LLTEEFM 126

LLTEEFM

Posted by Tommy Vercetti, Released on September 3, 2025

#126. I Still Haven’t Reached the End of That Dilemma

Baekryeon always said that his favor toward her was excessive, that there was no need to go so far.

And perhaps she was right.

Maybe there was no need to grant her a rank that had never existed before, to bestow upon her the empress’s token, even the emperor’s seal.

But for Cheongneung, who had already lost so many loved ones in succession, the fear of losing Baekryeon as well was nothing short of unbearable.

Just imagining that, for lack of sufficient affection, Baekryeon might be calculated as someone who could be “disposed of without consequence” was enough to compel Cheongneung to shower her with exceptional favor.

Yes. At that time, the only thing that mattered to Cheongneung was Baekryeon’s safety.

So he had never once stopped to dwell on what the death of that child—whose name he couldn’t even remember—might have meant to Baekryeon.

No, even if he had dwelt on it, nothing would have changed.

It was an era when infant mortality was high, and to noble families, children were, in the end, simply heirs-in-waiting.

In any case, he had never thought that death might have left a scar upon her. Whether it was that he did not think, or that he could not.

And so now, seeing the delicate features of Blanche, covered with tangled emotions, Melchizedek—who had always been so proud of his silver tongue—could say nothing. He could only silently draw her into his arms.

Because the time for words of comfort had long since passed.

Embracing someone while both are still astride different horses requires the use of quite a few muscles to hold steady.

And yet, when His Majesty held me without a word, I realized he was gravely mistaken.

It seemed he had judged that I had been dwelling on the loss of my first child ever since my twenties.

But that wasn’t the case.

I had conceived my first child only for the sake of producing an heir.

And when that child died, I understood immediately what kind of political maneuver it was.

That while His Majesty still had no heir, some might misconstrue the existence of mine—given that I held all military authority—as a threat.

As the head of the Yi family, which once held more prestige than the imperial household itself, I could well have been suspected of harboring ambitions to replace the sovereign.

So I quietly settled the matter as “sudden death,” without stirring further trouble.

I personally silenced my family.

After all, I had to share the same boat with those who orchestrated it.

At a time when even military campaigns were yet unfinished, there was no need to cause domestic turmoil over it.

That was all there was to my feelings then. It was an event I could end that way.

That death. That child. They only gained meaning for me later, when I conceived Yuhyeon for political reasons once more.

It wasn’t that bearing another child suddenly awakened me to the preciousness of my own blood.

It was simply because Yuhyeon was the only child I had borne that I came to attach meaning to him.

The first time I sensed something strange was when Yuhyeon learned to speak.

He disliked food that contained meat from a very early age. But since he didn’t reject it altogether, I dismissed it as childish fussiness.

Then, one day, while we were eating together, Yuhyeon fussed again over the side dishes.

After dismissing the flustered nursemaid, I casually asked him:

“Why do you dislike meat so much?”

I hadn’t expected any proper answer.

But Yuhyeon looked me straight in the eyes and said:

“Cuz when I eat it, it hurts, so I don’t like it.”

……Yuhyeon had never once fallen ill after eating meat.

I confirmed it later with his nursemaid, just to be sure.

She told me that from the very first time she fed him porridge with ground meat, he had thrown the bowl aside in protest.

Of course, sometimes children refuse food without even tasting it.

So I concluded it was simply a confused memory—his young mind mixing up the experience of eating meat with the memory of being ill.

Only, what lingered faintly in my mind was that on that day, the dish had been beef—and that his pickiness was always worse when beef was involved.

That memory resurfaced one day when Yuhyeon had a summer cold.

I was sitting by his side, laying a hand on his fevered forehead, urging him to sleep.

But even with his face flushed, he rubbed his eyes, fighting to stay awake.

When I scolded him to rest, he said:

“But if I sleep and wake up, Mother will be gone.”

“I’ll stay until you wake, so go to sleep.”

“Liar. You said that before too, and then you left.”

……But I had never promised Yuhyeon such a thing. I had said those words only to my first child.

Back then, I had been in the capital.

Though I was busy, since I happened to be home, I had tended to the child while handling affairs in the room.

Even while sick, my child had laughed happily that his always-busy mother herself placed the cool cloth on his forehead.

And when he said he didn’t want to sleep because I was there, I promised to stay until he woke.

But once he fell asleep, a messenger from the palace arrived, and I had no choice but to leave.

That was when I remembered.

The child who said meat made him sick.

And that my first child had died after eating beef porridge.

At that moment, I began to suspect that Yuhyeon was speaking with memories he could not possibly possess.

But the suspicion was too absurd to confirm outright.

So instead, I spent years quietly watching, testing his memory bit by bit.

It wasn’t easy—his previous life had been cut so short.

But then, after returning to the capital for the first time since his birth—

When he saw the peach tree in the garden, he asked me, as promised long ago, to pick its fruit for him.

Only then could I be certain.

Yuhyeon was my first child, reborn through my womb.

I had borne two lives in this world, but only truly birthed one.

Yes. That child was the “reincarnator with lingering memories” whom I had witnessed.

That was why, when granted a second life myself, I did not find it so shocking.

That was why—even though I had once looked upon my child only as an heir, felt no grief even at his death—I could now hold him dear enough to stake my very life for him.

That was why—though more than twenty years had passed since his death—I at last grieved and mourned him.

Because the child I had abandoned without tears had come to me again.

But I never spoke of this—to Yuhyeon, nor even to my husband.

Because it was simply too unbelievable.

Who would have taken me seriously if I had claimed such a thing? They would more likely think I had gone mad, carrying the grief of my first child for over twenty years.

So I told no one. I locked it deep within me.

Instead, I gave Yuhyeon the familial affection I had thought myself incapable of bestowing.

I taught him everything I could, bore his mistakes as my own, and wished he might have anything his heart desired.

I belatedly mourned my first child, whose death I had once dismissed as mere politics.

I reflected on my responsibility, and on the better choices I could have made.

And perhaps it was that very reflection that sealed the fate of Yi Baekryeon.

Because Yuhyeon’s first life had ended through my failure, I resolved that in his second, I would protect him—even at the cost of my own life.

If the child who once died because of me could live on by stepping over my death—wasn’t that, in some sense, fair compensation?

It was, to me, a kind of atonement.

Though now I know, he never understood it that way.

Perhaps that is why he carried his rage at my death, and thought to take vengeance by destroying the empire.

Even that, too, was my fault.