[fic] daughters and sons and broken hearts
fic: daughters and sons and broken hearts
fandom: The Heirs
characters: Ki-ae, Tan, Eunsang, Stella
word count: ~1200
summary: Ki-ae mourns for the daughter she should have had
a/n: My kingdom for a Ki-ae/Stella/Eunsang reunion. 99% of my love for this series is Ki-ae/Stella
[delicate, broken hearts]Women with soft hearts should not be given sons.
Women with hard hearts and strong stomachs should be given sons. So that they can raise them with a strong hand.
So that they won’t cry when they leave.
That’s what she thinks - all those years trapped in her big white house, surrounded only by broken dreams and shattered promises taunting her around every corner.
That’s what she mourns - when she is three glasses deep into a bottle of wine that can’t stop her heart from breaking every passing moment.
She is always alone and she was always alone and no matter how long she sits at her vanity, admiring her own beauty and youth and jewels, she is still alone.
She should have had daughters.
That’s what she thinks, holding on to her final last resolve of strength.
One needs to be hard to have sons. And she was just too soft.
Until he comes back.
Until her strong, tall, lean son is under the same roof.
Until her heart breaks into a million pieces again and again because he is there now and he sees her pain, but moves not a muscle.
The wine doesn’t stop flowing.
All she wanted was to be a mother.
(And a wife, but she never thought these two such important elements would not go hand in hand.
In the stories they are always one and the same.
A woman looking on with wonder and pleasure as her son grows into the mirror image of his father, her husband. Her world surrounded by images of the thing she loves dear. And they are bound by her.
In another story.)
A girl brings her wine and she sees something she never sees in her Tan - she sees a reflection.
One not burdened by the dark circles or gems clinging to her fair skin.
A girl with strength and pride and the mannerisms of her mother.
She always wanted to be a mother, but now she puts all her dreams on being a mother-in-law.
Perhaps what she needed all along was a daughter.
And even if she’ll never be allowed to see her son’s fiancé, she dreams of nothing but her daughter-in-law. She paints dresses and shopping and tea sets in the air like clouds.
They are wispy and thin.
But they are stronger than the son beside her.
Who breaks her heart daily.
A woman who has a son is guaranteed a broken heart.
A woman who has a daughter is guaranteed a second heart.
That’s why the world gives women daughters-in-law.
To heal the wounds their husbands have given them both.
(She thinks she would have been a very good daughter-in-law at one time.
She dreams now not of being a wife, but of holding onto a mother’s arms and laughing.
But she was never that girl.
And she’ll never be that mother.)
And it all seems silly.
But she really isn’t that upset when she finds him with the maid’s daughter.
The daughter that gives strength and takes strength from her mother as if their hearts were one and they carry their burdens together across the ice of the world, always arm and arm.
(Isn’t that how it is supposed to me?
And she cries for the first time for her own, delicate, broken heart.)
Because for once - she can be a mother in the way she always wanted.
She can join forces for a single moment.
She has someone who understands her completely.
The way no one else can understand her.
Women who have sons merely lie in wait for their heart to break.
Sons of women with delicate hearts, don’t know their own strength. They are used to women breaking around them. They believe this to be the world.
And so they break the hearts of any woman who loves them.
And that’s why there are daughters-in-law.
Daughters raised with their hearts connected to mothers.
Daughters used to giving their hearts to their mothers as easily as breathing.
It’s the only way mothers of sons who love to break hearts survive.
Is in knowing that there is someone else in the world who is broken, too.
And they share silly jokes.
(Some bring flowers but their broken hearts lay in shards around them all the same.
Isn’t life funny that way?)
They have all the same tools.
They have all the same weapons.
But they are the ones who are broken at the end of the day.
Women with delicate hearts who give birth to sons need compensation.
That’s how she excuses it.
(She didn’t understand her own jealousy before.
The way she begrudged her poor, mute maid with so much fire.
She didn’t know it wasn’t just the jealousy of a woman longing to be a mother.
Being a mother is only a small part.
Being a mother to a daughter is what she was made for.
And she was only given a reckless son.)
Men born to women with delicate hearts grow up only aware of their own strength. They believe the world to be fragile.
Women born to women with delicate hearts grow up knowing how to share their strength. They believe the world to be hard.
This, she reasons, is why she will never stop breaking.
It isn’t the prison around her body. Closing her in, reminding her of her worthlessness.
It is the prison around her heart.
Bound to love a boy who will only grow up to a man that hurts.
It isn’t her fault. She reasons. It isn’t his fault.
They just weren’t made right.
(It isn’t the man behind the door with his cane and his strong eyes and his love of fear.
It isn’t the angry woman who commands their respect instead of their love.
It isn’t the fact that she is trapped by their hatred of her.
It isn’t the fact that she is trapped for her ability to love instead of hate and intimidate.
She never had that in her, not really.
She was too young when she tried to join this world.
She didn’t have a mother to share her delicate heart with.
She only had a father that broke her into pieces.
She only had a brother that thought her heart a joke and her body something to be sold.)
It was fate.
She was just waiting for him to bring home a daughter for her to love.
(That’s what she tells herself.
It’s no one’s fault, really.
She just has to be patient and wait.)
Until they are gone.
The woman, the daughter. The shared heart that showed her (finally) what it was that she was missing.
She sits on the couch and feels as though she’ll never again remember how to move, how to breathe.
Her son bursts in - he is always flying, he is a god and she his mere mortal mother.
She touches heavens on those moments when he stills long enough for her hand to graze his cheek.
(Mourning the only hearts she has ever shared.)
In the end she is alone.
And it is his heart that is breaking, not hers.
It is his crying in the dark that will be remembered, not hers.
Mothers with delicate hearts should not be given sons.
They will only be left alone, in the dark, sitting still on a couch…
Waiting for the day when their hearts are allowed to be whole.
Alex - I would apologize. But we already knew that I was terrible. So here's more to add to the file.
fandom: The Heirs
characters: Ki-ae, Tan, Eunsang, Stella
word count: ~1200
summary: Ki-ae mourns for the daughter she should have had
a/n: My kingdom for a Ki-ae/Stella/Eunsang reunion. 99% of my love for this series is Ki-ae/Stella
[delicate, broken hearts]Women with soft hearts should not be given sons.
Women with hard hearts and strong stomachs should be given sons. So that they can raise them with a strong hand.
So that they won’t cry when they leave.
That’s what she thinks - all those years trapped in her big white house, surrounded only by broken dreams and shattered promises taunting her around every corner.
That’s what she mourns - when she is three glasses deep into a bottle of wine that can’t stop her heart from breaking every passing moment.
She is always alone and she was always alone and no matter how long she sits at her vanity, admiring her own beauty and youth and jewels, she is still alone.
She should have had daughters.
That’s what she thinks, holding on to her final last resolve of strength.
One needs to be hard to have sons. And she was just too soft.
Until he comes back.
Until her strong, tall, lean son is under the same roof.
Until her heart breaks into a million pieces again and again because he is there now and he sees her pain, but moves not a muscle.
The wine doesn’t stop flowing.
All she wanted was to be a mother.
(And a wife, but she never thought these two such important elements would not go hand in hand.
In the stories they are always one and the same.
A woman looking on with wonder and pleasure as her son grows into the mirror image of his father, her husband. Her world surrounded by images of the thing she loves dear. And they are bound by her.
In another story.)
A girl brings her wine and she sees something she never sees in her Tan - she sees a reflection.
One not burdened by the dark circles or gems clinging to her fair skin.
A girl with strength and pride and the mannerisms of her mother.
She always wanted to be a mother, but now she puts all her dreams on being a mother-in-law.
Perhaps what she needed all along was a daughter.
And even if she’ll never be allowed to see her son’s fiancé, she dreams of nothing but her daughter-in-law. She paints dresses and shopping and tea sets in the air like clouds.
They are wispy and thin.
But they are stronger than the son beside her.
Who breaks her heart daily.
A woman who has a son is guaranteed a broken heart.
A woman who has a daughter is guaranteed a second heart.
That’s why the world gives women daughters-in-law.
To heal the wounds their husbands have given them both.
(She thinks she would have been a very good daughter-in-law at one time.
She dreams now not of being a wife, but of holding onto a mother’s arms and laughing.
But she was never that girl.
And she’ll never be that mother.)
And it all seems silly.
But she really isn’t that upset when she finds him with the maid’s daughter.
The daughter that gives strength and takes strength from her mother as if their hearts were one and they carry their burdens together across the ice of the world, always arm and arm.
(Isn’t that how it is supposed to me?
And she cries for the first time for her own, delicate, broken heart.)
Because for once - she can be a mother in the way she always wanted.
She can join forces for a single moment.
She has someone who understands her completely.
The way no one else can understand her.
Women who have sons merely lie in wait for their heart to break.
Sons of women with delicate hearts, don’t know their own strength. They are used to women breaking around them. They believe this to be the world.
And so they break the hearts of any woman who loves them.
And that’s why there are daughters-in-law.
Daughters raised with their hearts connected to mothers.
Daughters used to giving their hearts to their mothers as easily as breathing.
It’s the only way mothers of sons who love to break hearts survive.
Is in knowing that there is someone else in the world who is broken, too.
And they share silly jokes.
(Some bring flowers but their broken hearts lay in shards around them all the same.
Isn’t life funny that way?)
They have all the same tools.
They have all the same weapons.
But they are the ones who are broken at the end of the day.
Women with delicate hearts who give birth to sons need compensation.
That’s how she excuses it.
(She didn’t understand her own jealousy before.
The way she begrudged her poor, mute maid with so much fire.
She didn’t know it wasn’t just the jealousy of a woman longing to be a mother.
Being a mother is only a small part.
Being a mother to a daughter is what she was made for.
And she was only given a reckless son.)
Men born to women with delicate hearts grow up only aware of their own strength. They believe the world to be fragile.
Women born to women with delicate hearts grow up knowing how to share their strength. They believe the world to be hard.
This, she reasons, is why she will never stop breaking.
It isn’t the prison around her body. Closing her in, reminding her of her worthlessness.
It is the prison around her heart.
Bound to love a boy who will only grow up to a man that hurts.
It isn’t her fault. She reasons. It isn’t his fault.
They just weren’t made right.
(It isn’t the man behind the door with his cane and his strong eyes and his love of fear.
It isn’t the angry woman who commands their respect instead of their love.
It isn’t the fact that she is trapped by their hatred of her.
It isn’t the fact that she is trapped for her ability to love instead of hate and intimidate.
She never had that in her, not really.
She was too young when she tried to join this world.
She didn’t have a mother to share her delicate heart with.
She only had a father that broke her into pieces.
She only had a brother that thought her heart a joke and her body something to be sold.)
It was fate.
She was just waiting for him to bring home a daughter for her to love.
(That’s what she tells herself.
It’s no one’s fault, really.
She just has to be patient and wait.)
Until they are gone.
The woman, the daughter. The shared heart that showed her (finally) what it was that she was missing.
She sits on the couch and feels as though she’ll never again remember how to move, how to breathe.
Her son bursts in - he is always flying, he is a god and she his mere mortal mother.
She touches heavens on those moments when he stills long enough for her hand to graze his cheek.
(Mourning the only hearts she has ever shared.)
In the end she is alone.
And it is his heart that is breaking, not hers.
It is his crying in the dark that will be remembered, not hers.
Mothers with delicate hearts should not be given sons.
They will only be left alone, in the dark, sitting still on a couch…
Waiting for the day when their hearts are allowed to be whole.
Alex - I would apologize. But we already knew that I was terrible. So here's more to add to the file.