you, and your eyes darted to the execution block beside you. Noticing your gaze trailing, your husband patiently redirected you, as he always did.

“My love, keep looking at me. Please don't look away. You're doing so well.” You could hear the audible crack in his voice. "Just—just keep looking at me.”

His hands, his violently and uncontrollably shaking hands, came to cup your face. He pressed one last chaste, aching kiss upon your forehead. “It’ll all be over soon, my love. I promise,” he murmured into your hair before carefully guiding your neck to lay onto a cold, unfeeling wooden block.

His tears only shed faster now, but you couldn't bring yourself to cry. For the first time in your shared history, you were determined to have enough strength for the two of you.

“There you go. That's my wife. My strong, beautiful wife.” Osric pressed a kiss to your hand where your fingers intertwined. “My one and only little bird.”

“It'll all be over soon.” He cooed again. You wondered in passing if it was to comfort you or him. “And I'll follow you. I promise I'll follow you and I'll never leave you again. Never.” 

A brief flash of madness clouded his expression. And then his grip on you softened, and his eyes saddened. And he reclaimed the form of a loyal, affectionate husband.

A chill wrapped around your neck. 

“Just wait for me.”

You didn’t feel the sword as it swung.

---

You woke up gasping, hands flying to feel your neck. 

“My sweet, silly songbird. " Oh, where has your mind flown?” Your husband's voice. 

Osric's charm brought you back to reality. Your eyes darted around, recognizing your shared bedchambers. Safe, you were safe, you tried to remind yourself.

Osric’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you close in the comfort of your bed. It did little to comfort you this time. 

“Apologies. I had a strange, frightful dream.” You confessed your worries, your heart still pounding something fierce.

“A dream? Do tell.” He placed a stray kiss on your exposed neck. 

Your brow furrowed. Images as clear as the sky started to blur and smear together, writing over one another. 

“It's hard to say. Already the details of the dream are fading, but I remember snippets. Glances, really.”

His silence bid you to speak more. 

“I know it's a little ridiculous, but I think I was the queen. " A chuckle slipped past your lips. “I know, I know, it's incredibly silly, even for a dream.” Your hand finally found his, clutching it tightly. “But somehow it felt… incredibly important. And so entirely real.”

The harder you tried to remember the dream, the further the details seemed to slip from you. Your hand reached your temple. Logically, you knew it was nothing more than a dream. And yet, you couldn’t help the creeping sense that you were forgetting something terribly important. 

Your husband pecked kisses across your forehead, drawing you even closer into his arms. 

“My dear wife.” He breathed into your skin. “It's only a dream.”

“I know. I know, but—"

“Even a simple dream can steal you away from me?” He teased with a slight curl to his lip. “Oh, woe is me. If only you could never sleep again.”

The sudden nip at your bare flesh left you gasping in surprise. 

“Oh, you-! You rascal!”

Too late. Your husband has already sensed your weakness and took the moment to pounce. 

The covers were drawn over both of your heads, shutting out everything else. He would not make the same mistakes as last time. The days of political intrigue and of civil wars were long gone, as if they never existed. And in the quiet cocoon of sheets in which the two of you took solace, there were only the two of you. All thoughts of the outside world, of strange, horrifying, realistic dreams, simply melted away with soft kisses and gentle caresses. 

“You could come with me now. Make this easier on the both of us.” A voice called, teasing from the shadows.

You didn't respond to his obvious taunts, only readying yourself and bracing your blade.

A flickering streetlight outlined the silhouette approaching you. You watched with narrowed eyes as the man following you left the cover of darkness.

His face was covered, but one could never mistake those bright blue eyes.

“I'm asking nicely.” Dick Grayson warned. The playfulness of his tone seemed more hollow by the second. “Please…”

“Please.” His voice broke for a second. And for a moment, you could almost believe he was breaking with it. “Please don't make me do this.”

His eyes scanned over your cowering form, locking on to your wound with laser focus. “You're already hurt. Let's just go home and forget this whole thing happened.”

At the mention of your injury, you gritted your teeth, clutching your sword even more. You had half a mind to scream at him. As if you'd go back. Not after they did this to you.

Your face must have twisted in fury, because Dick immediately went on the defensive.

He held up his hands in mock surrender. "Whoa—sorry. Sensitive subject, I know, but I'm telling you Damian didn't really mean to hurt you. He's a good kid…just a little misguided is all.”

He was talking as if his little brother were a schoolyard bully and not a full-blown psychopath who tried to maim you.

With his hands still raised, Grayson took a few measured steps in your direction. “It won’t happen again. I promise—"

Your sword moved before you did.

Fortunately, he hadn't expected you to strike at that moment, so he was caught off guard. Unfortunately, his well-trained instincts kicked in, making him dodge, and your blade nearly missed him.

You just barely nicked him. A single dribble of blood flowed from where your sword traced. It was small, but it didn’t matter. It was still there.

He looked at you with a mixture of disbelief and betrayal. Like he was looking at a bite mark from a once well-behaved, loyal dog.

And in that moment, for all his fighting experience, for all his time under the mask, he looked truly mortal. He was no longer the ideological Nightwing, keeper of peace and bringer of justice. He was simply Dick Grayson, a desperate man desperate to keep his family together.

You swung again, your sleek sword cutting through the rain. He blocked, ready for you this time.

You had spared Dick Grayson before, multiple times even, but one look into his eyes told you that this was different. He had a hardened expression that told you this time he wouldn't go easy.

The two of you fell into a rhythm. He'd strike, and you'd parry. You'd kick and he would throw. You couldn't understand how or why, but you swore you could hear his movement before he made it. You could predict every single move and why he would make it in the first place. As if the two of you were one in the same mind. He must have felt the same mutual understanding, as you couldn't land one clear strike. He couldn't either, so the two of you were in a deadlock.

You realized with some reluctance that the two of you fought like you were separate sides of the same coin. Thinking about it, it made sense. The two of you were products of the same training, just mirrored. Still, he was more experienced. The years he had on you betrayed themselves in every steady breath, every hidden microexpression. And in the end, experience always wins.

A lesson you bitterly learned the moment he kneed you in the side, square into your gaping wound. You cried out, the pain making your form falter. For a singular, split second, your guard went down.

And a second was all Dick Grayson needed. One second and you were in a chokehold.

His biceps contracted around your throat, trying to squeeze any semblance of air out of your lungs.

You gasped and wheezed, struggling in his hold. The sudden surge of panic you felt kept you from thinking straight, from your hard-fought bits of training.

In your distress, you defaulted. You tapped his arm twice, just like you did early on in your training, when the two of you would spar.

Those days felt long gone, but you still remembered. You would tap twice and he would let go of you, like magic. He'd give you that signature boyish grin and ruffle your hair, like a big brother should.

Now, no matter how much you tapped, he wouldn't relent.

He held you close, flush against his chest. His head dipped into your shoulders in apology as he held you down.

“Stop fighting.” He ordered as if it were hurting him more than you. Not that it mattered. You couldn't hear a thing over your heartbeat in your ears. Your brain couldn't think of anything except for the distinct lack of oxygen.

“Damien will apologize,” he breathed, muscles straining to keep you in place. He strained with every breath, exhausted. “And you can give up this insane idea about becoming a vigilante…and…and…We can all be one big happy family again, together. You'll see.”

Your nails clawed at anything you could reach, but you barely made a dent in the material of his suit.

“Shhh…shh.” He cooed in some vain attempt to soothe him.

The corners of your vision blackened. All the fight in your body began to leave as your limbs became too heavy to move.

“Yeah. That’s it. Just… got to sleep. When you wake up, it’ll be like none of this ever happened.”

What a liar. You blacked out.

---

You woke up in a mansion that was familiar but far from comforting. Not since Bruce died.

The two of you weren't especially close, especially since you only really got to know him in the past couple years, but he was the only real family you’ve ever known.

You sat up with a groan, your side still aching from the clean cut Damian gave you yesterday. What’s more, your neck was killing you. Your hands flew to your throat, trying to get a feel for the damage, only to find it wrapped in bandages. At least someone in this family had the decency to patch you up. Not that you cared. First chance you get, you are going to leave Wayne Manor in dust.

Speaking of… your eyes darted to the nearby window. You stood up with some difficulty but still managed. It was no use though. The window wouldn't move. The damn thing was bolted down. You wouldn’t be surprised if this was the work of Dick or Tim or some bastard combination of the two.

A knock on your door interrupted your silent curse on your father’s wards. You quickly threw yourself back onto your bed seconds before the door was opened. Of course they wouldn’t ask before entering your room. They never did.

Imagine your sheer annoyance when Dick Grayson waltzed right in with Damian in tow.

You and Damian immediately got into a glaring contest with one another. The two of you might be half siblings, but there was nothing familial or even friendly about how you treated each other. You were sure if he were alive, Bruce would be disappointed to see his kids fighting like this, but a lot of things would be different if he were still around.

“None of that,” Dick chastised, as if the two of you were still children. Almost in sync, you and Damien rolled your eyes.

Either Dick ignored the obvious attitude in the room or he didn’t care because he drew Damien further into the room.

“I think Damien has something he would like to say to you.”

You wondered if you looked as uncomfortable as you felt. If you thought it was going to happen, you'd genuinely rather just get stabbed again.

“I still don’t understand why I must apologize.” Damien finally spoke out, with the usual cold edge in his voice. His distaste for you was written on his face. Not that he's ever made any attempt to hide it in the first place.

You might hate his guts, but anything was better than him apologizing to you. That would be painfully unnatural, like a hawk trying to crack a smile.

Dick sighed, rubbing his temple. It was obvious hours of coaching just went down the drain. You don’t know why he even bothered.

“We apologize when we hurt people. Damian, regardless of context. Especially when it’s family.” Dick softly chided, tapping into his seemingly endless reservoir of patience.

Hypocrite. He had yet to apologize for the marks on your neck. You held your tongue. The last thing you wanted was to talk to Dick a second longer than you had to.

“I fail to see your point. If she truly is family and shares the blood of Bruce Wayne, then your point is moot. As a Wayne, she should always be ready.” As always, Damien looked at you with a mild disdain.

You hated that they talked about you like you weren't here.

“And again, since she insists on taking up the mantle, even though she's clearly… underqualified, I think it's fair to give her a taste of what she will face.”

You were just happy he had the decency to not call you weak like he was so fond of saying. Not just him, either; the others said it too. In their own way. He was just the most honest about it. It still stung to know everyone thought you were too delicate for this line of work.

“Damien's right.” Words you never thought you'd say. Damien himself looked at you like you grew a second head.

"I want to go into the field. And if I'm going to do that, I should continue my training. For real.”

As always, Dick was quick to shoot the idea down. “Absolutely not. Before he died, Bruce was resolute to keep you out of this.”

“You're not Bruce," you snapped. Grief has a weird way of bubbling up at the worst moments. “At least Bruce tried to train me.”

"Self-defense," Grayson corrected. He was starting to lose his temper, a rare occurrence in Wayne Manor. Or at least with you.

"Like it or not, He charged me with the family, with Gotham, and with you.”

“I'm not a child anymore. I don't need you or Bruce or anyone else to look after me.” You were inches from his face. A clear challenge to someone who ordained themselves leader of the pack.

Dick didn't seem impressed by your little show; on the contrary, he looked more amused than anything.

Analyzing his face up close, you could see so much of Bruce in him. Mostly in the way he calculated his next move. You could almost see the thoughts move through him in real time, at a pace that would leave the best detectives lost. Eventually, he gave a defeated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I think you're right.” His voice rang clear and true. All sense of anger had seemingly vanished into thin air. Had he finally come to his senses?

“Damien.”

You had almost forgotten he was in the room. Damien perked up at the sound of his name, a well-trained bloodhound.

"Hold her down.”

The hairs stood on the back of your neck. You sensed danger and moved, but Damien was quicker than you. And less kind.

Not even a split second and you were pinned.

As always, you struggled, and as always, it was pointless. You didn't even try to appeal to Damien's good side. You weren't sure he had one. So like any cornered animal unable to bite, you barked.

“What?” you challenged. “How are you going to hurt me this time, Grayson?”

Damien's hold tightened a microscopic amount. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was subtly asking you to rethink whatever you were going to say next.

Grayson just looked pensively down at you. He obviously wasn't listening to a word you said. He was debating with himself. Deliberating the line between how far he should go and how much you could take.

“I know in your mind you think you're ‘punishing’ me. That in this family, no one would ever bat an eye if you did this. But Bruce would never do any of this. And I will never give in to whatever fucked dynamic—"

Dick's fingers caressed your chin, tilting upwards with a frightening amount of care.

“Bruce…” His voice cracked. The grief was still too raw, the hurt still bleeding. Then Nightwing hardened and so did his voice. “Bruce was always prepared to do whatever it takes to protect the things he loves…the people he loves.”

The way he whispered those final words sounded almost like a love confession. You averted your gaze, unable to handle and unwilling to process the intimacy of this moment.

Grayson withdrew his hand. You could see his eyes gloss over. He paced the room, his thoughts racing with his feet.

“He was a good man. And he saw you as that goodness inside of him. I know. He told me.” Dick paused, stopping at your windowsill. “He really loved you,”

You knew full well what he was aiming to do. He was weaponizing your father's death, turning the sharpness of your grief against you. You knew damn well what tactics he was using, yet it did nothing to stop the tears rolling down your cheeks.

Grayson's eyes never left the window. You couldn’t be sure what exactly he saw past those clear panes. Maybe the ghosts of mentors and friends long past.

Still pensive, Grayson gave a subtle half-nod, and Damien released you. There was no need to keep you pinned when you were already greatly outnumbered and vastly outskilled.

Your brother might have let you go, but he was still well within your personal space.

He was a well-trained dog, sure, but he was ultimately his own person who willingly played his own part in all of this.

And you were sure to repay him in kind by slapping him and clawing across the face. Your nails dragged across skin: hard enough to draw blood but not enough to scar. You're sure Damien would repay you in kind if you did.

Damien only clicked his tongue, stiffening in mild annoyance at your antics. His thoughts were clear to you: your behavior was expected but foolish all the same.

“And we apologize when we hurt people,” Grayson repeated himself, his tone now less scolding and more warning. “Especially when they're family.”

You glared at Damien, your response obvious. The two of you would always be at odds, fighting like cats and dogs. You'd rather be stabbed a hundred more times than apologize to that psychopath.

“No apology? Fine. Then from where I stand, you're both even.” His hands found their way to Damien's shoulder and your back. “Water under the bridge.”

Your glare grew more intense, this time pointed at Dick. As if one tiny slap was equivalent to being cut open. A little deeper and you would’ve needed stitches.

If Grayson's care-free smile was anything to go by, he didn't care. He never cared about any of the injustices you suffered, not as long as you were dutifully there to play house. What was a family without the lovable, baby sister?

“Now let's go have breakfast.”

In fact, you were sitting idly in her parlor as she diligently embroidered. Your eyes lingered on her pale spindly fingers as they deftly stitched patterns you've never seen before. 

You glanced down at your own project which was still completely bare.You were provided with a needle of thread, of course, but they laid untouched in your lap.

You had tried everything to avoid spending time with her, but no mixture of polite refusal, begging, or feigning illness seemed to work. So here you sat, utterly paralyzed. 

 Your body was perfectly, unnaturally still. At least on the surface. In reality, every muscle in your body contracted so tightly, you feared they would snap at any moment. The only thing that moved was the slip of silk ceiling, your face fitted lightly by the breeze.

“Did you receive my gifts?” Her voice, sharp as the needlepoint in her hand, cut through pervasive silence. 

Ah yes, the seemingly endless parade of gifts. Rare books, priceless gems and sparking jewelries, and enough medicines and creams to put an apothecary to shame. You'd received it all, but hadn't dared touch any of it.

“Yes, Your Majesty the Empress.” You replied, counting the number of brushstrokes in the calligraphy hanging on the wall. 

As is on que, a servant shuffled in, carrying a tray. She set down a teapot the color of pure jade on a side table by the Empress, along with a single painted porcelain tea cup. Shortly after, the maid scurried off. 

You took note as steam wafted out of the delicate teapot's neck.

“You know, I think I like being a mother. I think motherhood suits me quite well.”

They weren't her children. They were the children she orphaned. And now she had the gall to play mother. The thought might have sickened, if you cared to have thoughts right now.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The needle digs into the fabric. A loop. And then pull. A colored string pulls taut into place. Not a single stitch out of place. As to be expected of the Mother of the nation. 

“Rumor has it His Majesty the Emperor is quite impressed by your brother's recent tax reforms.” 

You didn't spare her a glance. You were too busy counting the number of lines in the wood floor. 

“His Majesty intends to visit you tonight.”

Your heart stopped. 

Like a serpent she struck, her long, dyed nails digging into your jaw. She was so uncomfortably close, the smell of chrysanthemums burned your nose. Suddenly you were infinitely grateful for the veil you wore, as it was the only defense you had left.

Empress Yujing and her dark eyes, like pools of bottomless black ink, stripped you bare. Her eyes swallowed all light. 

“When I look upon you, I feel affection. How could my husband not feel the same; should he ever look your way?”

 For a moment, Her Majesty seemed to soften. Unfortunately for you, it was only a moment. 

She tore off the veil concealing your features.

“Consort Yanfei's parting gift to you seems to have healed quite nicely.”

The mere mention of the Consort's name made you flinch. If you closed your eyes for too long, you could still see her pristine rotting corpse laid out perfectly. 

Her cold, unbelievably soft fingers, which have never known a hard day's work, traced your cheek, drawing you out of your thoughts. There was a sort of quiet reverence in the way she admired you. 

“A shame, really.…” She paused for a moment. A flickering look of regret and hesitation, followed by immovable determination. “For all my status, I am still a simple woman with simple desires. Forgive me.”

That last sentiment truly caught you off guard. “Your Majesty-”

Your sentence was interrupted by the hurt, animalistic noise tearing through your throat.

All thought was lost to the blinding pain of boiling hot water being poured onto your legs.

“It appears the Imperial Consort has had an accident.” She said in such an eerily calm fashion, you wondered if she was even really human.

Your eyes frantically darted, noting the teapot, that pure jade teapot was missing from its place on the table. Instead it was in the hands of Empress Yujing. Clearly, this was no accident.

Instinctively, you curled in on yourself, crumbling to the ground as the agony of being burned reduced you to tears.

“Why?...” You croaked out between full body sobs. What hurt the most was the searing hot sting of betrayal. You had believed that if you had just done as she asked, placated her, you could leave relatively unscathed. But as usual, your naivety was met with seemingly senseless, relentless cruelty. 

“Why?” you screamed, throat raw with rage. In your fury, you swiped at her, but she moved away just in time, your fingers only grazing the soft silk of her gown.

 Her Majesty's face was entirely unmoved. She was seemingly untouchable, as always. With the very same scalding water she used to burn you, she poured herself a cup of jasmine tea.

“It'll heal.”

---

While you were recovering, it didn't take long for an endless parade or gifts to arrive at your front door. This time it was mostly in the form of salves and medicines, as if that could somehow make up for the burns littering your legs. And the marks those burns would leave behind.

Did she think she could so easily buy your favor?

You picked up a jar filled with cream meant to fade scars. You stared at it, scowling. Anyone on the outside would praise the Empress for playing her role as a compassionate Mother of the Nation clearly concerned with one of her younger sister wives. You knew different. She probably only sent these things to rub proverbial salt in the wound.

You didn't even keep up the pretense of polite airs. Any servant of hers that came to your door was sent away, forced to take any gift they brought back to their mistress.

You knew that rejecting her gifts would probably only incite her more. You had fully expected Empress Yujing's… but it never came.

In fact, you heard nothing from her. No more gifts, no more summons to her palace for flower viewing or embroidery or tea. Only silence. And the occasional hushed rumor of Empress spilling hot tea on a concubine out of jealousy, but besides that- dead silence.

For the first couple of days, the silence was absolutely unnerving. You'd wake up in the middle of the night in cold sweat. You'd had dreams of white chrysanthemums and white robes haunting you. And then as days turned to weeks, and weeks turned to a month, you let yourself relax.

Empress Yujing must have grown bored of tormenting you and moved on to her next poor target. Good riddance. You couldn't say you missed her.

In her absence, you healed nicely, now leaving behind only faint light scars. Thankfully no one was seeing your legs any time. Or at least you thought.

You found out later that day that the Emperor was to visit you in the guise of concern for your well-being. Of course you didn't believe such a flimsy excuse. You'd been here nearly six months and you had yet to lay eyes upon him once.

Regardless, it was your duty as Imperial Concubine to indulge him. So you prepared to do just that.

“Li Hua,” you called her from where you sat on your bed. “Please help me get dressed… I just got news that the Emperor intends to pay us a visit tonight.”

A gentle smile curled Li Hua's lips. “Of course.” 

And then said your name affectionately, like the two of you were old friends. 

You supposed, despite your difference in status, she was. You'd long stopped regarding her as a servant. She was more of a friend than anything, one that had stuck by you in your most trying of times.

In your months of abuse here, Li Hua felt like a constant, reassuring presence. She was always there for you, beyond your roles of master and servant. Out of the thousands of people in this Forbidden palace, she was the only one you trusted. The only one whose face and all its delicate lines you had etched into your memory. 

As asked, Li Hua helped you dress in your finest. You didn't have much in the way of gowns, so you decided to wear your wedding dress. It's not like the Emperor has had a chance to see it before. As she tied the sash embroidered with lotuses around your waist, you think you noticed her hands linger for just a second too long. You brushed it off as your imagination. 

 It was Lia Hua who delicately painted your lips red, as if she were handling the most precious portrait in the world. And it was Li Hua who so gently combed through the long tresses of your hair. 

“You truly are so beautiful, My lady.” Li Hua beamed at you with that smile that never failed to light the darkest of days.

 Your cheeks grew red and you averted your gaze elsewhere. “Thank you, Li Hua.”

Her hands, always careful never to so much as hurt a hair on your head, deftly pinned your tresses into an intricate style. She slipped in some hair ornaments and pins, the ones previously gifted to you by the Empress. Normally, you'd never wear anything so ostentatious, but today was a special occasion.

Today you would meet the Emperor. And if things went well, if you gained his favor, it could mean a better life for you and your family. And protection from your enemies.

Li Hua stepped back to admire her work. “So beautiful…” she muttered breathlessly. 

You were too busy admiring yourself in your small copper mirror to take notice. Even you were impressed by your looks. You hadn't gotten so much as a glimpse of yourself on your wedding night. Maybe if you had, you'd dress up like this more often.

“Oh wait! My Lady, some of your lipstick smudged.”

She stepped forward, handkerchief in hand. She began to gently dab at the corner of your lips, her wide, honey brown eyes staring unabashedly at you.

And you… you stared back. You know it was wrong to look at another woman in this manner, you knew it and yet you couldn't help yourself. Perhaps the perfume satchel she kept tied at your waist was making your head spin. Maybe it was the beauty mark under her left eye that captivated you. You couldn't stop looking, utterly enchanted

And she didn't stare  either, long after the stray makeup strain had been rubbed away. 

Surprisingly, it was not you who broke the trance the two of you were in. It was Li Hua. 

She pressed a chaste kiss to your soft lips before quickly pulling away. 

She covered her mortified face as if she's just committed the worst sin of the century. “I am so, so sorry My Lady. Please don't send me away, I promise it won't happen again-”

You didn't let her finish her sentence before your mouth was on hers. Softness met with gentleness, hesitation and uncertainty met with encouraging kindness. The kisses you shared weren't hungry or desperate, they were pure, imbued with the unspoken feelings the two of you had for one another.

Her fingers traced the line of her chin before settling in your hair, careful not to mess up the hairstyle she so painstakingly put into place. The two of you melted into the kiss, and the rest of the world faded away. 

That was until you heard something clatter onto the ground.

You tore yourself out of Li Hua's embrace, your head whipping to the original of the startling noise.

Your eyes went wide in dread at who stood there.

Her Majesty, Empress Yujing glared at you, pure incarnate of the wrath of the heavens. Her shaking fist clenched so tightly, blood dripped down onto the floorboards.

“Your Majesty, I promise this isn't what it looks like-” Li Hua scrambled to come up with an excuse on your behalf, red still staining her lips. 

The Empress shot Li Hua a single glare, shutting her up with just a look. 

She took slow, weighted steps towards you, never once breaking eye contact. Each footstep felt like another nail in your coffin. 

Your entire body was frozen as it shook in utter terror. She was going to tell your secret. She was going to have you executed. She was going to kill you where you stood.

She mercilessly grabbed Li Hua by the hair, lifting her up by the scalp. A strangled cry left your lips, but not a single limb in your body could move.

“It appears I've found a palace rat.” The Empress remarked, uninterested. As if Li Hua truly was nothing more than a pest.

Her teeth gritted, “How unsightly.”

 In a jarring motion, her hands curled around Li Hua's throat. Gently, almost tenderly, at first. before they turned deadly.

Li Hua struggled, her own nails digging into the hands of the Empress, drawing blood. Yet, Empress Yujing's grip was relentless.

“My….my Lady,” Li Hua choked, sputtering in her own words. Her hopeful eyes, which were starting to bulge out of her head, looked at you with nothing but sincerity. 

Her Majesty only squeezed harder with a look of sheer determination. She squeezed until Li Hua could no longer speak and then some.

 All the while,Yujing's eyes never once left Li Hua's face. As if she wanted to watch her die, to see the exact moment where the light left her eyes.

And all you could do was watch, petrified, as the only warmth you knew died.

Li Hua stopped struggling, and the Empress dropped her broken body unceremoniously. Her once full pink limps were now a sickly purple. And her eyes, now emptied of kindness and life, were still looking your way.

You fell to your knees, sobbing. Crawling to Li Hua's body, you clung to her, stealing the now disappearing heat she used to radiate. Left with nothing but raw heartache, could do nothing but babble incoherently in tears. For all the torture you've gone through, this was by far the worst. 

But of course you wouldn't be allowed to mourn in peace. That would simply be too good a fortune for you.

The Empress roughly yanked you away from Li Hua's corpse. Her Majesty forcefully spun you to face her.

“After all I've done for you.” She whispered. Someone that was infinitely more chilling than her yelling. “You promised me loyalty. Is this what your loyalty looks like?”

You were reduced to little more than a gasping, shaking puddle on the ground. You couldn't think, couldn't move as the sobs racked through your chest.

Unexpectedly, she collected you into her sturdy arms. You started to struggle in her hold, but they wouldn't give. Has she always been this strong? Had she just hid her strength all this time, waiting to show her hand like a python the split second it strangles its prey

“You are mine. You have been mine since the moment you swore yourself to me.”

Her nose grazed the inner curve of your neck, a vicious mockery of the tenderness lovers share.

In the haze of your own inner panic, an unusual clarity fell upon you. A realization so absurd, you began to shake with laughter.

All this time, Her Majesty, Empress Yujing wasn't trying to keep you from the Emperor. She was trying to keep the Emperor from you. 

The Emperor was never going to visit you tonight. There was no universe in which Her Majesty would've let you and the Emperor be in the same room.

Now, you've lost your mind entirely. You were sure of it. Because in the corner of the room, you saw Consort Yanfei standing there. A pleasant, demure smile on her face, her white robes flowing elegantly. Her pale hand was outstretched towards you, and between her index finger and thumb sat a single white chrysanthemum, taunting you.

Noticing your staring, Yujing took your chin, twisting your head to meet her gaze. Those cold eyes, so filled to the brim with madness. You wondered how you could have ever thought the Empress to be unfeeling. 

“I'll forgive you. How could I not?”

As if you had done anything that warranted forgiveness in the first place.

Her touch turned oddly affectionate as she stroked your disheveled hair, adjusting one of your flower pins into place.

She sighed in not-so subtle admiration. Your mind was still on the corpse laying but a few feet away.

“Who could resist such beauty?” She asked wistfully. An animalistic whimper escaped your lips as she pushed you flush against the wooden floor. 

Her eyes roved you, less human and more perfect porcelain doll. Her face lit with a hunger that made your stomach twist.

Her  painted eyes softened around the edges. “My most precious treasure.”

The Empress’ breath fanned your face, smelling faintly of pressed flowers. “Anyone who dares touch you, to take you from me, be they Consort or servant or even Emperor…”

Her grip turned hard, oppressive. For a moment you feared you may follow in Li Hua's footsteps. And then her touches became kind once more.

“No matter…” 

She pressed a  kiss to your lips. Adoring and reverent but harsh all the same.

Guilt riddled your chest. You visibly stiffened. Li Hua's corpse was still there- waiting, watching. But perhaps that was the point the Empress was trying to prove.

She wanted to claim you here and now to make a point to both the living and the dead- you were hers. 

Yujing's hands began to wander. And you felt your robes being tugged at. At first you struggled, still clinging to the smoldering bits of resistance you kept stoke in your heart. The the Empress passively mentioned your family and you went still.