One Hour Before Departure, Erica Came as a Woman, Not a Patient

Four in the morning. My room in the field hospital. One hour before departure.

Packing, finished. The herb kit, donated to the hospital. Patient records, handed over to Erica in full. Only one counseling notebook kept back as personal luggage.

Even that notebook had every name scrubbed out of it. What would go up to the Queen Consort was limited to symptom changes, return-to-duty numbers, procedural improvements, and the forged referral. The battle scenes the patients had described, and their family histories, stayed behind in the field hospital's locked box.

Erica held the key to the box of originals; Marta held the key to the return-evaluation box. I took neither with me.

The forged referral, marked by its thirteen ink spots, went into a sealed security envelope of its own. One last check that the treatment records and the intelligence would never ride in the same bag.

One hour before departure. The only thing left to do, I thought, was climb into a carriage.

Five days before we were due to reach the capital — four in the morning on the day of departure — a knock echoed through the room. Outside the door stood Erica, wearing nothing in place of her uniform but a single robe.

"Is something missing from the record handover?"

"No. I didn't come to take records today."

Even after she stepped inside, Erica kept hold of the sash of her robe for a long while.

"With departure right on top of us — don't you feel it would be hard to refuse?"

"That's exactly why I brought a paper I wrote out a week ago."

Erica drew a folded parchment from the pocket of her robe. It was a declaration of intent, written the day after her first personal session ended; every day since, clear through today, it bore a fresh date and signature confirming it again.

"And the pressure — the sense that if you don't do it today, the chance disappears?"

"There is pressure. That's why I wrote the pressure down too. But pressure doesn't void every choice a person makes. This is something I weighed, and then ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠chose."

"And your role in the trauma sessions — how will that work?"

"My personal sessions passed to Marta as of today. You are no longer my therapist, and once we reach the capital, I won't be taking remote advice from you either."

Marta's signature sat on the handover confirmation. Erica had taken the rule made back in Karin's case and applied it to herself.

"And the check afterward?"

"This afternoon, alone with Marta. Even after you're gone, I'll have someone I can tell about regrets — or about the state of my body."

So that the deadline of an imminent departure couldn't shove her choice along, Erica had already turned her exits into documents.

"For ten years after Arnon died, I let no one in. At first it was mourning. Later, it simply became familiar to go on living while frozen in place. You set that time moving again."

"You don't need to give me your body out of gratitude."

"It isn't only gratitude. I've thought about this for a week, and I felt I would never be able to say it if not today. That's why I came. I want this."

"Even if you don't say it today, you could settle it again by letter."

"I know. All the same, today I want to say it out loud, and act within the boundaries I've set."

Erica did not lock the door. She hung a sign outside it, and Marta would knock once, at the appointed hour.

Before locking it, I asked one last question.

"Will you be all right without the sedative herb? Without any suggestion?"

"That's the only way I'll know it's my choice."

"And there will be no reading of memories."

"Obviously. The stop signal is two knocks on the table, or the words 'End of record.'"

"No new boundaries get expanded on the spot."

"I took the contraceptive draught Marta gave me last night. She explained that it isn't foolproof, too."

"We can change to boundaries that avoid the risk."

"Where you finish, I'll decide again at the time. But if a result comes of it, it will not end with a single sentence like 'I'll take responsibility.' I'll have the tests and make the choices myself; whether I tell you, I'll decide then."

Erica had taken the romantic word responsibility and broken it into procedures. Time of dosage, timing of tests, method of contact, her own right to decide.

We each signed the terms sheet. What came undone before the sash of her robe did were the uncertain things.

Erica untied the sash herself, and the robe sank to the floor. Without hurrying, I kissed her first. I held her until the stiffness left her shoulders, and each time my hands found new ground, I checked that it was all right.

Lying back in the bed, Erica said she didn't know her own body — but she was perfectly clear about what she disliked and what she liked. When my lips touched her breast, she pulled my head closer; when my fingers slipped inside her, she asked me to go slower.

Only once ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠she was wet enough did I set the tip of my cock against her entrance. A body untouched for ten years barred the way, firm, at first.

"We can stop here."

"Don't stop. Just look at my eyes instead."

Eyes locked on hers, I entered a little at a time. When Erica's breath broke, I stopped; when her hands pulled at my back, I moved again. Only after a long, long while did her body take all of me.

"Doesn't it hurt?"

"It hurts. But the feeling that I'm alive is louder."

One slow joining was enough. We didn't count rounds or test limits. I matched her rhythm until she peaked, and right before I came, I always asked.

"Where should I finish?"

Erica caught my waist with her legs.

"Inside. Today, I'll take responsibility."

Joined to the hilt, I spilled myself deep. Erica never closed her eyes; she watched my face the whole time. Even after the trembling in our bodies had settled, her arms didn't let go.

"Do-hyun. I don't want to remain only the patient you treated."

"Then what do you want to remain as?"

Erica thought for a long time before she answered.

"The woman who keeps safe the place you return to. You may call me your female, if you like. But my work and my judgment, I will keep for myself."

"Let's define where that name applies."

"Only in the hours the two of us have agreed to in private. In front of patients, in reports, on military-physician duty — I am Erica."

"And it takes the place of permission for nothing else."

"Of course. A name called once doesn't become a lifelong writ of command."

"And if you withdraw it?"

"Then stop calling me that on the spot. No explanation required."

At the very bottom of the terms sheet, Erica wrote the scope in her own hand. Fastened behind the bold declaration was an even bolder fence.

The status window had called it Collapse again. Yet what Erica had just done was not the handing-over of her judgment — it was deciding, in a single breath, both the word she would use for our relationship and the places where she would never use it.

Beneath the status window, I added a line in my own hand.

The system's final box was not a person's final boundary.

I promised myself I would remember even that last sentence, along with everything else.

Marta's knock came exactly one minute after the appointed time.

"Time's up."

Erica said "End of record" first, and I withdrew from the bed. Only after the closing phrase had done its work did Marta confirm, from outside the door, just the name and the date.

"Take the morning clinic off."

"I still have handover work."

"All the more reason to rest. Don't you go touching other people's records with a fogged-up head."

Erica began to argue, then finally nodded. Even after a private choice, a military physician's fatigue remained a plain, practical fact.

As the hour of departure drew near, Erica put her robe back on and combed her hair through. By the time the door opened, she had returned, entirely, to the face of a military physician.

She did not, however, paste on a face as if nothing had happened. She wrote sleep deprivation and morning leave into her personal status sheet and passed it to Military Physician Daejin.

"If I lie about being fit for duty to hide a private relationship, it's the patients who pay the price."

"That's right."

Erica ran a line from the traces of her own choice straight to the safety of the work — without erasing a single trace.

"Keep the treatment principles in the capital too. Don't erase memories. Only ever build the road back to the present."

"You do the same, Erica."

"I'll be watching you through the records. When the next ones arrive, I'll inspect every line."

"Store anything private concerning me separately. It doesn't mix with patient data."

"I've already divided the boxes. Inspection records, Marta may open as well. Private records — me alone."

"And if the Crown demands them?"

"I refuse, for the same reason as the patient records. Becoming the Royal Psychologist's lover does not make me Crown property."

A line had been drawn, so that the power of my new title could not follow me into Erica's records.

At the end of an official handshake, Erica let go of my hand. For just the moment before she stepped out of the room, she smiled.

"Come back safely, Royal Psychologist."

Marta and Karin were waiting by the carriage as well. In place of a handshake, Marta handed me a copy of the front-line patient roster.

"Don't send the Crown nothing but numbers. Send the names up with them. That's the only way the next budget comes down matching the headcount."

"The patients' words and their memory scenes ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠stay here."

"Good. Show the Crown a result and the first thing they'll try to do is copy the method. Use the names to pull the budget — keep the shape of the wounds guarded here."

Marta sealed the anonymous statistics table and the real-name cross-list in separate envelopes. The plan was for the royal treasurer to verify nothing but headcount, while the name key went to Elena alone, still under seal.

I handed the forged referral's security envelope directly to the carriage escort captain as well. Even if my bag got turned out, the patient roster and the thirteen-ink-spot evidence would never vanish in the same stroke.

Karin's eyes were rimmed red, but she didn't cry. She tucked the wooden sword into my pocket herself and tapped it twice.

"This isn't a signal to stop. It's a signal to check that you're still alive."

"Next time, I'll meet you carrying a real sword."

"And then I'll be standing beside you. Not behind you."

Erica stood a step apart from the others. She held the physician's expression, but when the carriage began to roll, she raised her hand. It wasn't the stop signal we had learned at the front. It was a farewell that said come back.

The carriage pulled out. Five days of road.

On the first night, at a relay station, an official bent on verifying the royal seal demanded to see the counseling notebook.

"The Royal Psychologist's work materials are subject to transit inspection."

"The patient records stayed at the field hospital, and this notebook is an anonymous procedures manual. Produce an order authorizing inspection, and I'll gladly confirm the Queen Consort's seal upon it."

The official had no such order. The very people who had bowed their heads to my new title were now trying to use the title as their excuse to open my records.

Only after the escort captain took my side did the box lock again. Gaining power did not make secrets safe on its own. It only made more people curious about what might be inside them.

On the second day, a short courier message from Erica caught up with us.

That last sentence mattered most. A new relationship beginning did not mean the next one came pre-booked.

Somewhere along the route, a letter from Karin reached me — written in her own hand three days before.

Short, unyielding handwriting. A letter exactly like that kid.

Karin's road back to the knights was set. Erica's settling in as a counselor, the same. Marta's wordless steadiness, unchanged.

The things I'd left behind me would not rust. ...Then again, "not rusting" also meant the marks I had carved into that place would never, ever fade. Whether that was a good thing or a bad one, even I couldn't say.

Kaldios. The capital city.

At the end of five days in the carriage, the city gate rose into view. Towering.

Absurdly perfect.

Coming back to the capital with a body pickled in the front lines' dust and blood-smell, it seemed even more dazzling than I remembered. Sunlight pours down between the stone buildings; the smell of grilling meat rises from the market lanes — sizzle. A fruit peddler pushes his cart past — the creak of wheels. Children dart by brandishing wooden swords — peals of laughter. Sounds nothing like the screaming of the front.

It had been barely twenty-three days at the front, and yet it felt like a year away. I never counted how many times I watched a person die in those twenty-three days. Start counting, and you lose your mind.

Two escort knights stood waiting before the east gate of the palace. Clack. Clack.

"Are you Royal Psychologist Kang Do-hyun?"

"I am."

"Her Highness the Queen Consort has assigned you an office. I will show you the way."

Inside, the palace was exactly as it had been three weeks ago. Red carpet. High ceilings. Portraits along the walls. The eyes on me had changed. An official I passed in the corridor bowed his head. Same species of man — change one title, and the attitude swings a hundred and eighty degrees.

A hell of a windfall, sure... and at the same time, fucking revolting. Watching the same bastards who'd looked at me like dogshit yesterday grovel today confirms it, every single time — what flimsy little animals humans are. And I'm one of those flimsy animals too.

The escort knight stopped at the end of the east corridor on the third floor.

"Here we are."

I opened the door — a long creak. Spacious. Three windows, facing south. A desk of solid oak. A leather chair. Shelves of psychology books along ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the wall. And on the desk, a single sealed letter bearing the Queen Consort's insignia.

A queen who asks after your tea. Human warmth seeps out of every line. This woman is lonely — inside the armor called Queen Consort. ...And the fact that some corner of my mind is already calculating how to put that loneliness to use is, honestly, a little nauseating. Call it an occupational hazard.

"Chamomile, please."

I murmured it to the empty room.

After unpacking, I washed the front lines' dust off in the palace baths. The body in the mirror still carried its faint scars and the changes Level 2 had written into it, but the most unfamiliar thing of all was the Royal Psychologist's formal dress.

Black cloth, embroidered with gold thread. A man who, until three months ago, had been organizing data in a lab was now an official who received the Queen Consort's secret missions.

The chamberlain moved to guide me to my new lodgings, but I picked my bag back up instead.

"Your meeting with Her Highness is tomorrow afternoon. Where will you be going today?"

"To the place of the person I owe the first word of my return."

The moment I stepped out through the palace gates, the bell tolled three in the afternoon. My feet went straight for the Moonlight Inn.