Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Purple Orchids

-Minjae-

27th of February;
Sovereign Year 1143

Minjae's about had it with rain, he's sure of it. The third day of slogging heavy boots and a sprained ankle through thick mud he declares as much, getting a laugh out of his childhood friend who's eyes fill with delight in the wake of his misery.

"Just one more day." Jungwon says, and it's a gross underestimation considering what Minjae remembers of the map his father had handed to them half a week ago.

His glare does nothing to dampen the other's spirit, "Two, ya Yang Jungwon if you'd pay attention-" He starts to scold only to be interrupted, Jungwon's hand lifting to point forwards, the fog lined treeline being the only thing Minjae can make out in the distance above one of the wagons they're squashed between now that the rain's stopped.

"We're halfway through Choi territory, look-" His palm flattens out, still outstretched in the direction, "You can see the tip of the monastery from here." 

"How are you seeing through the fog?"

"Manifesting." Mischief. That's all Minjae sees in Jungwon's eyes even if the latter tries to cover it up with the earnest tone of his voice. There's something in Minjae's expression that tips Jungwon off that he's not being fooled because he immediately counters with "Don't believe me? I have the best eyes in this group-"

"You broke your glasses before we set out." Evidence still lays wrapped in an embroidered handkerchief in Minjae's trunk, hidden from Jungwon's mother who was painfully thorough in making sure her son had everything he'd needed for the next year, "Even with those-"

"I get it!"

"He's right though." A new voice interjects, reminding Minjae how very little seclusion they have at the moment. He looks up—always looking up, it weighs on him—and finds the newest edition to their little expedition nearly shoulder to shoulder with him, pants splashed up to the knee in fresh brown mud, "From the estate to the monastery is only about a day and a half or so." Choi territory indeed , he's reminded as the son of the head of the Ministry of Religion still faces forward, steps lighter and less sluggish considering the fact he had an actual bed to rest in last night. Minjae decides to lie to himself and think he's not bitter but three weeks of night watch training, four arguments, and two nights spent on a bedroll laid across soaked soil have him less than friendly at the moment.

"Choi Sumin, right?" He asks, as if the bright blonde undercut and harsh glare he's seen many times in the past year hugging the walls of the throne room isn't a dead giveaway.

To his surprise the glare is swiped away in an instant, replaced with an almost beaming smile that Minjae can't say he's accustomed to, "That's right! You're Kim Minjae and-" he leans around Minjae a little getting a better look, "Yang Jungwon?"

Out of the corner of his eye he sees the shock that overtakes Jungwon, jaw dropped for a moment before he speaks, "Oh wow, a southern Yang getting recognized by one of the ministries? You don't see that everyday." 

Apparently the shock is overwhelming, eyebrows not lowering even when Minjae's shoulder connects with his roughly, "I hadn't seen you in two summers!" The horrendous—in Minjae's eyes—growth spurt that had Jungwon had him going from being just under Minjae's chin to being someone that had to look down at him. He still shudders at the fact, and Jungwon won't let him live it down a year later. He chances a glance at Sumin who's unfazed by the outburst, meeting Minjae's eyes with a small nod of recognition. They're on even ground as ministry members with only Jungwon placed lower, but Minjae wouldn't be able to source enough gold to pay his friend to bow on a good day so he takes it.

Sumin takes the initiative in Jungwon's shocked silence to speak, "I apologize for not introducing myself earlier, I've been active in the court throughout the past year and seen you but father is..." He trails off and receives a nod from the two of them in response. The animosity between the Ministry of Religion and the Ministry of Military Affairs isn't unknown, quite prevalent actually, almost as gossiped about as- "Is the heir to the Ministry of the Interior also attending this year? I usually... see at least one of you with him? Park-?"

"Park Junmin?" Jungwon voices, the smile he wears innocent to those unaware but Minjae can't help the tightness he feels in the base of his skull when he sees the all too familiar sparkle in the younger's eyes, the same ones that now look to him when Jungwon leans forward so Minjae can't escape him, "He's towards the front, right? Talking with the heir to the trades group?"

There's a hand thrown forward, gesturing the general direction he knows Junmin is in—right of the wagon farthest to the front, the one and only Oh Seungmin, heir to the tradesport near Morfis talking animatedly to someone that makes Sumin hum in thought, "Ah, I've met Seungmin before so I'm guessing the one with red hair."

"That'd be him." He confirms, paired with a very half hearted attempt at hiding the tightness in his voice.

Jungwon notices, observant as he is blind half the time, and his smile drops the slightest bit even as Minjae can feel the arrow he's metaphorically loading, "Can't say I'm not surprised to see you arm in grumbling arm-"

"Don't start."

"-but I'm assuming at least one of those arguments you'd mentioned involved him?" The arrow hits its mark as usual, "Don't give me that look, you two are always like this. Just say sorry and start talking about birds and all will be right again." 

Minjae makes the mistake of glancing towards the front again, making eye contact, and his body acts on instinct before he can stop it, awkwardly raising his hand to wave only to stop halfway. Junmin has his hands clasped behind his back and only gives a nod but there's a part of Minjae that's delusional enough to think he saw the corners of Junmin's mouth raise the faintest bit when he turned around. The voice in his head sounds a lot like Junmin when it yells "If you got your head out of your ass maybe you'd realize what's around you for once-" still stings but Minjae's never innocent either.

They'll be okay. They're always okay.

"Goddess above that was-" Jungwon starts, mouth skewed back in distaste, "slightly painful to watch, but he didn't freeze you so I'd say my reasoning still stands." It always does.

Sumin seemingly agrees, an overly friendly arm slung around Minjae's shoulders that causes Jungwon to smile again, "If you'd apologize maybe you wouldn't be stuck back here being splashed by wagon wheels."

"You realize I'm your elder?" He bites back, just as the wheel of the cart to their left hits a particularly nasty dip just to prove a point. The water almost sprays up towards Jungwon's cloak and now there's two sets of eyes on him now, waiting as he sighs, "Alright, alright, I get it."

There's another arm added on top of Sumin's and now he's pressed between the two of them, hiding a wince when he steps the wrong way. Half hearted shoving does nothing to deter them and the warmth is welcome in the absence of the sun so he relents, letting Jungwon push them closer to the clearer side of the path as he laughs, "Sumin, I think you'll fit in quite well around here."

⚔

Jungwon is right in the end.

The sun starts to hide behind the mountains when they decide to make camp for the night, secluded just behind the first line of trees before the clearing near the monastery filled with wild grass and worn stones. If he looks up the mountain, Minjae can finally see the top of the cathedral climbing its way into a pinkened sky where the clouds have started to clear.

"Of course the weather gets better now ." He sighs. He falls heavily onto the nearest rock, kicking off his boots behind where Jungwon and Sumin's are--the latter'd been instantly inducted into their little circle, a pact between him and Jungwon made in the aftermath of he and Junmin... awkwardly avoiding one another.

It's not entirely avoiding, Junmin's just never been the first one to reach out at times.

"We'll buffer you." Sumin had said, clapping his hand onto Minjae's shoulder after watching the elder be too tongue tied to even say hello before Junmin was whisked away to help unload by one of the knights.

Jungwon had agreed a little too hastily for Minjae's liking, "You might stick your foot farther in your mouth than usual if you talk now."

The jab at his character had been less painful than the sting in his ankle so he went along with their plan: keep his distance, get some rest, think out his apology—and in case that fails he's decidedly not above groveling right now. 

There's a fire made in the middle of their little camp, the three wagons facing west towards the trail with the horses tied nearby to graze at the grass. A few tents have been pitched for some of the nobles towards the southern edge while others have their bedrolls laid out in the open. Minjae leans back on the rock he's sitting on and looks up at the sky, stars starting to trickle in in the fading light before he feels something touch his ankle. He jerks away with a hiss and when he looks down he's met with Jungwon's unimpressed expression, "So jumpy-"

"There's snakes out here-"

"And yet you still decided we didn't need a tent?" He's got him there. Jungwon moves his eyes back down to Minjae's ankle, "You didn't tell me it was that bad or I would've patched you up before we left." There's a mixture of colors in the bruising around it now, purple mixing into faded yellow that makes its way across the top of his foot. It hadn't been that bad when they left—before three days of walking—and he says as much. Jungwon sighs heavily, "And at what point did it start getting bad-?"

"You remember the brick that had lifted in the path up to the Nishimura estate?"

"You-Minjae, that was two days ago! Did you expect it to magically get better before we got to the monastery?"

"Magically?" He pauses, thinking for just a moment before he grins, "I am friends with two mages." 

“Yes, and one of them is currently talking to you.” Jungwon rolls his eyes, splaying his fingers across the worst part of the bruising. Minjae flinches, the pain from the other's soft touch sharp before the familiar warmth of magic spreads over it. He counts himself lucky, he guesses, to have those around him who are more skilled with this sort of thing than he is, and a small smile of appreciation tugs at his mouth before he looks up and sees Junmin looking in his direction from across their camp. His face burns and it's him that breaks eye contact this time, eyes landing on Sumin seated on the ground, glancing between the two of them and Minjae can see the questions start to form in his head.

Graciously, Sumin remembers that he's a little too new to be asking any of those.

He only looks back down at Jungwon when his hand's removed, finding the younger grinning up at him from ear to ear and announces, "All done! Don't do it again or-" He turns his head and locks eyes with Junmin, a hand raised above his head to wave good naturedly, "he might get jealous."

It's said low enough that Minjae barely hears him and retaliates, foot connecting with Jungwon's shin where he's crouching with enough force to knock him off balance. Jungwon's fine, catching his footing before he tumbles to ground and the shit eating grin stays in place but Minjae glares back, "Do you think before you speak?"

He's met with a shrug, "Always." Jungwon chuckles and Minjae isn't fast enough to bite out a retort before another set of steps bounds up to them and Minjae turns to see a head of shaggy brown hair and hands full with two bowls, another balanced in the crook of his elbow. Jungwon jumps to his feet and meets the newcomer a few steps from where Minjae's sitting, "Stuck with serving duty again, Jake?"

"This is nothing, don't worry about!" The other responds, handing a bowl to Jungwon before reaching for the precariously placed one to hand to Minjae, "Seungmin and Riki were told to fetch water and considering how loud the bickering is in that direction... I think I lucked out." He chuckles, handing the bowl over before walking towards Sumin. Minjae's seen his face before—Sim Jaeyun, one of the newest to pass the guard's test and an acquaintance of Jungwon's from Ochs; he and another had been admitted to the academy with honors this year and the thought triggers something in Minjae's mind.

He takes another look out at the camp. Jungwon, Sumin, and Jake stay near him, chatting about overcooked vegetables. Oh Seungmin and Nishimura Riki are supposedly still by the river—if Minjae tunes out the other three he can hear them, watching Jake's eyes glance out in the direction as well. Lord Huening Kai sits by the campfire talking softly with two of the guards while he doles out another bowl of stew to a third, and Minjae doesn't need to look to know that Junmin's already retired for the night. 

"Aren't we missing someone?" He voices, turning to watch the confusion to turn realization on Jungwon and Jake's faces.

Jungwon stands first, bowl left to the ground as he looks around, "Ah, Kim Junghoon, right? The other academy transfer?"

"That's the one."

Jake scratches at his head, "I hadn't seen him since we left Lord Choi's estate, but I didn't think anything of it because he's a little..."

"Weird?" Jungwon supplies when Jake trails off.

"I was going to say mysterious-I swear he doesn't make a noise when he moves, I thought he was trailing in front of the wagons again."

Minjae starts to pull on his boots, stress starting to crawl its way back up his neck as he stands and starts off only for Sumin to speak up, "Wait, Junghoon?" Minjae turns back, and Sumin stays cross legged on the ground, "Black hair? Kinda long? About-" he moves his hand to be just above his head by a small margin, "yay high?" All three nod back at him and he smiles again, "He's been asleep in the front wagon since we left."

"You're kidding me-"

"That little-"

Jungwon's relief is countered by Minjae's frustration, already a few steps away before he breaks into a jog to make it to the western edge of the camp. He doesn't waste time in pulling the slit in the wagon's covering opening. Junghoon's awake, now staring blankly at Minjae instead of the book that lays open near his crossed legs on a stack of blankets that had been stored there for emergencies, "Kim Junghoon." He greets, voice hard despite the exasperation that threatens to escape him.

"Kim Minjae." Junghoon greets back, chin dipped shallowly in the same way Sumin had done earlier. Minjae's never been one about "preserving rank" before but something about the other's tone makes him thinks he can feel the sting in his ankle start to ghost it's way back despite Jungwon's flawless healing.

"Having some rest in here, I see. The rest of us had to walk, you know-"

"There was enough room back here.." Junghoon nods, "Lord Kai knew."

"That's not the point, it's a little rude when your superiors-"

"I don't know, Minjae," A familiar voice sounds off and Minjae does a poor job of concealing his surprise as a curse slips from his mouth, "seems like a smart idea to me." He turns and Park Junmin leans against the edge of the wagon, lips threatening to smile at his success in scaring the other, "It's not Kim Junghoon's fault you didn't notice he was gone."

His hand grips into the fabric tighter, cheek bitten between his teeth and he tries to keep 'Oh we're talking now-' from bubbling out of his throat and into the open air. Junghoon seems a little curious of the new face, leaning forward that he gets a peek at Junmin before settling back into where he was, unfazed by the intrusion. 

“You’re right it’s not.” He concedes, shoulders sagging when Junmin turns away and starts walking off, muttering about how Junghoon wasn’t at the top of his class for nothing-

Minjae takes one last look at Junghoon before letting the flap fall, taking two steps to catch up with Junmin and setting a hand on his shoulder. It's shrugged off, something that hurts a lot more than he'll admit. Still, Junmin turns around and that's the go ahead he takes to speak up, "Hey, I wanted to say-"

"We can talk later."

"Can't we talk now?"

"Later." Junmin insists, taking a step back with hands wrung together in front of him. Minjae has to clench his fists to stop from reaching out, "We should get some rest right now." and Minjae supposes he deserves that considering he's been just as avoidant but it doesn't hurt any less. 

So instead he nods, holds back the tears that he doesn't think deserves to let fall and turns away, "Right, good night."

"Rest that ankle." Junmin says before he can take a step, "Magic isn't a cure all."

His voice will crack if he talks, he can feel it, so instead of letting that small vulnerability present itself he stays looking forward, hand raised to wave over his shoulder. Neither Sumin nor Jungwon say anything but he knows they saw–Jungwon specifically if the hard set of his jaw is anything to go by. He kicks his bedroll open and drops down, facing the open field that stretches out before them while he waits for the fire behind him to die out.

The morning is better, he thinks, eyes cracking open with the sunrise even if he doesn't feel rested at all. The silence of dawn doesn't last long as the other two start to rouse from sleep, "Is there a rule I missed that says the Ministries of the Interior and Military Affairs have to be at each other's throats all the time?" Sumin asks, genuinely curious.

"Well yes, actually," Jungwon says as he shakes the grass out of his blanket, "it's basically tradition at this point."

It's going to be a long year.

Chapter Text

White Lilies

-Jinsik-

27th of February;
Sovereign Year 1143

Jinsik takes another breath in, icy air stinging at the back of his throat. 

They’re huddled together, all nine pressed shoulder to shoulder with woolen cloaks pulled as tightly as possibly, blankets sparse between them to fend off the cold. Three days it’d been, a trip he’d been cautiously against since the beginning, the nine of them set off to trek alone through the fresh winter snow–no guards, no supervisors, just the three eldest of them at twenty winters given as much authority as Prince Park Sunghoon himself, the one who’d brought up the idea.

“It’s less of a hassle this way.” He’d proposed, all of them gathered in the throne room at the break of dawn, personal belongings paired down to their minimum to make the hike easier, “We’d be forcing the guard to make the trek back and risking their wellbeing in the long run.”

Four days. The trip would take four whole, hellish days. Prince Sunghoon had said if they couldn’t survive four days in the snow that the Officer’s Academy would be the death of them within the month.

Jinsik hadn’t felt the same.

“We’re going to end up like the kids in that one book; stranded in the snow and killing each other for meat.” He’d said, half joking with a stiff smile as he handed off another stack of arrows to be packed away in a crate that two of them would carry that’d hold anything that benefited all of them. They’d agreed to switch around but Jinsik’s been one of little faith lately, deciding that if anyone was going to have to be saddled with carrying it the whole way, he’d do it just to make it easier.

“Lady of the Maggots? Oh, come on now,” One of the older students had said when handed the stack, a soft chuckle accompanying it, “You have to have a little more faith in your elders. We won’t let anything happen to you.” Choi Beomgyu, a commoner—Jinsik remembers thinking, watching shaggy, soft brown hair fall into the other’s kind eyes—let into the court because he happened to be good friends with two of the lords. They’d never talked before then–opposite sides of the round table and all–but he remembers no harsh looks, no mean spirited words.

Just someone who looked frailer than Jinsik, played tricks on Lord Heeseung, and never shied away from advocating for those less fortunate in the capital. A kind soul. Someone Jinsik didn’t think twice about trusting.

“Plus,” Beomgyu had said, latching the trunk closed before he’d picked it up to check its weight, dropping it to the ground with a heavy thud, “everyone knows humans don’t taste right. Prions are too big of a risk to take.”

It hadn’t taken away Jinsik’s trust completely but it was… one of the weirdest ways the older could’ve made him feel better about the whole ordeal. If he leans a little forwards and towards his left he can see that same head of shaggy hair at the farthest point, keeping them pushed in from the edge, a blanket shared between him and one their youngest of the year–far taller than all of them but just as frail.

They’re all pink nosed, staring at the dying fire in silence, far too tired to speak but too wired to sleep. Wildlife poses less of a threat now that the snow’s thick enough but it’s still there; human threats are what Jinsik fears the most however–fears the low burning fire makes them too seen, too easily found against the blank, white background of snow.

Variables. Too many of them, keeps him on edge as he bites at his nail-

“We should take shifts.” Prince Sunghoon says from Jinsik’s right and breaks him from his spiraling, hand pulled from his cloak to poke at the embers with a broken arrow, “We’ll need what rest we can get before dawn if we want to be timely.” A chorus of hums meets his proposition, everyone not too keen on sleeping out in the open, but less happy about walking on no sleep, most of them still refusing to open their mouths in fear of being heard.

‘It’s the cold.’ Jinsik thinks to himself; it’s got everyone on edge just like him. He glances around at the their nightwatch options before clearing his throat, “I’ll take first wa-”

“No.” He’s taken aback when more than one denies him before he can finish, some of the voices more hoarse than others. It’s another thing that worries him at the end of this. A cold wouldn’t be enough to kill any of them–no, Jinsik’s sure they’d make it to the monastery by then–but it doesn’t mean the anxiety doesn’t creepy its way through his body and settle in his stomach over the prospect of one or more of them having to be carried the rest of the way alongside their meager luggage.

“Why not?” He counters, voice low but strong with the collection of eyes on him now, tries to refrain from chewing at the inside of his cheek, “We’re taking turns, aren’t we? I can stay up a few hou-”

 “Lord Jinsik-'' It's Yang Jeongin–another commoner friend of Lord Heeseung’s–that addresses him this time, directly to his left and Jinsik can’t help but feel the bile pooling at the base of his throat when he hears the title. The older turns to face him, bumping into his shoulder with little force as he shifts around, “You’ve carried the chest more than your fair share, plus your own weight.” It’s not said with malice, a carefree smile in place even as his tone is more serious than he lets on. Jinsik does outrank him–a technicality he likes to forget–but there’s no room for argument when Jeongin speaks again, Jinsik’s mouth stuck closed as the older boy looks around to everyone, “Let someone else carry a burden for once, okay? I’ll take the first-Heeseung, do you mind-?”

“Of course not.” Lord Heeseung says with a smile from where he flanks the right edge of their huddle, pushing the blanket that lays across his lap closer to the boy next to him, “You kids better enjoy your rest.”

“On your time?” Prince Sunghoon asks, shifting so that his weight rests less into Jinsik’s side, heavy eyes closing as the fire dims, “I’ll have the best sleep I’ve had in years.”

On his left a tug pulls at his shoulder, eyes looking to meet Jeongin’s again as he whispers, “Take my shoulder, I mean it, it’s fine-”

“But-”

“Lord-” And the younger wastes no time in letting his head drop with a huff, not allowing the older to finish, “That’s what I thought.” Jeongin says triumphantly.

⚔

There’s a commotion in the morning, soft murmuring waking Jinsik from where his head still rests against Jeongin’s shoulder. When he rises he’s met with a sheepish smile and a small apology that he gives a nod to. There’s urgency in the whispers around them, sleep draining away quickly when Jeongin confirms his worst fears, “Lord Seeun’s ill. Beomgyu’s sent off two for water and left himself but he should be fine.”

“What’re the symptoms?”

“I haven’t checked him personally, it would’ve woken you if I moved.” And Jinsik’s disbelief is written all over his face, causing Jeongin to chuckle, “Waking you wouldn’t have alleviated his symptoms any quicker, now would it?”

“Maybe-” Jinsik pouts, gets helped to his feet as he wills the numbness in his leg to wear off, shuffling across the snow as he pulls his cloak closer. Seeun sits slumped against someone Jinsik’s seen once or twice, attached at the hip during court. They card a hand through Seeun’s hair, eyes shifting up to meet Jinsik’s with hesitation.

Jinsik clears his throat, kneeling down in front of the two and doing his best to smile through the worry that coats the words he says, “How’s he doing?”

“He’s in and out.” He can hear the waver in the other’s voice, shaken with worry and seemingly intent on keeping a hand on the young lord. The hand that cards through Seeun’s hair drops from it’s place, grabbing onto the limp one in Seeun’s lap, “He’s been really out of it since we camped last night, I-I should’ve warned someone but he said he was-I thought he’d sleep it off-”

“He’ll be okay.” Jinsik says even though he doesn’t have a clue, says empty words to try and stave off both of their anxieties. He looks around for Beomgyu, still missing along with the other two and bites at his cheek.

He reaches out a hand, fingers pushing the younger’s bangs out of the way as his palm lays flat against his forehead. Warm, horribly so, but Jinsik counts it as a blessing when Seeun shifts under his touch and blinks his eyes open, half dazed as they shift around trying to find the source of the touch, He can’t say he’s not surprised when the first words out of the younger’s mouth are mumbled, half under his breath but so confident, “‘m married-” catching Jinsik off guard as he huffs a laugh and allows Seeun to push his hand away, eyes falling closed again.

“He’s delirious.” The other says, earning a whine out of the one resting on his shoulder, “No, sorry, even if he was all there he’d still be… like this-”

“No worries, he’s fine… uhm-?”

He watches the other’s eyes widen slightly, eyebrow raised before he catches on, “Oh, sorry, I’m Pap-I mean Park Hunter.” He gives a nod, receiving one back from Jinsik along with an easy smile.

“Ham Jinsik.” He introduces himself, “He’s got a high fever, but it’s a good sign he’s still… alert-” To a point, at least, “Has he drank at all since last night?”

“A little when I first woke him, not since then.”

“Okay.” He takes a breath, steadies himself before standing again, “Keep an eye on him. We need to figure out how to move him if need be.”

“I can carry him.” Hunter offers, “He weighs a lot less than he seems.”

Jinsik takes another look at them, remembering what he thought last night and confirms as much. Seeun looks weedy as he is now, sickness taking away his color, pallor making him look smaller. He gives one last nod before turning away, “We’ll see if it comes to that.”

Jinsik passes by where the fire had been burning, now buried beneath the snow as he comes to where Prince Sunghoon and Lord Heeseung are speaking. It’s the prince who speaks first, voice even, “How’s he doing?”

“A high fever. I think Choi Beomgyu’s went out for herbs, yes?” There’s a nod in return before Lord Heeseung faces him,

“I think we should keep moving-we’re more at risk out here in the cold and there’s only a day’s worth of travel left.”

“Park Hunter said he could carry him. We won’t have to worry about fashioning a transport for him-”

“As expected of Lord Park’s fiance.” Beomgyu says, trudging through the bushes with a smile, Lord Kang Taehyun and Han Hyeongjun in tow. Jinsik’s unsure if he should correct the older or if there’s a joke he’s not being let in on–doesn’t honestly care as the anxiety starts to creep its way back up and he frowns.

Beomgyu mirrors it, looks around the group as if surprised to find them so on edge, “Why the long faces? You look like-”

“If you’re going to say we ‘look like we’ve seen a ghost’-” Lord Heeseung stops with a raised hand, the closed lipped smile that crawls onto his face morose, void of humor, “it’s because we might very well be seeing one soon.”

Of all the reactions Jinsik expects, Choi Beomgyu–a commoner no less–rolling his eyes at a high lord in exasperation is not high on the list, “A lot of faith you all have–has the snow robbed you all of optimism?” They all stay silent, not confirming nor denying but Jinsik’s seen firsthand what the snow can do, doesn’t favor seeing it again, “Good for you all then, that Han Hyeongjun here was able to find this-” The older takes a step to the side, allows for Hyeongjun to come forward and open his palms to the three of them, full of hairy stems and toothed leaves, green blending into purple.

Jinsik doesn’t recognize it at first. Neither does anyone else by the look of it, Lord Heeseung himself holding skepticism in his eyes despite the smile. Jeongin is the one that realizes, a step forward to reach out before he retracts his hand, “Isn’t that-”

“Ocimum sanctum.” Hyeongjun confirms, “Or, holy basil, it’s a cure-all I learned from my mother, not native here, but not invasive, brought ashore by-”

“Traders from the west.” Taehyun finishes, saves them from a history lesson none too important at the moment, “Just a bit of a steep and we’ll have him on his feet in no time–”

AWOOO

A howl sounds off in the distance—wolves—and everyone stops in their tracks, Jinsik himself sucks in a breath and doesn’t release, eyes trying to see off in the distance where the morning sun bounces off the snow, “The fire’s already out.” He breathes, barely hears himself but luckily Taehyun nods to him, whispers right back as Beomgyu takes a few cautious steps back before turning and walking towards the duo sat in the snow,

“We’d thought ahead.” He lifts a waterskin from beneath his cloak, pops the cork out and the smell of arid spice and cloves wafts in the air, “Cold water won’t be as potent but it’ll do for now.”

Beomgyu appears at Jinsik’s side again, a careful hand wrapped around Park Hunter’s arm to heed him forward, hushed whispers to the others that Jinsik barely catches above the buzz in his ears. Seeun lays slumped over Hunter’s back, paler than he had been but his eyes blink open, look lazily around his surroundings before closing again, head turning away defiantly when Jeongin tries to get him to drink from the waterskin.

“We walk softly.” Prince Sunghoon says, low but full of authority, grip tightening around the lance at his side, “We can’t risk running and we’re already barred down to necessities as it is. Hyeongjun, Jinsik, take the crate.” Expected, Jinsik’s pride doesn’t even take a dent, already knowing neither of them would be good in a fight. Heeseung and Taehyun are to lead the front, axe and sword drawn respectively, Beomgyu and Jeongin to either side, while Prince Sunghoon takes the rear.

All surround the sickly lord and his friend in hopes that they’d all make it out in one piece.

⚔

Their steps are soft, silent as can be in the crunch of melting snow as the border comes into view, shoulders held tight. Every now and again Jinsik would switch hands, clenching and unclenching as he begged the blood to come back from where they’d gone numb in his hold. A glance back and Prince Sunghoon would catch his eye when it wasn’t darting around their surroundings—they’re all like that, he thought, even Beomgyu’s easy smile, pulled tight as the snow gives way to mud, a slosh of ice and dirt being kicked up, clinging to the fabric of their pants.

"–not how I expected this trip to go.” He catches the tail end of Heeseung’s musings, the grip on the handle of his axe beginning to soften as danger becomes a less imminent threat, “Remind me again why we had three of faith and still couldn’t heal him-”

“I’ve told you, magic mends flesh,” Jeongin’s hand reaches forward, shoves at the lord’s shoulder, “repairs bones, but it does little in the way of telling the body to produce antibodies to fend off infections. Why would anyone even bother to study herbs and tinctures if magic could cure all of it?”

“Hm, seems we should just rid ourselves of magic at that point-” A gust of wind causes him to stop, fast and pointed, only hitting him enough to put a stutter in his step.

Eyes turn to Beomgyu, an amused smile on his face as he lets his hand fall from where it’d been raised, “Careful, axe slinger, your words may come back to bite you.”

“I’d say the same to you, wind bringer.” And were it not for the jovial nature of the laughter that followed Jinsik might swear he heard actual threats lie within those words.

The trek continued, the slosh of wet ground finally running dry–turning green–as the sun begins to fall. Grass sprout its way through the trail and he’d never been so happy to see a weed so much as when they’d started tangling together along the border of the path. Taehyun sheathed his sword at his side, a look shared between he and Heeseung as he hefted his own weapon onto his back.

A careful hand of Jeongin’s made its way to Seeun’s arms as they came through the trees, breaking into a full grin when the lord lifted his head and muttered something Jinsik couldn’t hear.

They were in the clear now—that’s all that mattered, the monastery looming over them and setting shadows that ate their way through the valley in the darkening sky as it came into view, a sight for sore eyes and none were sorer than his. He breathed out for what felt like the first time in days, finally at peace, but a glance to the southern edge of the valley had him swallow dryly.

Off in the distance, Jinsik could see them only as a blur–a crowd of wagons and horses, a royal guard and all coming from the south with banners of black and red. On his left Hyeongjun sighed heavily, catching the attention of Prince Sunghoon and Beomgyu,

“Finally,” He said, relief palpable in his voice, “some friendly faces.”

Even the weariest of them would not speak against it.

Chapter Text

Yellow Dahlias

- Yujun -

26th of February;
Sovereign Year 1143

Sand plains.

It’s all there is as far as the eye can see from their camp—just barren, arid ground left behind from lack of rains, trees dried out and stripped of their leaves shaking in the breeze of a mid afternoon’s sun. The wind picks, harsher than it’s been for most of the ride, carrying some of the loose dirt with it as Yujun opens his mouth to speak and grits against his teeth.

“Here,” A voice says above him as he spits into the dust, looks up and sees not a face but a waterskin held so close his eyes nearly cross, “use this to swish it out.”

“Thank you, um-” He says gratefully, takes what’s given and is greeted by fox-like eyes, sandy blonde hair–Jungmin? Junsu? Both sound close but not right so he stops while he’s ahead, unscrewing the top and tilting the water into his mouth. It’s warm–horribly so, almost boiling from the heat–and his mouth twists up in distaste as he spits it back onto the ground at his feet. A hand claps onto his shoulder softly, the other’s eye holding sympathy when he looks back up at them, “You get used to it; the wind’s harsher before the mountains, just hold out a little longer.”

When he looks off to the west he can see only the blurred outline of the mountains through the dust storms in the distance, closer than they’d looked from the towns, “Are you from around here?” He asks, idle conversation to be had at their little campsite past villages here in the middle of nowhere for Yujun’s skill with a map.

“I’ve been through this area once or twice.” The older boy sits beside him on the little rock he’s perched himself on–Jongmo, maybe? Still doesn’t sound right, “My family’s been all through the alliance territories, from the plains to the mountains,” He turns and points east, towards the behemoth of a mountain range that separated them from the kingdom to the east, “Been all the way to the top of Fodlan’s Throat, prairies and desert is all you can see for miles beyond it.”

Savages. That’s what his mom always called the people beyond Fodlan’s borders—has no mercy for them, no pleasantries, just fear turned to anger. She’d lived through the war as a child; he supposes she’s earned the right to voice her feelings when he never felt the same.

“Nomads then?” He asks, curious now as Jungsu—yes that sounds familiar, matches syllables he’d heard back before they left—gains a nostalgic look in his eye, staring off to the south where the leafless trees gave way to lush shrubbery miles off from them.

Jungsu nods, takes the waterskin that Yujun now hands back to him with a smile as he points to another boy across camp with longer, black hair feeding the horses, “Jooyeon too; it’s fun while it lasts, but… becoming knights pays better.” Yujun hums in agreement, holds up a hand to shield himself when the winds pick up again and Jungsu laughs at him, “Don’t take this the wrong way but, I’m assuming you’re from the capital? You’ve got this look about you-?"

“Haha-” He smiles, doesn’t let the comment get to him as he leans back on his hands, “I was born closer to the southern border but we moved before I could walk. The capital pays healers better.” Needs them more, according to his mother. There’s not many from the capital this year that he remembers: three lords of houses Lee, Kwak, and Park—sons of three of the five current alliance representatives—the rest of them commoners, travelers, or villagers with letters of recommendation. He realizes he rests a bit higher in the ranking but not by much, no noble blood in his veins.

Just the son of the Alliance’s head healer with a letter signed by a noble’s son.

“I hear it’s safer within the wall too.”

Sometimes, he thinks, definitely better than out here, but he chooses his words better, “Most of the time-” 

“It’s not like they have to deal with bandits.” Someone laughs, high and light. Kim Sunoo, Yujun remembers well, recently picked up from the village a half day’s walk from here. The seal of the letter of recommendation from the church had been stamped with white wax, a goddess’s seal pressed onto it alongside a sprig of sage. Just like Jungsu, he has a fox’s eyes—a predator’s eyes, and one look around the camp shows that many around him have that trait, so unlike him, “They’re all over out here unfortunately, so it’s unwise to let your guard down.”

Jungsu frowns, “Don’t scare him-”

“I’m warning.” Sunoo corrects before pouting, mouth downturned as he sighs, “I can see how it comes off that way. Apologies.”

“For the warning? No worries-” Yujun waves him off, takes another look around camp. A question sits in his mouth as he listens to Jungsu scold him again, “I think I’ve seen you before? Did you study at the Royal-”

Even as Sunoo’s eyes widen at the question he never gets to finish, sees the son of the head of the alliance, Lee Yechan, stand and dust the dirt from his legs.

“Alright!” He calls out, just loud enough to get attention, startling a few that had become too lax, “We should move before dusk!” His word is law here, even being as young as Yujun and everyone starts moving, blankets shook off of earth, horses untied from stakes in the ground as Sunoo moves away from him with a sad smile. 

Yujun takes his time to get up. The knights around them mount their horses, armor glinting in the sun and he makes his way to his own, a hand softly petting against a chocolate brown muzzle. Yechan walked up next to him, a quiver of arrows on his back, wrapping the lead of his horse around his hand.

“You’re walking?” Yujun asks, wary as much as he is curious, confused when Yechan looks at him as if surprised to be spoken to.

He quickly falls back into a tight smile, close lipped, “Mm, me and a few others.” He answers simply before turning back to what he’s doing.

Yujun can admit that’s not very comforting, seeing another person across camp in the state, a quiver on his back and bow held in hand—fox eyed—but his horse is handed off to someone else, “Is something wrong?”

Yechan looks at him again, softer this time, placating, patting a hand at Yujun’s shoulder, “No, it’s fine. Don’t worry.”

⚔

Yujun worries—hands tightening around the reins, thumb nails dug into the leather as he keeps his eyes on the trail ahead as they enter the woods. A knight rides to his right, doesn’t make eye contact when Yujun looks up at him—doesn’t even speak, but Yujun watches his eyes scan back and forth through the brush.

No one talks above a whisper, barely heard above the thudding of hooves against hardened dirt under the tree’s canopies. Sun hasn’t set just yet, barely darkening when he looks back to where they entered but it’s so dark beneath the thickening forest that he thinks it might as well have.

“I don’t think I like this…” he hears someone whisper to his left, sees a boy he doesn’t know beyond a noble status riding on horseback but he’s shushed by the other noble beside him, a stern look to him. He doesn’t like it either.

He takes a glance ahead, where Yechan and the other dismounted boy walk in the lead and bites at his lip, “Yechan–”

A horse falls at the front.

They all stop, a fair few of the horses rearing up, hearing the loud neigh of the fallen horse taper into a whinny, the sound of yelling growing louder as more knights dismount to aid the fallen, trapped beneath the body of the horse. Yujun feels his throat go dry when he sees the arrow in the side of its neck.

“A little sooner than we hoped.” He hears, quick to get off his horse and catching the eye of the knight at his side before he hears it: an arrow let loose, the sound of piercing flesh. He sees the blood that begins to trickle down the side of knight’s neck where it’s been impaled before the man topples to the left, landing on Yujun’s horse and startling it before it takes off and creates a path through them.

“They’ve got archers!”

His breathing quickens, sight blurring as another arrow flies past his face before he leans down towards the fallen knight—hears the unsheathing of blades before the thundering of feet coming closer, the roars–

Bandits. A great many of them probably. Their faces are barely seen as they rush out of the bushes and a hand presses against Yujun’s chest to push him backwards but he sees an axe raise high before it crashes down against a knight’s barely drawn sword, knocking it from his hand before the axe cuts upwards and blood coats it-

They’re ambushed—that much he knows—a bunch of unarmed kids and scarce few knights against what’s at least a dozen that he can see, doesn’t know how many lie beyond in the woods.

Jungsu pulls an axe from where it’s strapped to his horse, rides forward into the fray without hesitation and Yujun closes his eyes, not wanting to watch-

They can’t win this, surely they can’t—he’s not even armed, can’t risk using magic for fear of lighting the dry brush ablaze,

“Snap out of it!” A hand grips tightly around his wrist, eyes opening to see Sunoo pulling him towards the left side of the forest, “We of all people are useless in a fight like this, come on-!” And he goes, boots crunching in the brush as they hide behind the brush line, tugged forward parallel to the trail as they move past the thick of it.

But Yujun can still see it when he looks back, can still hear the carnage, see the smoke-

Smoke?

“Mages-” He whispers, too late as Sunoo stops short in front of him, eyes drawn to the wide eyed, toothless grin of the man that stands before them.

“Well, well, if it isn’t little lambs lost in the woods.” The man towers over the two of them, taller than he is wide, axe held loosely in his hand and the sight of it makes Yujun freeze. Sunoo tightens his hold on Yujun’s hand unbearably, catches the look in Sunoo’s eyes before his glance darts out back onto the trail.

He knows—Yujun knows what he’s being told but he shakes his head, can’t leave Sunoo as the older throws his hand and shoves him back through the bushes onto the cleared trail, the man’s fist raises before it strikes downward-

Sunoo’s head disappears behind the brushline. The man raises his fist and brings it back down again. 

Sunoo’s name gets stuck in Yujun’s throat, voice dying as his hands grow hot—fire has already overtaken the little area, grows closer as it winds its way up the path and brightens up the dark of the forest like the sun, melts himself from the inside–

“Unfortunate.” The man growls as he passes through the brush, steps onto the fire that crawls its way towards him, unbothered, “Used my hand, but my blade here, she sings for blood.”

Yujun stumbles backwards, palm scraped as he falls to the hardened sand, nails dug into it as the fire glints off the blade of the axe raised above the man’s head. Yujun doesn’t breathe, doesn’t scream, no time to pray as it begins to swing downward–

Shfft-

THUNK

A scream roars its way from the man’s throat, an arrow piercing through his left eye. The axe drops at the same time blood seeps from the wound—pours out, coats the side of his face in red—landing near Yujun’s bent legs with a heavy thud. The man falls to his knees, hands gripped around the shaft as he pulls at it with a grunt, breaths heavy as he gags.

Yujun sits frozen, every inhale feels like sand–tastes of smoke from the fires that surround them, charring at his throat as the pain stings in his hands.

He could heal it. The thought is crazy. The wound’s not too deep—it is, he knows damn well it is, can see the chunk of white that still sticks to the head of the arrow as it now lays abandoned on the ground—and he can heal it.

That’s what he’s there for isn’t it?

Death’s never been this close to him, never played out in front of him the way it does now and the fact he has the ability to stop it–he doesn’t, he can’t, Sunoo still lays behind the brush, bleeding out for all he knows–is within his reach is not lost on him.

He raises a hand—shaking, his whole body is shaking, can barely move—and feels the warmth that tries to bleed from his hand, tries to push forward towards the man that wails at his feet-

THUMP

He doesn’t even hear the second let loose; it sits centered between the man’s eyes as the sounds lessen to a gurgle, more blood that puddles out of his mouth before he falls forward, head landing between where Yujun’s feet are planted in the dirt.

“Are you fucking stupid? ” Someone yells before the back of his collar is gripped harshly, pulled back and he finally finds his voice—screams before arms wrap around him, pull him close as the fabric his face gets pressed against becomes wet-

He’s crying. He’s crying but he’s alive and the man’s dead and he’s crying-

“You’re okay, shh-” Another soothes him, different from the voice before, barely heard above the ringing in his ears, above his own sobs, “Yujun just breathe-you’re fine. I’ve got you.” They continue to tell him but a man lays dead not five feet from him, blood just pouring onto the dense dirt, refusing to soak in and he doesn’t know where Sunoo is and the fires still surround them and he can’t help but choke.

“We need to move-!”

“Give him a moment!”

His eyes open, still sees the way the fires light their way up tree trunks, smoke rising far above the treeline, clouds around them from where he’s cradled against someone’s chest, sees an arrow stuck into the person’s arm, broken off, and snaps his eyes shut again. Can heal that, he thinks, a shallow wound, as he finds his lungs and breathes through his mouth, nose clogged as he pulls away, “You’re hurt.” Even to him his voice sounds pathetic.

“It’ll heal.” Yechan tells him, hands grasped at his shoulders to keep him close but it gives him a chance to look around. Each one that crowds around that he can see is hurt, but not entirely grave. They’ll make it, can only hope as much when he sees a lone priest from their group wandering around to offer what aid they can. When he opens his own palms they’re bloody, pebbles caught where sharper rocks have cut them open when he fell. Can’t heal-

A handkerchief gets pressed onto one of them, almost cries again when he looks up and sees Sunoo knelt beside them on the ground, blood drying across his upper lip where it trickles from his nose—broken, he knows, hopes for better when he sees the line of blood coming from Sunoo’s ear—and Yechan begins picking out the rocks in the other that he can see and Yujun winces.

“You’re gonna hate when we have to pull that out.” The stern faced boy from before appears, a shallow but long slash across his collarbone. He leans down and breaks the shaft closer, whatever noise that Yechan begins to make gets cut off, stuck in his throat as he continues to work at Yujun’s hands,

“Worry about your own wounds.” He hisses instead.

The stern faced boy smirks, standing back up. When he notices Yujun staring up at him he gives a nod, “I don’t think we’ve been introduced properly but I’ve seen you around–Park Jay.”

“Jung Yujun.” He says back softly, dazed, eyes growing tired, “I’d shake you hand but-” His gaze darts down his hand and back up. At least it makes the other laugh, not nearly as harsh looking with a smile. Sunoo and Yechan do a poor job of hiding their own and it takes his mind off the sting, the exhaustion that’s creeping up. Behind him someone moves and he turns, eyes drawn to the bow in quaking hands first before he cranes his neck to see their face, now knowing who’d fire the last arrow, if not both.

“Choi Hyunwoo.” The boy tells him, placing his bow back over his shoulder stiffly. It comes out breathless, eyes still darting over to the body that lays not far from them. In his place Yujun would probably feel the same, “You can thank me later if that’s alright with you.” He looks back towards the fire and in the distance Yujun can hear it.

More screaming, the clashing of blades coming closer–the fight’s far from over in there but there’s not much they can do. The priest he saw before looks past the fire in fear, hands pulled together in prayer and he feels his own creep back up when the rest of them look over.

They still silent, wary, and Yechan’s hands become still around Yujun’s, the first one to speak after what feels like too long, 

“We need to run.” Everyone’s eyes draw to him, shocked, but he stands, placing Yujun’s hand down gently before turning to Jay, “My bow’s snapped and you can’t move your sword arm, now can you?” Jay shakes his head so Yechan turns his eyes to Sunoo and Yujun, “Can either of you do anything?” Yujun can’t make his hands do anything at the moment and he thinks he knows the nature of Sunoo’s magic. They both cast their eyes down, “Right.” There’s only one left, Yujun knows, “Your hands shook so bad you nearly missed that second shot if not for the wind. What will we do if you actually miss next time?” 

“I won’t-” but Yujun can see the way Hyunwoo’s hands still tremble where they hang at his side.

Yechan’s right. Yujun doesn’t like it but he is—is only doing what’s best for right now to keep them safe. He knows what words come next but it doesn’t stop the tears that prick at his eyes when he remembers who’s left behind-

“They’ll catch up.” He knows the other can’t promise that, but the next thing out of Yechan’s mouth is more realistic, “Whoever survives will catch up.”

Chapter Text

Purple Orchids

- Junmin -

28th of February;
Sovereign Year 1143

You can see all three countries from the main gate.

That’s what had been the talk of the camp the night before–was the only thing worth talking about to most of them. So briefly Junmin raises his eyes from the stone pathway, barely seeing the snow capped mountains of the northern country in the distance below the clouds. His eyes flicker over to the east and there’s little to be seen between the mountains, trees dotting along the low line.

He doesn’t look back.

He refuses to.

His chin is held high, just like mother taught him, but he can’t bring himself to look any higher than the path that leads the way of their convoy. He doesn’t even want to look upon the monastery and his mood worsens the closer they get and the fact the rain chooses now to come back only agitates him. It’s not even enough to cause concern—barely a whisper of it against his face, clinging to his hair as he wraps his arms around himself—but it adds, and it adds, and it adds. Truth be told he wonders if it followed them, an omen that’s soaked them to the bone from the inside out ever since they stepped through the gates of Enbarr less than a week ago.

His head pulses, pain dull as it starts in his temples and he exhales shakily in the cold, listening briefly to the rest of them chatter about as he realizes they’ve all stopped walking. A portcullis blocks their path, and it’s raising feels like the end somehow but he can’t stop it-

He doesn’t want to be here, truly wants anywhere but here that has a roof and a bed but he can’t leave now even as his brain practically chants it alongside the pounding as he watches the gate raise, nods along when Oh Seungmin says something he’s expected to be hearing, but he can’t–really can’t think, can’t hear over the way his brain repeats the need to sleep, the need to run, the need to be out of the fucking rain, the need to prepare for whatever Minjae wants to fucking speak about as his brain starts cracking open-

Minjae.

He stands near, close enough that Junmin can feel the heat radiate off him, sees white hair in his periphery but they don’t talk all because Junmin was bitter and said to wait.

He regrets it now, wishes they’d gotten it over with at camp last night at this point so he’d at least have some small comfort, but pride—he takes another breath, sighs out harshly and sees Minjae turn towards him only to look away before Junmin even has the chance to close his eyes and curse himself—pride surely is man’s flaw.

A part of him wants to laugh. Pride and patience, two things he starts to lack as he listens to the portcullis raise on rusted chains, sounds high enough for someone to pass under but still they wait and still he wants to run-

“What the hell happened?” He hears someone whisper. His eyes open slowly, blinks as his vision clears because surely not, not this close-

It’s quite the sight; a party of no more than ten battered and bloody where they stand in the rain—some of them lay, sprawled out on the stone of the monastery entrance. The portcullis reaches its highest point and Junmin takes a tentative step forward without thinking, arms wrapped tighter around himself as he stares.

They’re left to themselves, guards standing at their posts notably away from the group even if their eyes don’t move off them. One lone priest seems to be doing what she can, which isn’t much with the way one of her arms limply hangs at her side.

The cold isn’t a bother any longer. Neither is the rain. Somewhere in the back of his mind he hears his mother say that anger is a curse, but he’ll be the first to admit it does wonders for warmth as his blood races.

“Look over there.” Jungwon says to his left and Junmin tears his eyes away, follows the way the other points until he sees another group, one of them being carried by another, “The northerners seem to have fared better.” Undeniably true, “No guards.”

No guards.

They’re built for it. That’s what he always hears people say–those of the hardened north are often subjected to worse, made stronger by the hell that is a northern winter, one that Junmin’s been privy to. They’ll be fine, most of them already ushered through the entrance hall but a few stay where they are, eyes pointed in the same direction Junmin’s go. 

A hand places at the small of his back and he jolts.

Minjae, closer now, eyes locked on the same group everyone else seems to be enraptured with. He gently pushes Junmin by the back, chin jutting towards them and seemingly forgetting any bygone animosity just like usual-”Go help, they look like they need it.” 

It’s not an order, not said harshly. Despite the heat of anger moments before he feels like he’s been doused in ice, blinks owlishly at the other as he processes the words, the tone. The touch is persistent however, despite the way Junmin sticks in place and he looks over again, finally looks closely and is surprised to see faces he knows, “One of them looks familiar.” He murmurs the thought out loud.

He sees Minjae look at him, hears the softness in his voice as he urges once again, “All the more reason to go.” Minjae doesn’t give Junmin time to respond as he turns away, “Jungwon, you too, they need what they can get.”

“Of course!” Jungwon says easily, already taking steps away slowly before looking back towards Junmin who looks away.

If Minjae notices he doesn’t mention it, gives a little more coaxing in the form of another small nudge before Junmin’s feet follow in step behind Jungwon, tension in his neck not aiding the pain that still thrums through his head. The damage does unfortunately look worse up close—most of the gashes seemed shallow from afar, superficial but it’s clear the exertion to get here has made it worse, harrowed breathing that can’t seem to take in enough air for some of them—and arrows, so many arrows.

“It’s not that deep.” One of them says Jungwon pulls at the collar of a ripped open shirt, “Deal with the rest of them-”

“Ah yes, play the hero, that’s how fighters always are-”

“Southerners -”

He turns away and blocks it out, knows exactly how conversations like that go and his eyes go elsewhere.

Jungwon can handle himself, he knows this, and even if he can’t, Junmin can’t find it in him to care—not right now, not as raw as he feels.

Instead his eyes fall on who he’d seen earlier. It’s been at least two years since he’d seen him but he looks much the same, taller at most but still so young in the face, hands wrapped in makeshift bandages, “Jung Yujun?” He calls softly, doesn’t want to spook the younger whose glassy eyes snap up immediately.

“Junmin?” It’s barely loud enough to be heard over the commotion, a hoarse whisper, but Junmin moves quicker now, carefully undoing what he now realizes is a handkerchief on the boy’s left hand. 

He winces when he sees the severity of the cuts, “What happened to you all?” 

“We were ambushed.” Yujun’s eyes dart over to the rest of them before coming back to Junmin’s, clearing his throat but his voice still sounds so broken when he speaks again, “Some were lucky enough to run, but others…” He looks down, mouth falls open as he tries to find the word.

Dead. Yujun doesn’t need to say it when it’s clear.

“I’m sorry.” The wounds are clean for what they are and Junmin lays his palm flat against Yujun’s warmer one, glancing at the burn scars that make their way along the younger’s fingertips. A price to pay for fire magic–Junmin wonders, somewhere in the back of his mind, if his hand is freezing to Yujun?

Minjae mentioned it once before. 

Yujun’s fingers curl around his hand, boiling, “I was scared.” He whispers, “I couldn’t do anything because of the brush, and then my hands-”

“It’s okay.” His other hand pats the underside of Yujun’s, soothing, “Everything’s fine now.” He’s not good with things like this, with comforting, especially not those he’s not close to. Yujun’s included in that circle for all the time they spent at the academy.

So when Yujun still looks at him, near tears with a frown so deep it pains Junmin, it’s safe to say he’s been unconvincing.

“I don’t think it is.”

Junmin can’t say anything against it when he feels the same, feels that dull ache start crawling its way back up his neck. He doesn’t say anymore, drops his eyes back to their hands, pulling his away to check. It’s not perfect by any means, pink marks littering themselves over Yujun’s palm, scatter up towards his fingers but the wounds are closed, infection is of little concern, and that’s all that matters, “Hand me the other.”

“It’s fine-”

“Don’t argue, just listen.” He tries to say it softly, knowing it’s still hard but it gets Yujun to obey. The blood that’s dried is darker, the quality of the handkerchief rougher, and the wound is worse. Junmin grimaces at the state of it, digs a nail under small bits of gravel that’ve lodged themselves in the gash. The bleeding had been stanched quicker but-

“Yechan was a little more thorough.” Yujun answers his thoughts.

“My thanks to Yechan then.” He tries to be careful but it’s slow going, picking as gently as he can. He’s wasting time, he knows that much, eyes looking over to see Jungwoon assessing an arrow wound–the one with the wound stares at the two of them, glancing between the two of them–but he stays with Yujun, offering what little comfort he can.

“Excuse me, uh-” He turns, face to face with two of the northerners from earlier, one of their hands extended only to retract back, “I-I mean, we, we’d like-we-”

“We’d like to help.” The other finishes, a face much like Jungwon’s, “Excuse Lord Jinsik,” Jinsik gives the other a look, Junmin’s too tired to think hard about it, “we’re a little tired from our hike but we’d be happy to help.” 

Considering the state of the Alliance students he wouldn’t turn them away even if he had a choice, “We appreciate it.”

“The more the merrier!” Jungwon echoes, uses the distraction to pull out the arrow as swift as possible before clamping a hand over it. Eyes widen in surprise but no scream—even Junmin’s shocked. Yujun looks like he’ll faint.

At least Jungwon’s magic is swift. Junmin will give him that, at least. 

The rain begins to let up. The bell tolls above them as the other set out to work. The noise works alongside the ache in his head and faces up towards the clearing clouds and has the pleasure of seeing him.

The archbishop in all his glory, smiling down upon the scene.

To say the sight boils his blood is an understatement—a mockery , Junmin thinks to himself, to be chosen by the goddess only to watch Her creatures wither on the ground while you stay in your tower—trying to keep his breathing even as he’s finally able to lay his palm against Yujun’s again, tearing his eyes down from the tower and looking over where he knows he’s being watched from.

Minjae’d seen as Junmin had, it seems, the same distaste in his eyes that dissolves the moment his attention is back on the other. Junmin opens his mouth to speak but realizes he’s too far away, has too many eyes on them around,

‘Later.’ He mouths and Minjae’s eyes widen in surprise. He’s obedient though, something Junmin appreciates, nodding to Junmin’s request before he turns on his heel and finally heads off with one final look back.

No matter how long he takes here he has no worries that Minjae will stay waiting.

Yujun’s smiling when he turns around and raises an eyebrow, taking his hand away and is surprised by a better result than he expected, “Was that the one you used to talk about? Back at the academy?” 

He lets the younger take his hand back, letting out a small breath, “Yes.” Is the only answer he gives before he gives one final pat on the shoulder, finally moving on.

⚔

“You took a while.” Minjae says as soon as Junmin quite literally stumbles upon him in a courtyard behind the dining hall, tripping over his feet when he passes through the gate but catching himself quick enough.

He’s shuffling through a deck of cards and Junmin fights the urge to question it, considering he knows how this goes.

“Did you see how bad they looked?” He asks instead and Minjae nods. He sits, hands clasped together on the table in front of him, still eyeing the cards, “Speaking of injuries-”

“My ankle’s fine.” The words are quick, sharp, but Minjae softens in the next sentence, “It’d probably be fully healed if it was you.”

“You act like I’m a miracle worker.”

“You act like you’re not.” Junmin thinks about the depths he’s brought Minjae back from before. Broken body and all, blood caked on his hands. He keeps it to himself and Minjae deals the cards out, one to Junmin, one to himself, before they have a full hand of three, “Highest deal gets to talk first.”

“You’re already cheating.” He doesn’t pick up the cards yet, already knows he fights a losing battle.

Minjae only shrugs, “You watched me cut the deck.” True, “Isn’t that enough?” Not with the track record the other has. Still Junmin picks up his cards. Exhaustion has its place he supposes, doesn’t have the energy to show his shock when he sees what he has. 

And yet, as always: “Point reversal.” Minjae says just as he’s about to play his cards, a winning hand no question. He scoffs, throwing them to the table before leaning away,

“You’re the fucking worst, you realize that? Does being part of military affairs automatically make you a swindler?” He snaps, tired.

Minjae takes it on the chin, still simpers despite the outburst, “I have to get the upper hand sometimes. You get too lucky, I never win fair battles with you.”

He’s unbelievable—always has been and Junmin knows that, “Say your peace then.” He sighs as he looks up at the sky, can’t imagine what’s worse than Minjae’s already said before-

“I want to reinstate our engagement.”

Junmin doesn’t think he heard correctly the first time–couldn’t possibly have heard that–head snapped back to look at Minjae, “You what?”

“Our engagement, I think we-”

“You think we-did you think about what I thought? For even a moment while you were thinking, did you happen to remember what surrounded you calling it off the first time?”

Minjae’s eyes widen, staring at Junmin for a moment before he has the audacity to look confused, “I thought-” He pauses, fiddles with one of his cards that are still faced down, “I mean, at the time it was what I thought was the best option for us–I thought it was going to be the best for you-”

“Yes, of course, I’m sorry that your deathbed declaration of love followed by ‘I think we should break up’ before your heart gave out the second time, Minjae, rubbed me the wrong way-”

“Junmin-”

“-not to mention three months of being barred from setting a single foot on Kim territory because your father thought the sight of me would somehow break you when I was the one who’d been pulled away from your bedside in tears.” He feels them now, the sting as his eyes begin to water. Minjae sees it too, opens his mouth to speak but Junmin barrels through, on his feet now as he leans over the table, “You had Jungwon to rely on, to help you while you healed, Minjae. I had no one, not a single person at my side as my parents wondered—no, sorry, hounded me about what I had managed to do wrong.”

He barely sees Minjae stand, hands grasped around Junmin’s where they’re balled up on the table, “I know, I’m sorry.” Junmin closes his eyes, tries to remember how to keep himself level, “Sorry doesn’t even cut it, I know that. Half-dead Minjae doesn’t make the best decisions-”

“Don’t you dare make that into a fucking joke.”

“I’m not, I’m not, I swear it.” He feels their heads knock together, almost feels the headache creep back up when Minjae leans into it, “I’d apologize with my life if I could and you know that but considering you seem to like me better alive,” Junmin can’t even argue with that, “I’ll just have to give it to you-”

“You’re stupid.” Junmin whispers, blinking his eyes open when he feels a hand at his cheek, still doesn’t truly look though, “You’re such a fool, you know that?” and Minjae laughs at him, voice wet now that he’s also crying,

“Have been, actually, for the majority of the time you’ve known me.” We both are, Junmin wants to tell him, “Choi Sumin from the Ministry of Religion just met me yesterday and he could tell you as much-”

“Good for him.” He shrugs, “He’s not engaged to you though, now is he?”

It’s then that he finally looks up, locking eyes. The look Minjae’s eyes disarms as much as it can, soft just like it used to be, a smile even as their noses brush together, “No.” Minjae says, chuckles even, “He’s not. Last time I checked you were…” It’s timid, hopeful, and Junmin leans into the hand against his cheek, lets the weight of his head rest heavier against Minjae’s and he’s tired, so, so tired,

“I am.” He says despite that, resolved, “Someone has to keep you alive.”

“Someone does.” Minjae’s thumb brushes his cheek, “All things considered there’s still a chance to die. Here, most of all.” He says like Junmin doesn’t already know the possibilities for everyone here, like he doesn’t dwell on it, like he doesn’t think about Jung Yujun at the gate, too young for what might become of him.

“Make me a fucking widow, then. Don’t run every time you think it’ll be the easier option for me.”

And he means it, hopes Minjae realizes he means it as he digs his nails into the table and waits.

“I promise, then.” Minjae finally says, “I really do.” He pats at Junmin’s cheek before pulling away, “Let’s get you to bed then, you look dead on your feet.” And Junmin still can’t argue with that.

Chapter Text

White Lilies

- Seeun -

28th of February;
Sovereign Year 1143

When asked later he won’t outright admit that he was scared, frozen upon opening his eyes and seeing but pitch black, hearing the sound of scratching so close he'd felt it in his ears. Pulling the blanket down had alleviated it, the tiniest bit, just enough, but-

Blindness. It would’ve been a hindrance for sure, a genuine fear for him before he realizes the moon’s out, hitting the curtained wall he faces.

Thankfully he is alive, has sight—almost thankful, not as much as he could be considering the way his heart nearly jumps into his throat when he rolls over and sees a figure sat at his bedside, illuminated from behind by the moon that shines in through the window.

“Gods, you-” His voice cracks, hoarse as he nearly chokes, “make a noise, I’m begging.” A jacket lays over him that isn’t his and he pulls it closer under his chin. Hunter has the balls to snort in reply as he continues the scratching, a quill in his hand, “What’re you writing?”

“A letter to your mother.” Hunter replies and Seeun still can’t see his face, can’t really gauge the tone he’s being given, “Telling her how her son almost succumbed to the cold.” Okay- “Y’know that thing he should be acclimated to-”

“Alright!” The way his voice wavers really helps his case—it doesn’t—as does the very stern expression he gives—both of them have dealt with far more threatening opposition—so surely he must look very menacing as he throws the covers back harshly—regrets it instantly as he realizes his own jacket is missing and huffs, “I can barely see your face? How are you even writing? Your mother would have a fit if she was here-”

He wins in some regard at least, has clearly made enough of a nuisance out of himself as he tries to sit up because Hunter closes the journal on his lap with a sigh and props his shoed feet on the edge of the bed. Seeun feels pressure in his lungs as he moves–realizes that’s something that’s probably not great but his head feels like it drains and coats his parched throat, something that’s definitely not great. He has to pick his battles, however, and dealing with the scratching in his throat seems the better option when up against the scratching of Hunter’s quill.

He still can’t see the expression he’s being given but books have been thrown before but not now, so he assumes the other is in good humor—or at least pities him, Seeun can work with that.

“The moon’s full.” Hunter simply says, turns so that the light casts on the side of his face to prove a point, “There was no other choice.” There’s candlelight beyond the curtain that keeps them to the corner of whatever room they’re clearly in. Very accessible candlelight that the other could probably ask for despite whatever inconvenience it’d be to Seeun’s sleep.

Seeun comes to his own delusional conclusions surrounding Hunter’s need to go out of his way for others, fists his hands in the coat that now lays across his lap-

And chooses to ignore it. Willingly. For his own sake. Mostly because his chest already feels like it’s caved in and is being hollowed out again in real time.

A damnable illness for sure.

Instead he takes a look around the room—stone, high enough up that he doesn’t see anything close when he looks out the window, a little cabinet on the wall above him. By the temperature alone he guesses they’re not in the north anymore, barely remembers the past day and that’s not something that weighs lightly on him as he tries to think. Luckily for him, Hunter finds his confused expression a little too readable, “You owe me for the rest of the way here.” Honestly? Worth its weight in gold and pride. But not in nagging, “Probably owe the others and your cousin a bit more for the worry you caused them.”

Well.

Not the best outcome. Blessed be the dark they say in the north and he hopes that he’s at least shadowed enough that the embarrassed hue of his cheeks isn’t as noticeable as it feels, “Five gold says you offered to carry me. I’m not even that heavy.”

“Find someone to confirm that and you’ll have your money.” And that, that at least confirms some good humor on the other’s part, gets a smile to pull at the sides of Seeun’s mouth in response.

But before he can verbalize any sort of remark the skidding of a chair against stone catches him off guard—again, later he’ll never admit the fear outright, but unfortunately the high pitched shriek was heard by at least one other.

And, well, he can’t kill Hunter-

The candlelight travels behind the curtain, pulled back softly to reveal a man that Seeun can’t very well say he’s seen before, cropped black hair barely hidden under a white beret, a matching white jacket cuffed in black. There’s a scar that sits diagonally across the man’s nose, eyes looking between the two of them with raised eyebrows, “Can’t say I expected him to be in talking condition so soon.” He says to Hunter before turning his attention to Seeun, “Could barely raise your head when you came in earlier.”

“Feel good as new.” He says, even as his words feel like razors as they come up. Water. Water would be great, but he takes what he can get and praises any goddess he can think of for the light. It does wonders for illuminating the small area, allows Seeun the blessing of finally seeing how his friend is faring which isn’t far off from what he imagined: heavy lidded from lack of sleep, all the dejection reminiscent of a kicked puppy, looking up at the stranger with red rimmed eyes-

Red rimmed? Surely Hunter couldn’t have cried over him because he’s-

“Your gods don’t want him so they keep him alive.”

-a bit of an ass.

“Saves me worrying over him.”

An affectionate ass. But an ass nonetheless.

The stranger, appallingly, coughs out a laugh as he lets the curtain fall behind him, “I was going to say it was the holy basil, but I’ll take your word for it.”

“His word’s worth its weight in pi-”

“Carried you!” Hunter breaks in, “I carried you all the way here from the halfway point, could’ve left you in the snow with the wolves.”

Seeun, in a very good show of maturity, sticks his tongue in response—dodges the quill that hits the wall next to his head—and snickers when he manages to catch Hunter’s wrist in the process.

“Oh my.” He hears as he watches the stranger out of the corner of his eye moving around his bedside before setting the candle on a table near the wall, “God’s above, I’m glad you’re from the north. Not sure I could handle you two being in my class.”

“You’re a teacher?” Seeun asks as the cupboard above his head gets opened.

“And a physician, and a singer–sometimes a navigator depending on who’s asking.” Seeun’s not asking, “But not your teacher for sure.”

He takes a glance over to Hunter who fills him in, “He’s from Leicester. I think you’d just lost consciousness again before we came through the gate, but they… fared a bit worse than us.” 

“That’s putting it mildly~” The man sings, rifling through the cupboard, all manner of bottles clinking together–one of them falls, is caught justs before it hits Seeun’s head, “They put up a good fight that’s for sure, lost more guards than students and that’s not something you see everyday.” A mortar and pestle appear in his hand, placed upon the table alongside the candle and an array of herb filled bottles that fill Seeun with dread, “Kim Seunghun, of the eastern Kim, not the southern or northern Kim.”

“There isn’t a northern Kim.”

“Pity that. There’s no eastern Park either.”

Seeun takes another look at Hunter, hasn’t shaken off the former’s hold surprisingly, “I already said there wasn’t.” He shrugs, ‘I don’t think he listened.’ he mouths and Seeun raises an eyebrow.

His faith in the administration wanes, “Had a lot of time to bond while I was asleep?”

“You’re not exactly an active listener in your sleep. Talker, yes-”

“Stop, stop, I’m allowed to have one flaw.”

“Just one?” The wrist in his hold flexes as Hunter moves his feet back to the floor, “Being allergic to the cold wasn’t one?” the closed journal gets deposited on the bed near his knees, “How was your aim with a bow again, hm-?”

Seeun suddenly misses his former lack of consciousness—hells below, he’d take the godforsaken wolves that used to bay at the moon in the woods on his property in the middle of the night instead of the tinkering of glass bottles next to him as Hunter shoots arrows at his pride.

What was left of it, anyway.

“And voila!” Kim Seunghun straightens up, a small wooden bowl filled with a mystery liquid in hand, “Drink this.” Seeun makes a face at the smell, knows horseradish from a mile away, “Don’t make that face. Lie to him all you want, but I can hear the way your lungs are from here.” The bowl stays put in front of his face as he stares up mournfully, “Drink.”

Seeun’s had enough of mystery liquids, lets go of Hunter to take the bowl in both hands and tips his head back. Regret is immediate, “What even-oh gods what was in that?”

“For starters? Holy basil-” the name of that damned herb can be written on his headstone below his own at this point.

He feels his head hit against the stone wall as Kim Seunghun continues to list off ingredients, content to let the bowl drop from his hands but a sturdier one pushes it back up towards his face, “Finish it, I’m not carrying you out of here.” Which Seeun knows is a lie, but his half hearted grumbling is ignored as more of the putrid liquid passes through his lips.

“Good as new.” He repeats—croaks—as the bowl clatters against the table, pushing the blanket farther away but pulling Hunter’s jacket closer, pulls it on instead of his own as he searches the floor for his boots, “I don’t have to stay here all night, right?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.” Kim Seunghun shrugs. Hunter—thankfully—pulls his boots from under the bed and pushes them towards him, is even nice enough to work on one set of laces, “I’ve pointed out the dorms to Park Hunter here thinking he’d leave before dark.” Seeun grunts in response, struggles with the laces as he breathes a little harsher, “Just promise not to get lost on the way and I’ll let you free.”

“We won’t.” They will. A teacher that isn’t theirs doesn’t need to know that though.

Unluckily, when he stands it’s a bit too quick, head spins as his vision blurs, everything rushing up his throat with the need to get out–tastes specifically of basil to his extreme displeasure.

Luckily–if not just as unluckily, considering the earful he’ll get later—he’s caught by the arm before he tumbles, kept upright as Hunter scoffs and pulls the arm to rest around his shoulders, free hand at Seeun’s waist to steady him,

“Good as new, you said?”

“It’s called optimism. Try it.”

⚔

The next morning is better–on a relative scale at least, considering Seeun finds anything other than frigid temperatures and chest congestion an upgrade from the past few days.

The change in scenery still throws him off in the morning, almost doesn’t recognize the room he wakes up in and burrows under the covers again when his heart finally climbs down from his throat. Separate quarters are lonesome, sneezes into the silence and it echoes off the wall before he kicks the covers off in search of a distraction—a person preferably, one of the stray cats that he saw on the walk last night-

Anything at this point.

It’s still early when he steps out onto the stone walkway and is greeted with, well, some drab, poorly maintained grass puddled from the rain and a scenic view of a nice wall that he feels suits the mood. His mood, at least, worsens considerably the longer he looks at it. 

“Well, well!” A cheerful voice greet him before he can take another step—startles him, makes him nearly stumble backwards and onto his ass Yang Jeongin leans against the alcove of his own door, already dressed in his uniform, ginger hair pushed back away from his forehead, “Thought we’d miss you on the first day. Holy basil?” He asks, nothing but genuine curiosity in his light tone.

“Holy basil.” Seeun replies with far more distaste in his voice.

Jeongin clicks his tongue, shakes his head with a soft smile before pushing off from where he leans. He claps a hand onto Seeun’s shoulder, practically craning his neck to look up despite their age difference as he speaks and Seeun himself can’t help but feel a little happy about that, just the slightest bit, “If it helped, it helped. Taste means nothing in the long run.”

They’ll have to disagree on that. The aftertaste will haunt him.

“One question though-and don’t take it the wrong way,” Jeongin says as he removes his hand, brows pinched together in confusion, “but what are you doing down here?”

He frowns, “I’m not following?”

“Tradition. Nobles on the top floor, safe and tucked away. Commoners to the bottom floor.” He gives a glance around the area, “Who pray to the goddess it doesn’t flood.”

Oh. Well, when it’s put like that- “I asked to be put downstairs.”

“Hm.” Seeun doesn’t like that look, “Who’s in the room to your left again?”

Seeun frowns. Jeongin only smiles brighter.

The older’s arm loops around his, pulling him towards the steps, “As expected.” What- “I’m sure your friend won’t mind if I steal you for an escort to the dining hall before the bell tolls?” Jeongin pouts, “My glasses broke on the hike and it’d be a shame if one of your only healers got lost and fell into the lake.”

“A tragedy, I’m sure.”

⚔

Beyond the group that he’d traveled with, the only face that’s familiar amidst the crowd that gathers in the small courtyard in front of the classrooms is Kim Seunghun from last night, standing to the right of two other men.

The one in the middle stands at the same height as Kim Seunghun, an undercut to black hair and dressed in brown fighting leathers, lean. The other is shorter than the two of them, longer hair, a sharper face, and a metal breastplate over a black linen shirt.

Their teachers for the next year.

“Alright!” The shortest of the three says as he steps forward, two claps to get the murmurs to die down, “It’s nice to see some fresh faces for the year; two princes,” His eyes go to Seeun’s cousin first, then to a taller fellow he bets is from the Empire, “and an Alliance leader’s son?” Someone who’s definitely not older than Seeun by the looks of it, doesn’t instill much fear the way Sunghoon does, “Can’t think of many years that’s happened.”

“We’ll expect great things then.” The other says, “The three of you are next to lead, so I’m certain there’s a lot of weight on your shoulders already,” Last time he checked, Adrestria was ruled as a matriarchy but he holds his tongue, “but I assure you you’re in good hands here.”

“Our hands, to be specific.” Kim Seunghun says, raising a hand to place over his heart, “I, Doctor Kim Seunghun, will be overseeing the Yellow Dahlias, children of Leicester Alliance.” 

“I, General Jung Wooyoung,” The shortest begins, mimicking the gesture, “will be overseeing the Purple Orchids, from the Adrestrian Empire.”

“And I,” The last steps forwards, places his hands at hips instead of his heart, “Professor Choi Yeonjun, will be overseeing the White Lilies, of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus.”

The names alone seem to cause chatter among the students, even Lee Heeseung whispers as the last speaks, “He’s a legend.” He says in awe, but disagreement arises from his friends from the capitol,

“I fear you’ve never watched the man trip over air.” One whispers behind him,  “But in a fight he’s the best.”

“Don’t let him hear that.” That voice at least is recognizable, but can’t recall the name, “His head alongside a few of the others here are big enough as it is.”

“Northern pride.” Hunter whispers, silenced alongside the rest as another set of claps calls their attention as their professor speaks,

“I’m sure you’re all eager to get your heads in the books but the archbishop has decided a friendly challenge is in order to start off the year. A mock battle, actually, against your peers here.”

If the air to Seeun’s left gets colder he ignores it, pointedly looks away from the kids from the Alliance as General Jung nods, “The day after tomorrow.” A chill runs up his spine and he leans farther away from them, ignoring the questioning look he gets from Hunter, “Only five from each group will participate so plan accordingly, but we’ll be alongside you even if we won’t be interfering much.”

“This is merely a test of skill. It seems prudent to see where your strengths are before the year starts properly.” A few hands raise from the empire’s side, several at the back but they get waved off by Professor Choi, “We’ll be happy to answer more questions that anyone has later, for right now the people beside you are opponents, not friends.” He says, stern despite the smile on his face before the three of them turn to leave and the hands fall.

Seeun hears it amongst the shuffling, grips tighter onto the sleeve in front of him as someone from the Alliance mutters beside him,

“Was surviving bandits not enough of a test? ” 

⚔

“Don’t think too much about it, just choose who you feel is best.”

Seeun decides that their teachers weren’t kidding when they said they wouldn’t be interfering too much. Professor Choi leans against the podium, removed from them as Sunghoon stands at the chalkboard with a list of names started:

Park Sunghoon

Kang Taehyun

Lee Heeseung

It’s what he expects from his cousin. The usual suspects.

“It’s cold in here.” He murmurs where he sits, doesn’t even have time to react as three hands appear in his face. Taehyun’s commoner friend—or fiance? Seeun’s never partial to the details—is faster, hand placed against his forehead gently.

“No fever.” The brunette says, smiling as he pulls away, “He’ll live.”

“You’re no healer.” Jeongin scoffs, but Taehyun only laughs.

“Beomgyu was faster though.”

Beomgyu pats that same hand at Seeun’s head like they’ve known each other for more than the past hellish week, “No fever, no problem.” He chuckles, ruffling his hair like it doesn’t make Seeun feel significantly worse–weaker, smaller. Another name gets added to the board:

Yang Jeongin

He has to admit that’s a bit out of character for his cousin. Sunghoon has nothing against Jeongin, but he is usually against commoners and their roster is thin of nobles in comparison to the south. Out of healer options he at least gets it, considering they don’t know what’s to come in their little test battle.

So with only two options left on the noble front he’s already sure of himself. He’s met Ham Jinsik before, a talented healer no doubt but not a fighter in the slightest sense of the word. He straightens his shoulders, smirks as he sees his last name get written on the board-

Park Hunter

“Are you kidding me?” He blurts out without thinking, drawing several sets of eyes to him in an instant and his throat burns worse despite his morning dose of holy basil-”Why am I being left out?”

“You’ve just recovered—barely, at that—I can’t risk changing tactics if you somehow get worse.” Sunghoon explains, calm, composed.

The opposite of Seeun, who bristles at the words, “I’m as healthy as can be!” He argues and his voice chooses to crack, holds back a coughing fit as he pushes on, “I’m one your best swordsman–bested Heeseung of all peo-” A hand clamps over his mouth as his voice grows louder—hoarser—and keeps him in place before he has the chance to stand up and make his case worse than it is.

Hunter. Of course it’s Hunter, “Simmer down.” He whispers, keeping a hand firmly on Seeun’s shoulder.

The anger doesn’t dissipate, barely cools as Sunghoon regards them before sighing, “Talk some sense into him if he’ll listen to you, Park Hunter.” Which is something Seeun’s come to expect, considering he does listen—but the next sentence Sunghoon says as he turns is a step too far, “Would be better if he’d listen to someone of his class, however, let alone his prince.”

It’s Seeun's turn to place a hand over the other’s mouth—Hunter’s one to hold his tongue most times but not when it comes to ‘a bastard’s hierarchy.’ The two of them must be a sight, keeping each other from saying just enough to get them handed their own pride on a platter. One look at Heeseung and he knows he’s on thin ice.

Worse has happened. He doesn’t think it’d help his throat, however. Or Hunter’s mood.

Lucky be them then, that Jeongin is partial to the two of them. Lucky are they still, that most people listen to Jeongin despite his lack of status, “Now, now, Prince Sunghoon. There is no class on the battlefield. Would you deny any victory the alliance gets just because they have more commoners?”

Sunghoon seems to take the comment, chalk turning over in his hand. Hunter also seems less like he’s baring his teeth behind Seeun’s hand so he takes it away, the action mirrored as he’s allowed to breathe.

“Well, about that…” Seeun becomes acutely aware of the way Hunter’s hand holds heavier at his shoulder, “I was going to suggest we focus our efforts on taking them out.” Even their professor, silent as he watches from behind his podium, raises a brow, “With how they were at the gates yesterday I felt a victory was assured.”

“That’s-” Ham Jinsik starts, face screwed up as he processes the words, “isn’t that a bit too far? Some of those wounds were deep—it feels a bit wrong to attack them harshly.”

“Are we to hand them a victory out of courtesy?” Seeun says amidst his souring mood, “It’s a battle of skill.” Not that he’ll be there for it.

There’s a murmuring amongst them, whispers of approval and arguments. Hunter locks eyes with him when he sneaks a glance, chin resting on his free hand. Hunter doesn’t speak up, already knows that his word wouldn’t be weighed heavily.

Not to them at least.

“I agree.” Taehyun stands, “The Orchids will probably have the same idea considering they had two of their own working on the Alliance members as well. They know how bad their injuries were so they’ll be focusing their energy on taking out what they think is the weakest link. It’s what they do.” Everyone hums in agreement; it’s what the Empire’s always done, “We can hope they focus their force on the east and take them when they least expect it. Then, take out the east for ourselves in the aftermath.”

Essentially using the Alliance for bait, a trap set for the main enemy.

Admittedly a weird way to think of people they’ll be around for the next year. Even Seeun bites his cheek as he mulls it over.

Beomgyu voices his opinion next, “And in the event that this plan fails and the Alliance hands us our ass?” He smirks, chuckles even as he shrugs, “I feel I’d be partial to respect over offense.”

“Then it’s decided.” Sunghoon drops the chalk to the lip of the board, stands tall and proud before them like the leader he will be–like the one he is , “We’ll work more on this over the next day but for now that’ll be our base.” He turns, regards their professor with a bow to Seeun’s surprise, “What do you think, professor?”

Professor Choi simply hums, looking from the board to the rest of the group before chuckling, 

“I think the north has a lot more up its sleeve this year.”

Chapter Text

Yellow Dahlias

- Hyunwoo -

2nd of March;
Sovereign Year 1143

“We’ll be everyone’s first target.” Yechan says when the sun is barely over the mountains in the east, grinning broadly as he balances an arrow on his finger.

Hyunwoo’s come to think their youngest has a whole host of bad habits he doesn’t agree with. Giving the older a mischievous look as he walks a parapet that sits above a 200 foot drop just happens to be two of them.

He keeps it to himself, resists the urge to reach up and pull the younger down before he falls because he can’t stop imagining the sight of Yechan’s corpse at the bottom of the cliff from playing over and over in his head, “Isn’t that a bad thing? You seem a little… too happy about that?”

He gets a laugh and Hyunwoo decides that having what’s supposed to be a ‘super top secret meeting’ that he was dragged out of bed at dawn for gets higher on the list. The others look just as enthused. One of the mages sits on the ground, picking at the scars that line his hands but the nomads—one of them—looks happy as can be.

But he’s not fighting.

“Far from it actually.” He glances back at Hyunwoo who only frowns further, “But if this is the game they wanna play then we’ll play it.”

“I still say I’m fine to fight…” the mage on the ground starts, gets distracted when Hyunwoo knocks his hands apart so he’ll stop picking. He doesn’t. If anything that makes the kid more determined to scratch one of them open. He’s only deterred when Yechan jumps down to the walkway and puts a hand on his shoulder.

He’s babysat wolves with better attitudes–keeps that particular comment stuck behind his teeth just like the first because he’d like his body to remain arrow free-

“You heard Seunghun-”

“Professor Seunghun.” Hyunwoo corrects.

“-this is a more physical fight,” Yechan continues on without pause, “blunted weapons and blunter arrows.” The one in Yechan’s hand is decidedly not blunt, still twirled around as he talks, “Plus fire’s a… liability if we can’t aim for the body.”

“Grass is flammable.” The other pouts but agrees—Hyunwoo agrees, doesn’t take any pleasure in thinking about how they all almost went up in the blaze during that attack.

He shivers, shakes it out lightly, “So what’s the plan then? You clearly called us out here to change it from what you’d said yesterday.”

“Watch your tone.” Jay says behind him, and Hyunwoo takes great care in trying to beat it into himself that he’s not on equal ground with a few of them, “House Lee leads the Alliance currently as well as the Dahlias. Show a little respect.”

And the son of said House and the leader of theirs is a child, a clearly deranged one from Hyunwoo’s point of view. One who steps back up onto the parapet and raises up just like Hyunwoo’s heart rate does, “He’s right though, I do have changes.” Yechan turns to them, pointing the arrow towards the group like it’s any less of a weapon, “Firstly I want Jiseok to switch out for Jungsu.”

A noble for a nomad. Hyunwoo expects a fight—is used to the pattern by now considering one of them continues to bark at any and every point—so he’s genuinely caught off guard when the noble bows his head meekly, “Of course. Honestly, I’m a little… happy to not really have to fight right now.” Hyunwoo sees the way Jiseok’s hands shake, hidden behind his back away from view.

But his shoulders aren’t, and none of them are any blinder than Hyunwoo tends to be on a good day. At least this noble can stand upright and say it honestly unlike some of them.

Hyunwoo takes a glance over at one in particular they’d picked up at one of the villages along the way. A giant to most of them, Yoon Hyunsuk, sitting on the ground far from them on the bridge, arms wrapped around his knees as he keeps his eyes anywhere but on the group.

He’s fallen out of trees as many times as he’s fallen off his own feet—he knows the higher the platform, the worse the injury.

What happened to them just happened to be a very long fall.

“There’s honor in choosing your battles.” Hyunwoo says for the sake of it, knows it won’t reach very far but chooses to have a little hope. Jiseok seems to be at least a little comforted by it.

But Yechan fights it.

“If honor’s what you want then you won’t like what comes next.” He’s not liked much at all, definitely not the cheery way their house leader says what he does, “The north plans to use us for bait, and I can’t help but feel a little slighted about it.”

“Well…” It’s a good plan. What better way to trap a bear than by using a bunny?

“So what would you have us do?” Jay asks, takes a step towards the parapet as he looks out over the field to the west.

“If it’s bait they want, then we can show them bait.” Yechan begins, turning his attention in the same direction. Hyunwoo notices the smile drop, can’t help but feel less comforted by its absence, “Just not the way they expect.”

⚔

The field looks smaller than it had from up on the bridge, a flat grassland surrounded by a forest around the perimeter to anywhere but the south where the ones that aren’t fighting are seated.

His fingers tap nervously against his thigh where he stands behind Jay and Yechan in the crowd facing their two proctors for the event: two men about the same height, one just a bit shorter and a bit broader, the other a bit leaner and taller, hair longer.

“Aye, alright,” the shorter of the two speaks, “we’ll be your proctors for this battle, as well as your combat teachers for the coming year. This is Sir Lee Minho of Fhirdiad.” he gestures to the other and Hyunwoo starts to tighten his grip around his bow, “And I’m Sir Bang Chan,” he smiles, “also of Fhirdiad.”

He closes his eyes in an attempt to stop from rolling them.

Great. Proctors from the north—a little heavy handed if anyone had decided to ask him. They never do.

“The rules are simple: either two hits or one ‘fatal’ hit and this horn will blow and your name will be called. An out. Your teachers are on your side, yes, but in an effort to make this a more fair and fun fight they’ll only be stepping in when things start to look a little rough. They’ll be out the moment there’s no more students on their side. Your weapons and arrows are blunted but that doesn’t mean swing them freely or shoot blindly because they’ll still hurt like hell when they land.” There’s a look directed towards Hyunwoo and the rest of the archers of the Dahlias, a minor warning, “I believe that’s all, hm? Minho?”

“You’ll be seen no matter what so don’t try anything too funny. The rest of your classmates will be having lunch over there. You’re free to join once you’re out.” Sir Minho speaks before beginning to turn, but a tall student from the Orchids raises his hand,

“Isn’t that unfair? They get to eat while we’re over here? Fighting?”

Their proctors share a look, the taller of the two smirking, “I’d suggest losing faster then.” He says before continuing on his way with the other trailing behind, “Take your places, students!”

Before Hyunwoo can take his first steps, Yechan gets his attention, knocking shoulders with him and Sunoo, “Good luck, you two. Just trust me and be fast.” He chuckles like he’s not asking a lot of people who’ve just come together this past week before he directs his attention elsewhere, “Professor Seunghun, I need you to stand here-”

Hyunwoo takes his own place towards the western edge and looks around the field as they all get in starting formations, two flat headed arrows loosely held below their fletchings in one hand. From here he can see the Lilies standing to the north and he has half a mind to laugh about that, their house leader standing to the front of all places—prideful, he thinks, arrogant—but it’s also worrying if the north is that sure of themselves-

He shakes his head, “Breathe. Just breathe.” This isn’t a real fight, there’s no folly in losing but there’s a bitterness on his tongue and a tightness in his shoulders when he remembers that most of the north wanted to use them as stepping stones in a fun fight.

They’ve all just got to trust their leader—just have to believe in Yechan—disconcerting as that might be for him.

He lets out a breath. The horn blows.

And Hyunwoo turns on his feet, running for the forest behind him. He doesn’t stop to check on the others, doesn’t pause until he gets past the second row of trees and checks left and right.

“Where is the battle taking place? That field over here right?”

They’d all moved closer to the wall as Yechan sat upon it. Just low land surrounded by dense trees coming all the way to where the land inclined upwards to hold the monastery.

“At no point were we told there was going to be a boundary on how far we could go.”

And still hadn’t from what Hyunwoo had heard from the proctors, loading the first of the two arrows. 

“You want us to flee to the border?” Hyunwoo clarified.

“We’re archers–most of us at least, even Sunoo. Do you think we’d be able to best a bunch of hard headed brutes by going head on? They think they have the leg up in the open so we’ll turn it on them by getting out of sight.”

Hyunwoo frowns even now thinking about it.

Yechan had been right though. The tall one from before still stands where he'd been before the horn blew and Hyunwoo pulls the string back before letting it go with a twang, the other quickly loaded and let loose before the first even hits its mark.

A horn sounds, a name shouted by one of the proctors. He won’t be able to pull something like that off a second time as they all start to move.

“They said magic can only be used nonlethally but have you ever seen magic be used solely for incapacitating someone? The only reason they’re allowing mages at all is in case the rough housing gets rough.”

“That’s why you’re okay with not taking the only one of us that’s skilled in mending.”

“I told you, fire’s a liability. We have Seunghun-”

“Professor Seunghun-”

“Though he won’t stay in long.”

“I yield!” Hyunwoo hears as he takes off farther south along the treeline for another opening and the horn blows again, their professor’s name shouted, and it’s not even a breath later that another name follows it.

He’s not sure if everyone’s that predictable or if Yechan’s just incredibly lucky, “A damn oracle at this rate-”

“Take your shots and move. Don’t stay in the same spot. If they come for the treeline then go up, but they won’t go for us one at a time when they realize they still have to deal with each other as well. As for bait: Jungsu, engage the Lilies, and Jay go-”

He runs, keeps just out of sight and points his bow outward when he stops, keeps it drawn as he waits.

“How good are your eyes?” Yechan asks as he looks up from where he’s sitting.

“They’re fine.” Hyunwoo tells him.

Lies. They’re shit on a good day. But that’s fine, he tries to tell himself. Blond and broad is easy to tell from this far, mentally marks where Jungsu is fighting two from the north–the fucking leader of all people, alongside another who has an axe and Hyuwnoo doesn’t have much hope on that–and can only tell where Jay is because he’s the only one unarmed, but he’s also the only one of the two with his back to Hyunwoo-

“ Idiot.” He says out loud. That’s Yechan’s problem now. He moves back to Jungsu and takes the shot, catches one in the leg and starts to move again, north this time as the horn blares. Definitely not from my shot.

When it sounds off another time not long after he stops behind a tree and begins to count the blurs on the field: nine figures, five horns, three in the trees-

Seventeen.

Was there seventeen to begin with?

Another horn sounds. Still seventeen. 

“Don’t tell me-” He turns away from the fighting and takes a second to look around the trees as he listens, sinking to the ground beside a tree. His eyes may be bad but his ears usually pick up the slack. The horn comes three beats later alongside the yelling but Hyunwoo continues to block out everything above his own breath as he tries to up anything else.

But there’s nothing. Chances are the missing one is on Yechan’s side or Sunoo’s considering the other classes’ starting point. If luck’s on their side it’s Yechan’s , luckier still maybe one of them started with less numbers for whatever reason. But luck’s never been on his side before. Slowly he creeps back up and takes a glance over at the group at the edge of the field. Taking a head count of the one’s who’d never been still doesn’t add up when there’s only ten not including their proctors.

One of them is definitely fucked, he thinks as he takes another arrow from his quiver, keeps his lip bitten between his teeth as he pulls it back.

Jungsu takes a hit to the throat–a ‘fatal’ hit–and the horn blares once again because of it.

And just underneath that sound a branch snaps-

“Shit-” He turns his head before his bow, taking the shot blindly but is too late to see who knocks him off his feet. He’s quick to close his eyes to keep his vision from spinning as something lands not far from his throat, definitely feels a hand pressing against his too fast heart as he lays flat on his back.

“Do you yield?” 

Whoever’s got him certainly isn’t in a hurry to take their win so Hyunwoo takes the opportunity to get his bearings. He has a quiver halfway under his shoulder, arrows strewn around him; the ground is hard against his back, rough against the back of his head as he opens his eyes to see the almost indiscernible expression on the person who has him pinned. A blunted sword tip is stuck in the dirt left of his throat, held in the other’s hand and with one swift move it’d count as ‘fatal’.

But it hasn’t touched, “Not particularly.”

“Hmph. You realize your position?”

The horn blows and the other’s eyes quickly glance over the brush, just enough time for Hyunwoo’s fingers to wrap around the shaft of an arrow within reach on his right, moving his other to draw the attention when it’s back on him, “Yea, laid on the dirt,” He swallows dryly, “someone sitting on my chest–heavy, by the way.” he talks as he bides time. There’s no change in expression, but there’s a noticeable shift in pressure even as he’s still stared down at, “Pretty sure that counted as a first hit-”

The horn sounds and the same thing happens again, the other’s eyes shifting to see and Hyunwoo takes the chance, jamming the arrow into the other’s right side and uses the force to roll him off harshly. Dirt gets shoved harshly beneath his nails as he quickly scrapes up another arrow and his back hits a tree with enough force to knock the air from him. It’s still a bad spot, for sure, and he doesn’t know if anyone can even see that he landed a hit considering they’re behind the brushline but still he brandishes the blunted arrow like a dagger in front of him.

They’re at a standstill with Hyunwoo at the disadvantage—practically weaponless—but the other still won’t strike, dusts off his knees with one hand leisurely as he picks up his fallen sword with the other, “It wasn’t a first hit.”

The horn blares twice, but Hyunwoo doesn’t hear his own name.

“What?”

“You said it counted as a first hit.” The blunted sword gets raised, still not at him but Hyunwoo pushes back against the tree, “I never touched you. You got one on me-”

“Are you insane?”

A raised eyebrow, barely, “Not that I’ve been told clinically?” That’s not a no-

He doesn’t get a chance to say it out loud. Air rushes past his hand as a blunted arrow hits directly below the other’s ribs, making him falter as the sword falls from his hand and the horn goes off.

“Kim Junghoon!” Hyunwoo hears clear as day, dropping the arrow from his hand as Junghoon doubles over.

Blunted arrows still hurt.

“They sure do.” Junghoon replies. 

Well then, Hyunwoo hadn’t meant to say that out loud but-”You should’ve landed your hit when you could’ve then. Would’ve saved you the trouble.” 

But Junghoon shrugs, straightens up despite the very noticeable pain in his expression that dissipates the longer they stare at each other, “Wouldn’t have been fun to end it quickly.” 

That makes Hyunwoo decide right there that Junghoon is, indeed, insane . But he decides he’s just as insane to take to the hand of the one who practically stalked him like a cat when it’s offered and doesn’t push away that he certainly can’t see is brushed off his shoulder.

“Good fight.” Junghoon congratulates before exiting the brush, leaving behind a very confused Hyunwoo to try and process whatever that was before the final horns blow.

⚔

He’s still not sure if the win is left to pure luck or Yechan somehow divining the future but they do, a shoulder knocking into his as he starts to make his way back to the group,

“Told you to trust me.” Their leader grins, only laughs when Hyunwoo returns the favor with enough force to almost knock the two of them over.

“Sure.”

He doesn’t shake Yechan off when he links their arms and drags him farther up the field and ignores the nearby yelling, “That’s good.” He says, the smile taming down into something a little more real, “I’ll count myself lucky to have it.”

The unfortunate part of being tethered to Yechan is being nearly knocked to the ground when the other’s mage friend wraps around the two of them by the neck, too strong for a magic user -

“You did it!” Hyunwoo’s eardrums nearly bust but he’ll admit the enthusiasm is infectious–gets a good laugh when Yechan nearly chokes,

“Yujun, my throat-”

“The Orchids were given kitchen duty for losing first.”

“We can’t breathe-”

“Oh! Sorry.” 

They’re released without much fuss and Yechan hands Yujun his bow as he rubs at his own neck, “I bet the loss went over well.”

Hyunwoo agrees, “They’ll probably poison us.”

“I don’t know about that, Prince Huening seems happy?” And sure enough Hyunwoo sees the southern prince happily chatting away with his members.

It’s the one from the north that looks displeased, a severe frown on his face as he stalks over to Prince Huening and Hyunwoo is quick to move in step behind his leader who starts to pick up pace. Prince Huening looks actually surprised to turn and be faced with the three of them, looking pointedly between the house leaders as he chuckles nervously, “Um, good fight?”

Hyunwoo’s watches as Yechan’s bad habit of putting himself in what most would consider danger rears itself again, extending a hand forwards to the Lilies’ leader, “No hard feel-?”

“You threw the fight.” The other prince accuses, pointedly and wholly ignoring Yechan and Hyunwoo in favor of glaring up at the third whose smile dims but doesn’t disappear.

“And if I did?”

“The Battle of Flowers is coming up.” It gets mentioned like it matters, probably does to them considering the way one of them seethes and the other shrinks but Hyunwoo lost, “You’d better not do that then. And you-” Yechan stiffens when addressed; Hyunwoo grips his bow tighter on instinct, “you won by underhanded methods.”

“More underhanded than using wounded parties as bait?” It gets a reaction, clearly, shock on both of the other’s faces, “That was your plan, right? Would’ve been a good one if it worked, so I’ll commend that but my arm still hurts by the-” 

“It won’t happen again.” Sure, “We’ll win honorably .”

Hyunwoo finds his voice, even if it feels small in comparison, “Just like we did this time.” The glare turns to him and Yechan moves to get between them but nothing else is said. He doesn’t release the breath he’s holding until the prince looks away from him with a grunt and stalks off towards his own group.

“He’s like this sometimes, sorry, I’ll… go talk to him.” Prince Huening sighs, already on his way, “Congratulations by the way! You guys did great, can’t wait to work together!”

“You too!” Yechan calls back, waving off the prince. He visibly sags in relief when no one watches and Hyunwoo reaches just in case he falls but he doesn’t, just groans as he presses a hand against his own arm where the arrow’d been, “I hope that mage from the south is better at cooking than healing.” Hyunwoo can only sigh when Yechan continues, once again reminded that their house leader is a child at best, “Jay was right about it.”

Maybe it’s not too late to go back to the wolves.

Chapter Text

White Lilies

- Jinsik -

2nd of March;
Sovereign Year 1143

 “Oh? So that was your plan?” Jinsik picks at his nails, seated on the grass. If he’d been any more distracted he wouldn’t have seen it, only looked up from his conversation with Beomgyu– prions, too many prions–as the horn blew because he wondered who would take the first hit.

He hadn’t expected half of the Dahlias to run, fleeing into the trees that bordered the field without a second thought.

“Mhm!” Yujun hands him another piece of fresh bread, happily content with watching one of the older boy’s slice into an apple for him—Lord Junmin, he remembers from the gate, pointedly ignores that he was told to drop the title from his name–and Jinsik accepts it with a smile, “Yechan said it’d be more even.”

“For archers that’s sure.” Beomgyu says with a smile from where he lays on the grass, “Our prince isn’t going to be happy about that at all.” and from what Jinsik’s seen he can’t help but agree.

“It’s a bit deserved.” He says, wary of speaking ill of a house leader, let alone his own prince but Beomgyu echoes the thoughts with a shrug.

“I told him not to underestimate them. He’d do well to listen once in a while.”

He nearly jolts when the first horn blows, “Nishimura Riki!” He looks over to Lord Junmin who smirks as he doles out the fruit to greedy hands.

“The first one goes.”

Jinsik furrows his brow, “You don’t care if your team loses?” 

“No, I think bruising a few egos would do them some good.”

Jinsik watches the way the first one out nearly stumbles his way forwards as he rubs at his ribs, “I feel like more than egos are going to be bruised…”

The horn sounds again not long after, “Kim Seunghun!” He turns and sees the Dahlias’ teacher walking briskly off the field, no one around him, not a scuff in sight. Sir Minho doesn’t look very pleased as he meets the other, “Didn’t even put up a fight? Against children?”

“Yes, yes, children. Children who happen to have tempers! And weapons! Plus I’m a bit starved-”

“Of all the-”

Jinsik turns his attention away, “How are your hands doing, Yujun?”

“Huh?” Before he’s able to repeat the question Yujun turns his palms up for Jinsik to see, “They’re healed, but they itch. A few gashes are easy for Junmin—back at the magic academy he-”

“Let’s not.” Lord Junmin interrupts alongside the next blow of the horn, gently taking the younger’s hand into his own as he runs a thumb over the raised flesh there, “Your right hand’s going to end up staying pretty scarred.” Jinsik takes the opportunity to take a closer look at the left without touching and sees nothing beyond a few faint white lines.

Even the right’s not nearly as bad as the older makes it out to be, slightly wider and deeper marks that’ll fade pretty well over the next couple months. Better than I could do with wounds like that.

Another blow and he looks up as Sir Minho calls out Prince Huening’s name, eyes widening as Lord Taehyun runs across the field and strikes his sword down against the head of a white haired student, “That’s-that’s a little far, isn’t it?” He worries as the latter falls to his hands on the ground, struggling to pick himself back up.

“Kim Minjae!” 

“No, don’t worry.” Lord Junmin assures him as he stands and begins to walk forward, “He’s been through worse.” The steps quicken to meet the other, hands cupped around the shorter’s face before they begin back towards the rest of the group.

“Who do you think will win?” Jinsik wonders out loud, getting a glance from Beomgyu,

“I’m more than certain what I said will come true.”

“And what’s that?” Yujun asks as he passes Jinsik a piece of half-eaten apple.

Jinsik stares at it, looking between it and Yujun as Lord Junmin sits back down with who he can only assume is Lord Minjae, “He said your house would win.”

“Actually, I said you’d hand us our ass.” Beomgyu corrects him, words quite a bit more crass and Jinsik hands him the apple–horrified when he eats it, “The prince will just give them a hard time.”

⚔

And give them a hard time the prince does. It actually goes slower than Jinsik had expected, only four more names called within the past ten minutes as less arrows fly and their group gets a little bit larger, a little more sour considering their prince is among the names that gets called.

An intense shadow practically looms over them, emanating from where Prince Sunghoon and Lord Heeseung sit away from them, talking in low whispers that Jinsik can’t hear nor does he want to, he’s sure of it.

“Taehyun’s slowing down.” Beomgyu murmurs, sitting up now as he watches the fight.

He can see it too, the way the older is more sluggish in his movements, nearly takes a fist to the face as his opponent strikes forward and Jinsik winces, “Do you think he can do it?”

“Mm, perhaps. He’s got that brawler as his shield between him and the forest.” And that makes Jinsik less nervous, more hopeful at the prospect, “But if he gets the brawler out, he’s taking at least one to the head.” And once again, Choi Beomgyu is the master of destroying that hope just as fast, the easy smile not as all calming.

“That’s assuming Yechan wouldn’t just shoot at Jay.” Yujun says from beside them, lessening his confidence even farther.

He sighs, “Park Hunter’s disappeared into the forest. That’s good, yes?”

“Ah, Park Hunter, hm? Let’s ask Lord Park-Lord Park!” Beomgyu raises his voice, a teasing tone that has Jinsik a bit regretful, “Lord Park, do you have faith in your fiance? That mage from the gate sure did a number on him.” Apparently Lord Jungwon is a force to reckon with when it comes to lightning.

Lord Seeun’s face scrunches further, his hands gripping tighter into his arms where they’re wrapped around his legs. The provocation needles in for certain though, causing the lord to say his first words of the day with a frown, cheeks as red as the day Jinsik felt for a fever, “He’ll manage.” He huffs as he stares out across the field. The rasp has gone from his voice the past day but his mood surely hasn’t improved. Jinsik can’t blame him for it, “He’s a better fighter than most.”

He’s lasted longer than the prince. That’s what Jinsik hears.

“Park Jay! Kang Taehyun!”

“Eleven.” Jinsik counts off, “We’ve only got Park Hunter now.”

Beomgyu hums as he watches the two coming towards them, “Did you notice the Orchids’ professor is still on the field?”

“But that-” His head turns left and right, even checks behind himself—takes the time to move over for Beomgyu’s friend—and receives a few chuckles when he doesn’t immediately notice what’s off, “Everyone who was on the field is here beyond the archers?”

“ Junghoon .” Lord Minjae speaks from Lord Junmin’s lap, eyes closed where he’s curled up, “He disappeared before the first horn even blew, it’s becoming his thing.” Which raises more questions than answers alongside an internal argument of fairness that begins in Jinsik’s mind before he remembers the plan he’d been forced to agree to. But the horn blows and Kim Junghoon and the Orchids’ professor are called, “Doesn’t matter now.”

“Kim Sunoo!” Seems like Lord Seeun’s friend is successful. Jinsik’s almost sure it’s over at that point until, “Park Hunter!”

“What?” Lord Seeun nearly squawks as he scrambles up to his feet, “How? He-!”

“Yielded.” the proctor says simply, chooses not to elaborate more before calling out their own professor now that there’s no more of their house left. In the wake of it all Lord Seeun bolts across the field and Yujun springs from his place towards the two that have just broken through the treeline.

He can’t help but feel happy; the Dahlias deserved that.

He doesn’t think Prince Sunghoon would agree though.

“Well that’s that.” Beomgyu says as he helps Jinsik to his feet with more force than he expects pointing towards the field, “Park Hunter looks a little banged up.” Jinsik follows the direction, certainly hears Lord Seeun’s yelling but not the specifics. Every couple of steps Park Hunter’s free arm jolts—an adverse reaction to lightning magic, he’s sure—and he winces, “Can’t do much about that, can you?”

“It’s not an open wound. It’ll have to work itself through.”

Prince Sunghoon rises from his seat now, face stuck in a frown and the duo’s voices die down as they come closer. Unlike most, Park Hunter isn’t hesitant to walk up to the prince with his head held high, Lord Seeun trailing behind him with less enthusiasm, “I’m sorry for the loss. The odds were stacked against me so I did what I could manage in the mean-”

“It was still a loss.” And the bite of the words stings even Jinsik, seemingly stings Lord Seeun more who’s shoulders raise, only stopped from speaking when Park Hunter raises a hand. 

He doesn’t look phased by the words at all, doesn’t even bow before turning away and pushing Lord Seeun along with him, “Then next time you can win.” A sentence that single handedly has enough power to push the prince’s to the point Jinsik thinks it’ll break.

He and Beomgyu are left to watch Prince Sunghoon’s steps turn harsh, stamped into the ground as he heads for Prince Kai.

Jinsik swallows, “That’s not going to end well, is it?”

Chapter Text

Purple Orchids

- Junmin -

4th of March;
Sovereign Year 1143

A note sits on his desk from the night before, slipped under his door before he'd blew out his last candle, the script just legible enough:

Meet me in the courtyard after you wake?

Phrased like that it makes it seem like Junmin has a choice in the matter—like he hasn't always gone along with whatever was asked of him, least of all when it's Minjae. He waits just long enough that the sun rises a bit higher, still dim behind the clouds and monastery's walls. 

Four days of waking up in the same bed has done nothing to keep his skin from crawling, nails scraping at a scar along his collarbone, sunken in above the bone. It's a shuddering breath that he lets out before buttoning his shirt the rest of the way up with frozen fingers. He pulls his boots on one by one, holds his mother's shawl bunched in his hands and waits for the sun to rise farther, worries more about whether Minjae's actually woken up by now but his knee begins to bounce and his nerves feel like they'll pierce through his skin if he waits any longer.

Junmin’s room is the farthest from the stairs but he moves swiftly, purposefully as his steps echo off the wood and stone. He stops only once, halfway down the hall and puts his ear against the door and hears absolutely nothing.

Good; seems he’s on time then.

⚔

“Where’s your jacket? Are you trying to be the next one with a cold?” is the first thing Minjae says when Junmin steps through the gate.

The other isn’t sat at one of the tables this time, stood off a bit from the entrance and Junmin is about to defend himself until he sees what’s in Minjae’s hand, “White roses? Really?” He asks, trying hard to bite down a smile at the three small blooms as they both take a few steps forwards.

Minjae’s swifter, presses the flowers into Junmin’s palm gently before he begins shrugging off his own uniform jacket, “They’re still in season, and your favorite-gods, you’re freezing, what am I going to do with you?” He chides and Junmin doesn’t have the means to tell him that he’s always ran cold, probably feels like ice this early in the day as he delicately touches the petals in his hand, “I haven’t really been able to give you flowers since the start. And last wasn’t… well, you know.” 

Junmin knows—tries to forget now that reconciled, but he knows. His free hand moves to grasp at the hand that’s still on his shoulder, interlocks their fingers together as Minjae tries to continue his fussing, “Was that what you wanted me out here for? Flowers? I feel like I could’ve stayed in bed for that.”

“You could’ve.” Minjae’s head bows, a soft smile as he tugs Junmin forward more, “You could’ve, but I had another thing to give you.” There’s a bench against one of the walls that he’s led to, a blanket laid down to keep away the morning dew and a small wooden box next to where Minjae sits that piques Junmin’s interest. 

His hand is released, letting it return to the blooms as Minjae turns away and unlatches the boxes only to come back with a stack of letters, more than ten of them. Some of them seem thicker than others, some worn and discolored, “What’re these?” He asks, setting the roses down between them, taking a hold of the stack that Minjae doesn’t let go of readily.

“Something I found before we left.” Minjae lets out a humorless laugh, finally letting go and Junmin pulls them closer, “Seems my mother was very fond of collecting things she shouldn’t.”

It’s more than what he originally thought, at least fourteen, all addressed to Park Junmin from Kim Minjae, dated along the bottom edge, the topmost from almost two years ago, “These…?”

Minjae nods, lets his hand rest against Junmin’s knee, thumbing across the bone there as he finds the words, “Mm. After you left back from the capitol that summer I started writing. And then when you and Jungwoon left for Fhirdiad.” Junmin chooses to swallow down the bile in his throat at the mention of the other, “And then…” Minjae’s free hand pulls the bottom letter out, and Junmin sees a very recent date before pushing into its place, “I want to say once again I was stupid. I knew I’d made a mistake the moment I’d opened my eyes and you were gone.” His voice shakes but Junmin doesn’t look up in fear of what he’ll find, “I’d already made up my mind when I heard we’d both be here. But finding these and realizing I’d been… blockaded at every step gave me a bit more resolve.”

“You want me to read them?” Junmin asks even as his nail begins peeling at one of the seals. Letters of his own lay as ash along the bottom of his father’s study and he’d given up far before Minjae had it seems, words of adoration turned into bitterness, sentences of fond longing all never able to see the light of day anymore. Curiosity has a hold on him of what Minjae could possibly write.

“You don’t have to,” The words rush together, spoken as fast as they are confident, “but they’re a bit better at saying things I couldn’t.”

He knows what the other means, has been told many times of his own flaws with communication, very recently as well with wounds still fresh. He pulls open the seal of the first one, reads the words at the top:

‘Junmin, I know this came as a shock, but I meant it when I said–’

He lets out a laugh, skims over most of the words that encapsulate what he’d expect out of some dumb lovestruck teenager who didn’t even think to ask before jumping into the metaphorical sea with Junmin locked in his grip, “You’d just turned sixteen–talking about love like you knew anything.”

“I’d been choking back those words since I was twelve and you act like you weren’t.” 

He was—didn’t realize that nausea felt under his bones came from the weight of words he wouldn’t know how to say until much later—but giving Minjae the satisfaction of being told he’s right has never been Junmin’s strong suit, “One of us had to actually think.” He says as he opens the next letter, thicker than the last. Two pages, slightly browned by a tea stain on the second page, and a flat piece of ceramic falls out of envelope onto his lap:

He remembers that vase—remembers being backed into the table it sat on—and sure enough the letter starts out with Minjae won’t tell his mother how it broke, blame placed upon Junmin as always no matter how much the other tried to change that.

“A memento.” Minjae says softly as Junmin picks up the broken piece.

“Your aim was shit.” He says in response, and a hand squeezes into his knee harder as Minjae’s face scrunches, “When you kiss someone-”

“Move on, move on. You wouldn’t let me live that down for months.”

The piece gets put back where it belongs, “You didn’t rectify it for months.” 

It’s not a challenge in the slightest sense, not even an attack but Minjae takes it like one, “I could rectify it right now, too, if you’d like?” He leans into Junmin’s face, blocks just enough letter in his hand that Junmin has to look at him, leaned back slightly in surprise before Minjae leans back as well with a smile, plain happy about his victory, “Later then?”

“You-” He smacks the letter in his hand against the other’s face but Minjae’s not even fazed as he laughs against the parchment. Barely back in Junmin’s good books and already up to antics like that. Just like always.  

He skips past a few of them, pulling out one from the middle of the stack. The date strikes him, a half year after he left for Fhirdiad and Minjae’s eyes widen for a moment, “Maybe not that one just yet-” The confusion must write itself over Junmin’s face, “I just-that one’s-” He catches Junmin’s wrist in his free hand, “You might not like that one?”

“If you don’t want me to read it I won’t but…” He remembers very clearly what happened after this date, remembers quite clearly the day his heart had been carved open the first time, certainly out did the other in terms of running away.

It goes like that for a moment, Junmin’s pleading gaze meeting Minjae’s, both stubborn as always. 

But Minjae’s hand drops first, coming to rest just higher on Junmin’s leg than the other. He picks at the seal, goes slowly just in case the permission gets taken back, eyes going directly to the middle of the page and his throat constricts, “Minjae.”

“When you and Jungwon left for the north, I was scared-”

“Stop mentioning him. ”

He looks up when Minjae scoffs, passive. Their animosity—one side at that—isn’t unknown to Minjae, even if he doesn’t know the full scope, “I did a lot-trying to protect you from both sides and I still caught you in the crossfire.”

In loyalty or foolishness he’s never known why he continues to keep letting them crawl back to each other but he does, every time. Love must hurt like that sometimes, Junmin thinks but his throat caves in around the words he wants to say, and his eyes go back to the page as he reads over the words at the bottom once more.

‘Loving me must be hard, I’m so sorry.’

The words claw their way through his heart, rip and tear at the muscle until it rips open. It’s too easy, he thinks, far too easy to love Minjae despite all that’s gone on between them, despite the ocean that Junmin gets dragged under just by being there. His eyes go back up to begin, relives every word he remembers hearing through the door of the study that day, stems of flowers he’d planned to give Minjae before he left crumpled in his hands as he heard that he’d simply been a stone to be stepped on in the grander scheme, a pawn.

‘Junmin, I had to tell them that, I had to say you didn’t mean anything.’

He’d been told as much through tears when the older had burst through the door the very day he’d gotten back, locked the door as screaming could be heard down the hall, whispered words of just how much Junmin meant, how above all else what Minjae said he was supposed to believe what was said then and there and nothing else.

“I was doing what I had to. ” Minjae had said then, held Junmin so tight he thought he would burst, shaking with a fear so palpable that it bled into Junmin as they sank to the floor. The pounding on the door had echoed across the walls of his rooms harmonized with Minjae’s pleas for forgiveness, for trust. 

His hands shake with the letter, crumpled between his fingers before dropping to his lap. The sky above them is clear when he looks up at the sound of church bells, taking a deep breath before he presses on, flipping through letters till he finds the most recent and he pushes the rest out of the way.

Minjae speaks as Junmin practically tears at the seal, voice solemn, wet around the edges as his grip on Junmin slackens, “I thought you hated me when you didn’t respond.” 

“I could never.” He replies far too quickly, too earnest and Minjae chuckles, hand loosely grasped around Junmin’s wrist and a thumb gently soothing it’s way against his hand as Junmin sees a plethora of scribbled out words, half started sentences of apologies. 

‘I’m only alive because of you’ can only be read as figurative so many times before he remembers how much of Minjae’s blood has soaked beneath his fingernails, how many times Minjae’s pulse has waned beneath his palm.

“Don’t cry.” Minjae says when Junmin looks up at the sky again to try and keep the stinging in his eye at bay. His head dips to rest against Junmin’s shoulder, forehead warm where it rests against his neck, “If you cry, I will.”

Something wet hits below the collar of his shirt and Junmin knows that’s a lie, can already tell the other’s gone by the shake in his voice, “You say that but you’re always the first to break.” He chokes out when he finally finds his voice again, taking one last look at the letter.

‘Junmin, you don’t realize how much I love you. Every day it gets worse, I don’t breathe unless you’re here.’ 

‘I’m going to die without you.’

Maybe Junmin should rewrite all those letters that lay in ash. Maybe he should spill out in written words all the things he can’t find the will to say out loud and maybe then Minjae can finally see he’s not the only one crushed under the weight of his actions. Maybe then it wouldn’t be so hard for him to realize just how much devotion pools under Junmin’s skin, threatening to spill out at the slightest pinprick. Minjae’s hair is soft against his fingers, cheek wet beneath his palm as he trembles, “There’s always only one heart that beats between us.” He laughs, can’t help the way his face contorts when he breaks into a sob and Minjae holds him tight.

The bells chime above them once more when they finally part, and Minjae has the gall to laugh, to say how much of a wreck Junmin looks while wiping away tears that still continue to fall, “And who’s fault is that?” He cries even as affection overrides indignance, hands coming to help wipe at tears.

“Mine.” Minjae chuckles back fondly, face turned to press a kiss into Junmin’s palm, “It’s mine.” His hands come up, fingers interlocked through Junmin’s to keep his hands against his skin as his eyes fall close and Junmin’s heart threatens to beat its way through his sternum at the sight, “There’s actually something else I wanted to give you–something that should’ve been yours this whole time.”

Junmin cocks his head to the side when Minjae drops their hands from his face, turning to the box again as one hand holds both of his. It won’t be much longer that they’ll be alone, honestly doesn’t know how a guard hasn’t wandered past and anxiety prickles at his skin at the thought of being caught like this but his breath catches in his throat when Minjae turns back. In his hand lays a small box barely the size of his palm, wooden with filigree faintly carved in the top, “Minjae, is that-”

“You don’t have to wear it.” He says softly as opens it, revealing a small silver band, vines engraved through the metal leading to small clear stones, “But it is yours, has been yours for the past year I’ve held onto it.” When he looks up he smiles, blinding, and Junmin can do little but stare back at him, stunned, “But I’d like to see it on you at least once.”

It takes him a moment to get over the hesitation, eyes drawing back to the simple band and his jaw shuddering when he finds the nerve to speak with a voice so quiet he doesn’t think he’s heard, “Okay.” Minjae’s hold on his hand is gentle, slides the ring with little resistance until it sits firmly in place, and it feels right. It’s not a perfect fit, definitely a little loose but it won’t fall off that easily and he can’t fault Minjae for not predicting that Junmin would begin to waste away without the other. It’s unspoken between them, easy to fix now when there’s something tangible to come out of their bond, something that can keep him tethered. 

Minjae’s words be damned; he’s never taking this off.

“There’s no third chance.” Minjae says resolutely, thumb drawing over the piece of metal, letting it spin its way around Junmin’s finger, “I can’t do that to either of us again. This is the long haul, no matter what happens, they’ll have to pry me away-”

“I get it.” Junmin laughs and turns his hand to grab Minjae’s, interlocks their fingers together to stop the other’s fidgeting, “I get it.” He says again, softer, just as decided and maybe this time their stubbornness will work in their favor, “Isn’t that a common vow? ‘Till death do us part’?”

“I fear that’s all too possible, isn’t it?” The laugh that Minjae gives is bereft of any humor, “I’d find you in the afterlife though, no matter how long I’d have to wait.”

“You don’t think I’d be quick to join you?” 

And Minjae must not think he’s serious at first because Junmin’s able to watch as the smile slowly falls from the other’s face, hardset in a frown as he holds Junmin’s hand tighter, “Don’t say that. Please don’t ever talk like that.” He says sternly and it dons on Junmin that somehow Minjae’s missed the entire point, still obstinate in the idea that his life is of little consequence.

“Neither of us are dying any time soon.” He says, quick to say anything that’ll smooth out the worry lines that start to crease their way across Minjae’s forehead, uses his other hand to coax him forward by the chin, “I won’t let it happen.” He speaks against the other’s mouth, pleased when Minjae relaxes against him, kisses back just as soft when a hand comes up behind his neck to him in place.

When they part Minjae seems pacified, softer with the slightest hint of red that makes its way across his cheeks in the same way he’d looked back on that day with the vase. Rectified later, just as promised and delighted when Minjae seems decidedly more affected, unable to hear the way Junmin’s heart hammers against his chest, “We should get to the dining hall before the next bell.” He says as he gathers the letters back into a neater stack, holding them tightly in his hands before handing them back to Junmin, “Hide those if you don’t want us both teased for the next month, Jung-I mean you know who will never let us live this down.”

“I can handle him. There are knives in the kitchen.”

“Junmin.” Minjae warns, standing up with a huff and adjusting his jacket on Junmin’s shoulder before the hand travels, palm warm against his neck as a thumb traces his jaw, “I love you.” He says as he bends, pressing his lips against Junmin’s crown once before pulling back, “Never forget that.”

And Junmin nods, smiling brightly as he takes Minjae’s other hand one more time, bringing it up to his own lips, “I love you, too. Always.”

Chapter Text

Purple Orchids

- Sumin -

5th of March;
Sovereign Year 1143

It’s not the first time he’s been given any type of leadership role but it’s certainly the first time he’s been in charge of people he thinks are… more qualified for shouting orders than him.

“You’re getting better with a knife, Kai.” Is not a sentence he thought he’d ever say to the prince of his country like they were on even ground, let alone one he’s sure his father would approve of but here he is, “Just make sure you keep your finger tucked or…” He trails off. There was one mishap over the weekend but luckily he’s been able to figure out just who’s suited to be around a blade that isn’t meant for killing.

And the place hasn’t burned down yet. Their professor congratulates him after the breakfast shift, tells him he’d make a fine commander when it ever comes to it; not his favorite line of conversation but he takes the compliment with a smile anyway–will make sure to leave that out of the letter to his father at the end of the month.

“He’s missing again.” He hears Jake call from the corner he’s been delegated to—or banished to, whichever one suits trying to juggle silverware—and there’s a collective sigh from a few of them.

Sumin chuckles to himself, tastes a soup that’s a little too salty for his liking but surely won’t kill anyone, “Better send Minjae to find him.”

“Me? Why me? I’m in the middle of something.” To Minjae, standing in the middle of the kitchen looking over the menu for the tenth time to appear busy is something.

Junmin’d caught on to the ruse earlier, is the first to pull the piece of paper from the other’s hand with a sigh, “You found him the first time.”

“Is that now my responsibility every time?” The other’s voice raises, not nearly as threatening as Sumin should find him considering he spent two summers scared out of his mind to even approach the older, looked up to him as the pinnacle of a soldier, of a captain.

He hears a snort behind him, a low laugh as Jungwon’s hand reaches for the spices and he quickly pops the lid on the pot before it can be tampered with, “I can see the epithet now, carved in stone under his statue: Kim Minjae, Famed Junghoon Wrangler-” 

It has a ring to it, has an aura for sure as Sumin turns around and sees Minjae reaching for an unused knife, “Please put the knife down.” It clatters back against the counter. Minjae’s hand immediately taken into Junmin’s, has something whispered into his ear before Minjae finally relents and sets off on his search. A good thing, Minjae’s skill set is better used not blocking the path through an already small kitchen that’s crammed full of seven students with varying degrees of vegetable related aggression. But also, “Are they…” He whispers to Jungwon, looks over his shoulder to see Junmin stare after Minjae’s retreating form with far more fondness and far less daggers than he’d seen the past couple of days. Jungwon is mildly more patient than the average stray cat, giving Sumin all of five seconds before his eyebrows twitch upwards while the younger grapples with finding the words. 

“They seem nicer to each other now.” is what he settles on.

“Oh, that.” Jungwon chuckles, voice dropping when Junmin walks past him and waits a moment for the latter to get out of earshot, “They’ll do that sometimes–go at each other’s throats for a bit before they realize they can’t stand not being in the same room as each because they wilt like flowers.” Which isn’t something he was entirely unaware of. It didn’t take more than a couple council meetings to realize that wherever one body went, a pair of eyes would follow on it.

“I see.” He replies, wary of the way Jungwon nearly dumps a handful of some imported spice into a pot of chickpeas. When Jungwon takes a quick look over his shoulder his head snaps back faster than Sumin can blink and he pretends he didn’t hear an audible crack along with it. He looks up and finds Junmin staring at them–staring at Jungwon with eyes that soften considerably when they meet Sumin’s. That’s not his problem, definitely not something he’s curious about, definitely doesn’t read on his face-

But Jungwon spills it out anyway. Because what post battle loss induced kitchen duty is complete without gossip he unintentionally started?

“I may or may not have said some strong words when we were together at the magic academy.” The specifics are left in the air, perfectly fine for Sumin, “ But-! In the same breath I’d also get under Minjae’s skin. They’re both very,” Jungwon pauses, lost in thought and Sumin’s sure the other is trying to find a nice way to word whatever unflattering thing he’s about to say, “stubborn. They’re not good at talking to each other, they tend to just… ram both of their heads into opposite sides of the same wall until one of them finally breaks through.” 

‘That’s certainly a way to put it.’

“And so you tried to play mediator?” He should really stop talking.

Jungwon shrugs, pulls open the pot lid and turns his nose up at it, “Someone has to take the arrow to the knee, might as well be me.” He says with a surprisingly calm tone, “It’s not their fault anyway, it just happened to be the nature of the engagement.”

“The nature of-?” He turns and Jungwon’s eyes are wide, struck like he’d misspoke, “I’ll pretend to have not heard that.”

“That’d be a good idea for the both of us.” The older takes one last look at Junmin over his shoulder for a moment before he tries to make himself busy arranging plates, “As you’ve seen I’m on thin ice as it is.” 

“Think I’d need to be blind not to.” Good reflexes keep him from getting hit with a ladle that comes a bit too close to his face. They share a laugh because it just proves that Jungwon really needs to work on his aim.

It’s not very long before Minjae trudges back in through the northern entrance, a soaking wet Kim Junghoon in tow who shakes his head like a dog far enough from the pots of food that Sumin doesn’t complain, “I fell in the lake.” is all he says in response to their prince’s bemused expression who like any well meaning leader starts trying to wring the water out of Junghoon’s sleeve.

“Tripped into a puddle.” Minjae corrects under his breath as he tastes a spoonful of the soup Sumin guards with his life from overseasoning demons, “Ugh, so salty.” 

Lunch goes off without a hitch.

⚔

Combat stratagem.

That’s what awaits them in the afternoon. Or as close as to it for now as Sumin rests his head against his fist from where he sits in the second row and stares out through the window behind their professor. It’s actually nice for the first time since they’ve gotten here and the sun serves to light the room better than any candle would.

“It’s always best to know when to cut losses and run.” Professor Jung sits on the desk at the front of the classroom, devoid of any of the armor he’d donned the first day, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, “Stubbornness will only get you killed so you’ll need to learn when you’re not up against an opponent worth trying to beat.” 

Sumin knows that well enough. 

‘Fear is friend to the hunter.’ his father used to tell him between coughing fits, ‘Being fearless is for the dead and stupid.’ Sometimes he’d include the Ministry of Military Affairs in the speech, very keen on talking about their death toll. Funerary services fell under their family’s operations after all.

“Minjae.” their professor calls out and Sumin keeps himself from looking back, “You’re proficient with an axe but you got caught unaware by a swordsman during the mock battle. Do you know why you lost?”

“In theory? Because swords have the advantage of faster strikes. In practice it’s because Kang Taehyun has a hell of an arm.” 

Sumin bites back a laugh and Seungmin does the same at the tables in front of him. They’re silenced though when their professor raises a hand for their attention, “You were right with the first part for sure.” He smiles, “Who would’ve had the advantage?”

“Me.” This time he looks, at the very back across the aisle is Riki with his hand raised, “I was fighting with a lance.”

“Is that your preferred weapon?”

“Not when off horseback.” 

“Hm. Who else fights with a lance?” With great reluctance Sumin raises his hand, “And of you three-” He can’t say he’s not surprised to hear that, takes a quick look back and sees Minjae directly behind him doing the same, “who can say that they prefer using one?” With even greater reluctance Sumin keeps his hand up, knows it’s the only one up when Professor Jung continues, “And was this information known?”

“It was discussed beforehand. Willingness outweighed expertise.” Minjae says in a way that has Sumin mentally digging his own grave.

“Let’s look at the fight as a whole then;” Their professor sighs and when he finally stands from the desk he takes a few steps down the aisle, stopping just before Sumin’s desk. Sumin knows where he’s looking: Kai sits behind him not only as their prince but as their house leader, “why was it that you lost, Kai?”

Several beats of silence pass, ones that have an edge before their prince speaks, “We operated on the assumption that our main target would be too weak to fight back. We forgot that we had two teams to beat and got pitted against each other as we were picked off one by one. We weren’t careful.”

“You also didn’t use the knowledge you had. What is the Leicester Alliance known for?”

“Hunters… archers.”

“What are archers good at?”

“Long range combat.” Sumin shifts in his seat as he listens, makes himself busy with sketching roses in the corner of a notebook page, “As a whole we were affected by our pride and thought that we could defeat them in close range combat and ignored the idea that we could be set into a trap. It was my fault as a leader that I didn’t think critically about our chances.” He doesn’t remember Kai even speaking during that meeting.

“And what will you do next time?”

“Fight with the knowledge we have.” It’s suffocating. They all know why Professor Jung is doing this—is turning it into a lesson because it’s what it was supposed to be—but Sumin can’t help the way his shoulders tense up as Kai sighs heavily behind him, “But we won’t always have intel on our enemy.”

“But for that fight you did. What I’m trying to tell you is that when you do have prior knowledge—no matter how limited—you need to act on it. The fact you wont always have access to it makes the times you do all the more valuable.”

The bell tolls and the weight lifts as books start closing. Professor Jung still looks at Kai but his eyes soften before he addresses the rest of the class, “You’ll be working with the other houses tomorrow with Lee Minho. I hear he’s going to have you run laps depending on your sparring performance so I wish you luck.”

The next day Sumin’s glad that Sir Minho seems to not have any preferential treatment towards the Lilies. Seeing Prince Sunghoon of the north hit the ground and be given ten laps does bring a smile to his own face.

He is, however, very mournful of his knees on the fifteenth lap of his own.

⚔

7th of March;
Sovereign Year 1143

“Stable duty?” Sumin asks when he notices the paper posted on the board outside their classroom after lunch and Kai turns to face him with a smile. 

“Just brushing the horses, at least today. I heard the stalls are already clean from the sky watch group this morning.” He explains and Sumin shudders. He’s never been a fan of… flying creatures, is a big fan of staying right where he needs to be on the ground where he belongs.

“Just me?”

“No, no, of course not.” There’s a few more names scribbled in the list, but only one he recognizes from eavesdropping on conversations in the lunchroom, but- “Ah, you are the only one from our class though…”

Which is fine–not ideal for certain but he can’t complain, “I figured as much. None of you seem very, uh, horse friendly.”

“And you do?” Is what the prince asks him, accompanied by a laugh, loud enough that it echoes off the open hall and it catches a few glances of the students around the courtyard that Sumin avoids because it’s good to see the other’s still in good humor, “I fear dragons are our more beasts?” But Sumin’s shaking his head before Kai even finishes the question.

“Not mine. Far too many teeth… red eyes…” Don’t get him started on the wings.

Kai gets a bit of joy at his misery, handing him a piece of paper Sumin gives him a look because this is a copy with handwriting that’s threateningly familiar, ink smudged on the prince’s hand. He’d call it special treatment if it came from anyone else but from Kai it just seems… normal, “Show them how great the Orchids are.”  He gets told before the prince turns him around and starts pushing him down the walkway towards the stables.

“It’s just horse grooming!” He protests when the prince’s hands get removed and his feet begin to move in step. When he turns back around Kai’s still got his hands cupped around his mouth, shouting encouragement and now there are definitely looks from other students that are a little too hard to avoid that he practically sprints around the corner.

“You got this!” is the last thing he actually hears before he’s too far, and it’s so unbelievable that he’s getting a pep talk from grooming horses that Sumin starts to think it’s a shame Kai won’t get on the throne.

⚔

Sumin does indeed recognize the face attached to the name he’s heard, a bright eyed brunette looking down at him with a smile that seems to brighten a little too much, “So someone did get sent from your class?” The other boy shoves a hand into his space, one that Sumin takes before it’s shaken so aggressively he swears his arm starts to come out of socket, “I’m Jung Yujun!”

Jung Yujun isn’t the only Dahlia relegated to hard brushing, joined by an also overly spirited Lee Jooyeon and a cautious Choi Hyunwoo who seems to regard him more like an animal than a person. Two Lilies also join them but Sumin is only fast enough to catch one name before they’re split into twos and by the goddess’s decree it seems he gets put with Yujun.

“Don’t mind Hyunwoo.” The younger says—whispers—as they walk towards the stables, two stiff bristled brushes held against his chest as they walk, “We think he’s not too fond of nobles.”

“He seemed okay around the others.”

“You’re the only noble here right now… I think… I know Beomgyu’s not but Jin-” 

Yujun stumbles and the brushes fall from the younger’s hands into the mud, splashing dirt up the legs of their pants before Sumin sighs. He can’t even find it in himself to be mad at Yujun when this just happens to be how his week is going.

“Sorry.” He hears when he bends over to pick them up and he waves the younger off, hearing several chuckles from the others around them when he comes back up and he smiles along with them, “Yechan tells me I’m clumsy.”

Ah, the mastermind behind the last mock battle, He thinks as mud sticks to the palm of his hands, “I can’t say I argue with that.”

“He dropped four more before you came.” When Sumin turns around the same Beomgyu that Yujun mentions stands there, “Juggling’s probably not the career path you’ll want to go down.” He chides before taking one of the dirty brushes from Sumin’s hand, replacing it with the clean one from his own and Sumin feels bad as the mud still coated along his hand transfers to the wood. Still far less dredged than the other so he’ll take it.

Yujun, however, pouts, “My parents are doctors.”

“A fine profession to be, isn’t that right, my lord?” Beomgyu addresses the only person whose name escapes Sumin, a similarly petulant look to Yujun’s almost mirrored on their face, “The magic academy makes great healers and not jugglers for sure.” There is huff echoed from both Yujun and the other and he can’t imagine the story that comes along with that as he’s pushed back along towards the stables.

He’s always been fond of horses, never more fond than when a gray dappled mare catches his eye in the end stall and he starts his way forward without any further provocation as if possessed until his hand unlatches the gate, stepping onto the hay covered floor. Yujun’s hands are open to receive the brushes and Sumin figures his pants are already dirty so there’s no harm when he wipes the mud off his hands before soothing them along the mare’s neck, “Wish I brought an apple.” Kitchen duty perks he’ll have to remember to use next time; no one will bat an eye when Sumin’s the one keeping them from burning the place down.

“You like horses?” Yujun asks and Sumin hums.

“The non flying ones.” Its coat is smooth beneath his palm, his fingers brush through a black, coarse mane, snagging on a single tangle, “Can’t say I’m a fan of the ones with wings.” He tells Yujun as his hand travels up the mare’s snout, pleased when it pushes itself further into his palm, “What’s your name?”

“Jangmi.” He turns to see Hyunwoo at the open stall. Hyunwoo points up and there it sits burned into a piece of wood hanging from a bit of chain. There’s one above each of the stalls, all following the same theme. Flowers. Everything around here is flowers.

“Pretty name for a pretty mare, then.”

“Well, if you’re lucky maybe you’ll get paired with her.” Sumin raises an eyebrow at that and Hyunwoo shrugs, “We’ll go through riding classes eventually,” A pause, “some of us at least.” He tells the duo before turning but Sumin catches the “Wouldn’t trust a few of them.” that Hyunwoo seems to whisper out as he sets out down the walkway. 

“I think he’s talking about Jiseok.” Yujun says lowly once Hyunwoo’s grumbling form is out of earshot, “And Jay. Like I said he’s-”

“Not fond of nobles.” Sumin finishes. The picture paints itself clear enough and it’s not something he can find offense in considering it’s not something he’s all that unfamiliar with. Plenty of his own feelings well into that same area where he’d rather his family was born on the outskirts of Adrestria, with no title to their name and no responsibilities looming over his head in the future now that his brother’s stepped down.

But the thoughts are kept to himself, tucked away in daydreams he has in his room as his fingers glide over small, rough whittled figures of horses that he keeps by the window; would be set ablaze on a pyre if his mother ever found out how badly he wanted to forsake nobility.

So he’ll stay right where he is. He takes a brush from Yujun and they set to work on either side. As the brush glides across Jangmi’s coat he can’t help but feel a new sense of vigor at what Hyunwoo had said, has an actual goal that he has beyond just making it to the end of the year.

“Oh… Also, um-” The younger says, hiding behind the horse where Sumin can’t see him.

“Yeah?”

“I forgot earlier but Yechan said tell your prince to ‘actually fight’ next time.”  

“Actually fight? What does that mean?”

“He threw the fight.” Before Sumin can say anything Yujun pops up from under the horse’s neck, hair shining in the high afternoon sun. There’s a smile on his face, small as it is and Sumin’s confusion only heightens at the sight, “Didn’t you see?”

“No.”

“Mm. Yechan had said that he didn’t have a clear shot.” The smile doesn’t drop but it lessens, “Then your prince saw him and suddenly he did.”

If there is anything he’s learned about the prince in the past few days is that it does sound like something that he’d do. The borderline needling their professor had done before starts to come back and Sumin hums before occupying himself with brushing through the horse’s coat, “I’ll pass on the message for sure.”

“Good to hear.” He hears Beomgyu from behind them, “Our prince has also been a bit of a handful since that fight.” A hand claps on his shoulder, more gently than Sumin expects over the stall barrier, “A lot of bruised egos leading us it seems.”

“I feel like that’s the antithesis of Kai if what Yujun says is right, hm?”

The older hums, removing his hand and Sumin turns to face him, “Two bruised egos then. Still more than would be liked when they’re leading us into battle and our countries just as soon.” 

And it’s right; it’s not that long before Park Sunghoon takes the throne considering it’s already owed to him as it stands empty and Sumin doesn’t understand succession in Leicester but Lee Yechan is next to head the round table and shows incredible promise whether they like it or not. There’s a reason they’re all here right now, learning to work together—to be something the generation after them can be proud of the same way he’s looked up to the ones before him—an effort to preserve a peace that’s already so delicate it could blow away in the wind.

“The bruising’s good though, right?” Sumin finally says after thinking about it, “Isn’t that something like you said during the mock fight?” 

Beomgyu crosses his arms on the rail of the barrier, chin hooked over them as his eyes drift from Sumin’s face and in the afternoon light he’s vaguely reminiscent of the portraits of scholars long gone that Sumin’s father has hanging in their library, “I think it’s good for leaders to learn that they don’t always get what they want simply because they think they deserve it.” Behind him the other noble’s eyebrows scrunch together in questioning but it does not stop him from his task of horse grooming. Sumin even catches the other two Dahlias' glance, faint interest piqued in what the eldest of them has to say, “Just because you suffer hardships doesn’t mean you are owed any good will. Just because you think your opponent is weak does not guarantee you a victory you don’t work hard for.”

“‘If defeat doesn’t end in death it’s a learning experience.’” Yujun quotes and Beomgyu smiles at him before pulling away from the barrier and picking up his hard brush once more,

“Good to know someone’s listening to Sir Minho’s lectures during combat practice.”

Sumin scoffs, light hearted as a smile tugs at his face but he follows suit, thankful to work the brush against the mare’s coat again, “It’s a little hard when he’s also swinging an axe directly for your face.” 

“That’s just the northern way. Efficient isn’t it?”

“You could say that.” The other noble near grumbles and neither of them hold back a chuckle as they continue their work as a breeze flows its way into the stable, peaceful as the only sounds simmer to the sound of bristles against hair and benign conversations of life back home.

“Goodbye, Moghwa.” He hears one of them say wistfully when they leave later that afternoon. The sun seems to hang low in the sky, burning orange across the horizon and he lets out a heavy breath when he sees no rain clouds in sight. 

With lungs full of early spring air he starts to think the rainy days might be over for him.

⚔

9th of March;
Sovereign Year 1143

The rainy days are not over. 

Having far too much faith in the weather is something he doesn’t do often but a few good sunny days had given him, admittedly, a bit too much hope.

The last school day of the week brings nothing but what is possibly the worst storm they’ll probably see all season. And it does its best to have Sumin right where it wants him.

The thunder cracks over the dorms and he jolts, nails digging further into the meat of his arm as he curls tighter into the corner at the end of the hall. Getting a drink when waking had seemed like a fine idea when the rain was barely a mist, a sprinkle against his window before the gods decided that breaking curfew would call for their greatest wrath, pouring against the stones at the bottom of the steps. Open entrances are a blessing in summer and he knows that best but they are nothing but a curse now, an amplification of every roar of thunder that booms its way up into the stairwell in the dark. 

The shadows crawl up the wall when the light flashes through the windows, hands crawling their way towards him and he whispers out his prayers that it’ll end before he’s found out to be the coward he is as the wall presses harshly into his back. 

Something brushes his hand and the shriek dies in his throat as his head hits the stones behind him.

“Oh!” Someone says above the hammering in his chest with a voice he’s heard fairly recently, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, I-” There’s a thud and Sumin’s just barely able to make out someone knelt in front of him, feels a hand once again brush his gently, “You didn’t answer when I called out so I thought you were hurt.”

“Couldn’t-” He chokes, swallows hard before he tries again, “Couldn’t hear you, sorry.”

“Don’t worry, I’m just glad-” The other begins to say and thunder rolls across the sky harshly above them so loudly that Sumin rips his hands away to cover his ears, “-you’re… okay?” Lightning lights up the walls of the stairwell next to them and Sumin whimpers, barely hearing the shuffling against the stones as whoever’s in front of him stands again, “Ah, hold on a moment-” Is all that’s said before feet hit against the stone swiftly.

“Wait-!” He calls but it’s too late, the door loudly creaks close behind whoever left him and he thinks it’s too late—that they’ve gone for good and no longer does he care about his cowardice when the shadows start to streak their way up the windows again, scratching their way towards him across the floor.

It’s a brief hell to burden through however, nearly leaping when the door opens and from it comes a light, a lantern that softly illuminates the hallway before it’s followed by a body, a face that follows holds a smile, softly padding his way the few steps from his room, closer than Sumin had expected it to be and it clicks that this is the same noble he’d seen at stable duty, “Sitting in the dark does no good.” The boy says when he’s near enough to be heard above a whisper, careful to place the lantern gently in front of Sumin, the soft glow chasing away the shadows, “I’m Jinsik, by the way.”

“C-Choi Su-” He stutters when light still streaks in from the windows across the hall and he jolts again, “Choi Sumin.” 

Whether in pity or sympathy Jinsik stays, moves on his knees till he’s sat on Sumin’s left, close to the stairs where the rain can still be heard, “It’d be better if you got out of the hall.” He tells him gently, but still he sits there just as Sumin does even when the former is definitely less bolted to ground than Sumin seems to be.

And so Sumin tells him, “I can’t move.” He whispers, voice cracked as his nails prick into his palms atop his knees. 

“Okay, that’s okay.” Jinsik’s hand slips into his, holding firm but not tight, “Just squeeze when one hits. It’ll take your mind off it.”

“Looks like you’ve been through that too?” 

“Yep!” He says cheerily, smile not fading the slightest when thunder roars and Sumin is quite sure he can hear Jinsik’s hand crack when he squeezes, if anything he squeezes back with the slightest pressure, “My mom used to do this for me when I was little.”

Sumin hums in response when his nerves finally settle, sags against the wall, “Used to? Grew out of it then?” 

He can’t say he doesn’t wish the same. There’s a beat missed in the silence that falls between them and he looks over to Jinsik who’s quick to respond when he realizes, “Yea, you could say that.” His shoulder knocks into Sumin’s when he sits back, “We have less rain and more snow even just past the border, the cold just sets in like it knows.”

“Which part are you fr-” It rolls in again and he nearly curls into the body next to him, quick to push away as embarrassment overtakes fear—thankfully , “Sorry, I-”

“You’re good.” Jinsik pats at their hands with his free one, “Fear’s hard to override.” He can say that again, “And Miach, just past the border but I’ve been in the capital at the magic academy before transferring.”

“Did you know Park Junmin then?”

There’s a crinkle in the other’s nose, face taut as he thinks, “Heard of him, I’m sure. Never talked though until these past couple days. Academy liked myths and legends and considering how good his healing is…” There’s a shrug, something Sumin certainly doesn’t get right now considering he’s never understood what makes a good mage, “Why?”

“Just wondering–seemed like he knew the others from there, so I just… assumed.” He shrugs as well, “Good distraction too if I’m honest.”

“Ah! Right, right, I can-I can keep talking?” Suddenly he turns facing Sumin head on, both hands clasped around one of his, “How much do you know about Albinean herbs?” He says with so much enthusiasm that Sumin almost laughs.

“Can’t say I know much at all. Isn’t that place frozen over?”

“That’s the interesting part-!”

And just like that the night passes–with Sumin slowly peeling himself from the wall as the rain lets up and Jinsik doing his best to coax the other back to his room with sleep heavy in his eyes. 

When dawn comes in the morning so does the news of their next mission straight from their professor’s mouth.

“Zanado? The red place?” Jake asks from behind him, followed by an, “Ow-” that sounds a little strained. Sumin can’t remember exactly who Jake’s deskmates are and he’s certainly not curious enough to risk being glared at but there are only two options.

Professor Jung is undeterred by the interruption as he streaks chalk across the board in what he can only assume is a crude interpretation of the Oghma Mountains that surround them, “The Red Canyon, yes that’s the one.” He marks it with a circle, quite larger than Sumin remembers the area being towards the east, “It’s going to be a simple escort towards Leicester; one of the Dahlias is unfortunately leaving.” 

An echoing exclamation of “What?” comes from quite a few of them, Sumin as well when he finds he sits a little straighter in his seat.

“Calm down, it’s okay, like I said it’s just an escort through the mountains.”

It’s Jungwon that raises his hand in the front row, “Weren’t the Dahlias attacked in the mountains?” There’s a look at Junmin a seat down, “We saw what those wounds looked like and they weren’t exactly easy to heal.” 

“I understand the worry but be at ease, the knights will also be there.” Knights certainly didn’t help the Dahlias. Sumin vividly remembers exactly one survivor that wasn’t a student and he’s not sure if he chalks that up to some great leadership for Lee Yechan or pure luck, “It’s already decided even by the archbishop.” Professor Jung says with a heavy sigh, “Even if I wanted to keep you away I have my hands tied on this one. All I’m asking is that you remember what I’ve told you. If you know about the mountains, share that amongst each. Use the resources you have so that willingness isn’t what you rely on this time; if you have expertise then use it to your advantage, not to your detriment.” 

“We’ll do our best to prove ourselves, professor.” Kai calls from his place behind Sumin.

And so it’s decided.

Chapter Text

Yellow Dahlias

- Yechan -

8th of March;
Sovereign Year 1143

“Yoon Hyunsuk is leaving?”

“That’s right.” Seunghun sighs, barely looking up from papers—ones that should’ve been graded already—of that week’s test. From where Yechan stands he can still see the way the professor’s mouth puckers into a pout, clicks his tongue before sighing again, “The poor kid’s still in shock after what happened to you all; never seen him like this before.”

“You knew him? Aren’t you-” ancient, Yechan bites back in his head, “-our senior?” By a lot-

“Mm, we grew up in the same village before I left for the capital.” Seunghun answers before he pauses, looking up at the younger when the sentence apparently clicks, “Just how old do you think I am?”

Dirt, “Old enough to be much, much wiser-”

Seunghun squints, “Twenty-three.” 

Close enough.

“It’s just over the border, past the mountains.” Yechan inhales sharply as Seunghun waves his hand in a direction that’s vaguely southeast, “There’s a bridge opposite from where I’m supposing you lot came from, closer to the southern border, that’ll be the drop off point.”

“You mean the canyon?”

“Mhm. You’ll have quite the view of it from what I’ve been told.” The quill drops to the desk, papers stacked together neatly before Seunghun leans back in his chair with fingers threaded, “Not much for a sightseeing destination if you ask me but it’s rich in history.”

“I’m sure.” Sure of an oncoming headache if anything. 

He’s too tired to hide it and Seunghun chuckles when the lack of enthusiasm in his expression is easy to see, “You’ll have time to prepare. Wooyoung and Yeonjun aren’t telling their class till tomorrow but I thought I would warn you ahead of time. Start figuring out how to pretend to be nice to the other students.”

“I am nice-”

“You dumped an entire container of salt into Prince Sunghoon’s soup two evenings ago.” He opens his mouth to defend himself but he’s slow, “You may think I’m blind but you stalking around like some orange-haired, nefarious, feline is actually quite easy to spot.” Something that’s not untrue. The only reason the prince’s guard that sticks to his side hadn’t seen him was because he’d been busy glaring somewhere else. Tension tightens in his shoulders and he tries to breathe it out as calmly as possible when the other continues, “I’m not saying you have to like every person you work with but you can at least learn to be civil with soon-to-be political figures. I know you’re young, but-” His eyes roll, find value more in the ceiling than Seunghun’s face as the words fade away.

Because it’s what he’s been told this whole time, even before ending up here.

Every second of every hour he spends away from the home he grew up in is just a bell tolling like a countdown until he’s handed responsibility he didn’t ask for, one that feels like a blade pressing on his neck. Being one of the youngest admissions does not save you. You lead one group to safety and suddenly your youth drains from you. His jaw sets hard because fighting it has always led nowhere.

In the time spent watching Seunghun continue on he bites his cheek raw.

“Of course, Professor.” he interrupts, eyes falling back to the man at the desk, “I’ll do better.”

“-and I-okay?” Seunghun’s expression is split between confusion and surprise. He clears his throat, “That’s all then. You’ll be briefed fully tomorrow and have the weekend to rest.” Yechan huffs and turns on his heel a bit too swiftly. Seunghun snorts when he must realize nothing’s changed, “Perhaps declaw yourself by then?” 

“Fuck you.” He whispers just above the sound of his boots hitting against the floor.

“What was that?”

“I said thank you, Professor Kim, I’ll sure think about it.” And that thinking lasts all the way to the door, pushed open with far more force than is necessary and he passes swiftly through it into the late morning light.

It doesn’t even surprise to see Yujun crouched in the grass of the courtyard just beyond the door, head snapping up as soon as Yechan’s feet hit the walkway and the door closes behind him, “Did you get in trouble for the salt thing?” He asks with a smile that Yechan returns. 

“Should be glad I didn’t rat out my lookout.” He gives a flick to Yujun’s head—tries to at least, because it’s deserved but he misses on purpose. Yujun pouts either way, “A bad lookout at that.”

“Hey! You’re the one who chose to do it-” He protests as he tugs at Yechan’s leg with both of his hands, pulling until he has no other choice but to go down with a laugh.

While crouched beside the other he sees what Yujun’s been watching: a pair of rosemary beetles crawling their way slowly through the grass. They aren’t native to the area by any means the last time he checked, have closer relatives in the eastern mountains that separate Liecester from Almyra than they would in the west and it’s weird to see them so far from the parched sands that lay outside the capital. Yechan almost feels kin with them before he realizes that it’s the godsforsaken flowers that more than likely brought them here and not looming succession rights.

“What else did he say?” Yujun asks just loud enough to break the stream of curses he mentally has for the beetles, finger poked into the meat of his side just below his ribs to get his attention.

“Hm?”

“You wouldn’t have been in there that long if it’d just been for the salt. And you have that…” He narrows his eyes, staring at Yechan like he’ll find what he’s looking for. Yechan tries to look away before it can be found but he’s just not on his toes today, “That thinking look.”

“As opposed to a non-thinking look?”

“You know what I mean!” There’s another jab that’s not as soft, and another, and another, almost knocking Yechan off balance but he catches himself without tumbling into the grass, “You look like that when something’s bothering you.”

“It’s not that bad, don’t worry.” is always the wrong sentence to say, always makes someone do the opposite and he laughs when Yujun’s nose scrunches like he expects it to, “I’m serious.” doesn’t seem to work either as the bells toll above them. He takes a hold of the other’s wrist in his hand, standing to his feet, “I’ll tell you later, okay? If we miss lunch you’ll never let me hear the end of it and you know it.” He chuckles and while Yujun does allow himself to get pulled up he stays fixed to the spot he’s in. The unstoppable force that is Lee Yechan has never outdone the immovable object that is Jung Yujun, getting pulled back to face the other.

“You promise?” Yujun whispers.

It’s always a losing battle. There’s not even a second of hesitation Yechan can muster between the end of that sentence and pulling Yujun’s hand up into the other’s view, locking their pinkies together tightly with just as much sincerity as he always does, “Of course.” 

⚔

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean he’s leaving, Yujun.” There’s not a much easier way he can explain it when he doesn’t get it himself, chair tipped back against his desk and Yujun flopped on his bed after evening classes, “Seunghun said everyone was getting told tomorrow but he’d thought I needed warning.” How gracious to think he was warranted that much at least. Surprise run-ins with bandits aren’t something he’s eager to repeat in the near future, isn’t keen on fire swarmed woods being anywhere near him. Granted, Yechan’s arm has healed quite nicely despite the shock that comes from a loud, cat-eyed mage ripping an arrow out of it. And they made it out alive thanks to him-

But letting Seunghun be right about his future as a leader? Not on his watch. 

Yujun rolls onto his side and stares long enough that Yechan can’t just pretend he doesn’t see it, “What is it?”

“Should we… talk to him?” 

“And say what?” It comes out a little harsher than he means to and Yujun winces. He rocks forward and all feet of the chair hit the rug below him, “Yujun,” He says a little softer as his hands brace against his knees, “We can’t force him to stay.” 

The silence that follows almost drags, carving into him while he watches Yujun’s hand clench into the sheets but he’s patient, he waits.

When Yujun does speak it’s quiet, low enough that Yechan strains to hear it, “I know.” He whispers, “I just don’t wanna go back through the mountains.” He says and Yechan nearly chokes.

He’s not strong enough to fight against fear. Not with his bare hands and when he feels it too and so he stands and watches the other’s eyes widen in surprise, “Okay.” He says and Yujun raises his head, “C’mon.”

“What?”

“We’re gonna talk to him.” Yujun doesn’t move, only furrows his brow skeptically, “Maybe we can convince him he’s safer here; if he learns to fight maybe he’ll-” He’ll what? Be confident in the fact he might not die as easily? That’s a sure way to build assurance: I know I almost got you killed once but if you learn how to actually hold an axe I swear it won’t happen again. 

“You want to try that’s what we’ll do then.” His hand is already out and Yujun takes it, slow to sit up.

“Are you sure that’ll work?”

Not a chance, “We won’t know until we try now will we?”

⚔

Yechan’s room rests at the top of the stairs, easier to slip down to the lower level where tradition dictates those with less noble blood and far less noble ambitions sleep. Not nearly curfew yet but it doesn’t make sneaking down the walkway to the opposite end of the courtyard any less an experience—past where Yujun’s room is till they reach the far end where a room is tucked close to the stairs. Yechan’s hand reaches up and knocks, once then twice and then they wait.

When it opens he feels a chill run up his spine.

Hyunsuk is undoubtedly the tallest student this year and even through the narrow gap that the door’s opened to Yechan feels like he’s shrunk significantly under the glare that seems targeted at him. There’s nothing more than a gut feeling that causes him to place himself between Yujun and the door.

“What do you need?” The taller boy asks—annoyed, tone so acidic it almost slices into him, “I’ve got packing to do.” 

At any other time Yechan might be grateful, calmed even by the fact that someone isn’t speaking to him like he’s some figure of importance.

But Hyunsuk talks to him like he’s a fiend.

Yujun pays it no mind and cheerily speaks up from over Yechan’s shoulder, “We were wondering if we could talk to you-?”

The gap begins to close as well as their opportunity, “I said I’m busy.” 

“Wait!” Yechan calls as the door closes, foot faster than his hand as it shoves between the crack and he hisses at that pain, “We just-”

“You can’t talk me out of it!” It comes out as a rush, spit through a void that bears no light and holds no Hyunsuk as the door pinches his foot harsher. There’s not even a candle lit inside, “It’s already been decided, it can’t be changed.”

“It could be changed-”

“It can’t!” The door pulls open enough for his foot to be free,  “It can’t. I’m needed back home anyway, there’s no way to change it–there’s no time-”

“But-”

It closes. His foot throbs but the door’s closed and they’ve not succeeded.

When he turns around he finds Yujun’s face to be blank, stared at the now closed door before it morphs into something sadder. It’s far too much like back in the woods, far too off from what he’s used to. His hand places itself at Yujun’s shoulder in comfort, thumb dug in softly to his collarbone to get his attention, “We tried.” Poorly, with no results to speak of. 

“Yeah.” Yujun says with a sigh, “We did.” He shrugs off the hand. He starts his way back down the walkway towards his own room four doors down and Yechan tenses as the need to drag him back into arm’s reach. He doesn’t, and Yujun keeps walking, “Looks like we’re going then.” 

He lets Yujun make it to the third door before he falls into step, hands fisted before getting shoved in his pockets, “Yeah. We are.”

Yujun’s door opens and closes before Yechan reaches it, “Good night.” He says before making his way back to the staircase. Nails dig into his throat and he swallows around them.

It’s fine, he tells himself, this is normal. Yechan will wait outside Yujun’s door in the morning like he has all week and they’ll talk and be fine, if not better. Yujun won’t be mad. He’ll realize that like always Yechan’s there to keep him safe.

When he lays down that night the weight in his chest is familiar, memories of a childhood long past creeping up but this time Yujun doesn’t pout at him from his bedside while the other’s parents crush herbs into paste hoping for some miracle. When he takes a breath in its ragged when he knows it shouldn’t be, feels his throat close when he knows it isn’t. His lungs feel like they’ll collapse but he takes a breath in as deep as he can before he lets it out, calm when no rasp springs forth with it so he keeps repeating it to himself:

I am not sick anymore, and Yujun is not mad at me, and we’ll be fine in the morning.

⚔

They are not fine in the morning. 

When he knocks on Yujun’s door in the morning there’s no answer. Two doors down some northerner—a stupidly tall one at that–tells him that Yujun left just before he got there and he’s off with a wordless nod up the stairs. There’s only two other places he’d go and Yechan banks on the first, making a left at the split path towards the classroom and relief turns into something bitter when he lays eyes on the other.

Yujun sits in his seat in the third row, chatting away with his desk mate, Sunoo. A Sunoo who Yechan remembers is another mage Yujun met at the magic academy and his skin starts to itch when he remembers that year he was left alone. Sunoo smiles at him when he takes his place behind Yujun who doesn’t even look back. More file in within minutes, all taking their scattered places before Seunghun strolls in behind the last of them.

Hyunsuk does not show up. Jealousy sinks its teeth into his throat because it must be nice, it must be so easy to shirk off responsibilities and just leave.

Yechan would do it too if he could. He pulls his sleeve up to itch at skin that won’t seem to just stop, tries to breathe around a beast that settles where air should, and his eyes drop to his desk to follow wood grains like trails because he knows it’s happening again. 

Yujun still doesn’t look back at him, doesn’t greet him like he does in the mornings, doesn’t know that Yechan starts to fall apart behind him because something’s wrong and he doesn’t know how to fix it.

“I have some terrible news.” Is the last thing he hears Seunghun say before the ringing in his ears gets too loud but he knows they won’t take it well. His own best friend forsakes him the moment he can’t stop what’s coming so what’s to stop the others from doing just that?

None of them can see him back here, alone, sucking air through his teeth to keep from choking.

If Yujun would just look at him-

But he won’t. Yechan bores holes into the other’s back while his head chants–We’re fine-there’s nothing wrong-I can’t breathe-it’ll be okay-I’m sorry-Yujun please-nothing’s wrong-it’s not my fault-

This isn’t the first time—there’s no sickness but this isn’t the first time his lungs have shredded themselves apart to make the lie easier to believe. Yujun looks at him when he’s ill, always has, so surely now he will look again. When he looks up for a moment he sees Sunoo closing his notebook the buzzing in his ears clears long enough to hear Seunghun,

“You’ll have from now till the weekend to prepare. Just please don’t cause tro-” Yechan jumps from his seat and runs. Seunghun can punish him later but for now he flees while he can still breathe.

He doesn’t slow until he makes it back to the dorms and it burns. The buttons of his jacket are undone by the time he reaches the stairs, pulled off as soon as he shoves the door open before throwing to the ground, kicking off his shoes in haste. He clicks the lock with shaky hands before the covers on his bed are shoved back and he burrows beneath them.

There’s nothing there but it feels like there is, like the same illness curls in on itself at the bottom of his lungs, claws dug into his back, and his heart beats like a drum in his ears. If he suffocates here he won’t have to lead them back out into the mountains, won’t have to watch as they get cut down. Getting here was supposed to be easy and they were almost killed, he’s almost certain it’ll happen again.

There’s too much blood on his hands as it is. Only sixteen and it’s already seeped into his pores.

“But there’s nothing to do about it.” 

He can’t stop what’s coming; only sixteen so what weight do any of his words have against those who have seen far more than he ever has? What can he do to stop the world from crashing?

His eyes begin to sting but the acceptance is calming. Like being pulled under water that moves in waves just above him on the surface. 

“There’s nothing to do about it.” He says numbly, resolutely. His eyes close and he imagines that cool water pulling him farther, deeper beneath until his body gets so heavy his grip lessens and his hands fall.

There is nothing to do about it. There is nothing to stop it so just breathe.

A knock forces him from under the water, eyes blinking open to the darkness of the covers before he pushes them off his head, lifting up to stare at the door as the noise repeats.

“Yechan?” He hears from beyond the wood and sighs. His head falls back against the pillow and he waits. Surely the monster will rear its ugly head but maybe if Yujun leaves he thinks it’ll shrink back where it belongs and he can survive till morning when he’ll be fine.

But the universe is never on his side. Not when he hears the lock being messed with remembers who has a spare key.

It clicks and the door pushes open, "Are you okay?" is the first thing Yujun says upon stepping through and just as Yechan fears whatever creature that lives within him awakes and rises up, teeth gnawing where it always does as he abandons his ability to breathe in favor of furthering this.

Maybe one day he'll learn to just voice what he wants but habits are hard to break. 

“I can’t breathe.” He says with a rasp that’s far too weak to be real. He’ll be found out, he’s sure of it this time but Yujun’s steps come quicker before sitting at the edge of the bed, “Yujun, it might be back.” He lies through his teeth but Yujun looks at him sadly.

He wonders if Yujun really knows how pitiful he is, how reliant—wonders if Yujun’s just as reliant because the covers pull back far enough for him to put a hand to Yechan’s chest and the warmth bleeds itself through his shirt and across his skin. It heals nothing tangible and Yujun has to know. One day Yujun’ll call his bluff and they’ll laugh because it’s so, so stupid but for now he focuses on the hand just above his heart and the way the other’s brows knit together in concentration. It’s cute. Yechan’s stupid and Yujun’s cute-

The warmth dissipates, “I’m sorry.” Yujun says as the hand disappears. He scoots farther back, kicking his shoes off to pull one leg up and Yechan curls in more, knees hitting into the other’s back.

Ignorance to what Yujun could be apologizing for would be the preferred road but the borderline manipulative performance he just gave gnaws at his conscience. Still he milks it, hand wrapping around the other’s pinkie and it burns against his palm, “Are you still mad at me?”

“I wasn’t mad at you.” Yujun tells him as he falls back, letting his full weight rest against Yechan’s side, head against his arm, comforting, “Even if I was, it’s not easy to stay mad at you so it wouldn’t matter.”

“Same goes for you. You could break every plate in the kitchen and that senior you had in Fhirdiad would still protect you with his life.”

“Junmin wouldn’t protect me with his life.” The laugh Yujun gives is small and light, dies out too quickly when Yechan can’t see his face but he feels the other’s body shake with it, “He knows that’s your job.”

“It is.” It most definitely is. Something he’s got a lot of practice and pride in. Maybe that’s what makes the times that seem so out of his hands all the more worse, “Then why didn’t you talk to me?” And he hates how downright pathetic he sounds, the silence making it all the more damning. 

“I didn’t mean to.” Yujun huffs when the silence becomes too much, “I’m just… scared. We’re in the wrong place to be scared of fighting but…” Yechan gets it. He turns Yujun’s hand to face up where he can see the thin white lines and little marks that litter their way across the skin there before threading their fingers together.

“I’m scared too, y’know.”

“I know. But you’ve always been better at hiding it. Your lungs aren’t though.” And things like that make Yechan think Yujun hasn’t caught onto his ruse just yet. His free hand comes round to Yujun’s shoulder pulling the other off his side to the space on the bed in front of him.

“They’re better than they were.” He says once he’s wrangled Yujun into place, tucked under his chin, in his arms, “You know I’ll protect you right? In fights you just have to stay behind me and it’ll all be fine.”

“Says an archer.”

“To a mage.” He’d bite Yujun if he were in any position too, tucks it away for revenge later, “Jay can play shield then. He still owes me.” For several things if Yechan tallies it up right; human shield is the least the older can do, “The nomads seem good with weapons they can probably flank. Prince Sunghoon can go to the front since he’s so eager to hit something-”

“Bleh. Strategy talk would’ve been good to have in class you know?” Yujun bumps his head into Yechan’s chin when he tries to move, “Also you have to actually talk with the other house leaders before assigning-”

His hand covers Yujun’s mouth before he can continue. He doesn’t want to hear it right now and definitely doesn’t want to think about the outcome of whatever future conversation he’ll have with the northern prince will be, “Tomorrow.” He promises as he links their pinkies together, “Sleep first, then hell, okay?”

Yujun thankfully doesn’t comment on the fact it’s barely noon or that they’d skipped breakfast. He is however–thankfully–woken before the bells sound for dinner.

⚔

10th of March;
Sovereign Year 1143

Yechan’s definitely learned something in his incredibly short life: if you shoot an arrow at someone's head they aren't usually happy about that. And Sunghoon, so far, has seemed incredibly keen on proving that.

Saturday becomes a bust when getting anywhere near the prince turns into the worst game of cat and mouse he’s ever been forced into. Every time he runs into one of the boys from the north he’s sent halfway across the monastery only to have 'just missed' the prince who’s now apparently in a location that happens to be another 20 minute walk across the place. Like any good soon-to-be leader of a country he promptly gives up around noon with the intent of actually planning for tomorrow.

So here he sits on a Sunday morning—shoved between Yujun and Hyunwoo on a pew far in the back of the cathedral that’s probably older than his father and just as comfortable, having woken up far too early and far too jittery, the choir’s singing echoes off the walls.

“They’re off key.” Hyunwoo whispers at one point and Yechan has to choke on a laugh. The older is the only one he currently knows that doesn’t realize it’s the archbishop that’s up there singing his heart out and Yechan’s certainly not going to tell him.

If anything he finds comfort in the fact he doesn’t seem to be the only one that seems on edge, whether it be in the presence of a looming goddess over them or the way his wounds are doomed to reopen if he steps foot back into the mountains. They’re all on even ground here including Sunghoon who shifts around uncomfortably in the seat directly in front of him.

Even Yoon Hyunsuk, sitting across the aisle, seems to think church is a great place to spend his last day at the academy.

Honestly he couldn’t ask for a better line up. Maybe the goddess does side with mortals sometimes.

He starts making a mental note based on the brief bits he’s been able to witness. Lots of lancers and swordsmen from the south which is what he expects from Fodlan’s more martial nation. The north pulls its weight in magic but whether it rests in faith or damage or both he’s not sure yet. When it comes to bows and brawling he’s positive that’s theirs and theirs alone and it’s not something he’s happy about when range is what he’s seen get results.

“I think it’d be best to think about the north’s mages.” Jay says from where he sits on Yujun’s other side, just loud enough for them to hear, “Yujun said two of them went to the academy right?” He asks and the latter nods, “They’d be more than fodder then.”

“Junmin did too!” The younger corrects, loudly, and Yechan watches the shifting in the seats before them get more restless, “And I think the friend he has was also there, I remember seeing them together occasionally.”

“The insane one?” Jay asks, “With the sharp tongue and the penchant for hitting?”

“It’s a little mean to call someone insane.” Yujun pouts and Yechan chooses not to say that label could be put on almost anyone here.

“He threatened me with a salad fork. I think I’m allowed to call him insane.”

“It was a butter knife.” Hyunwoo corrects, “It’s good to remember he did help heal your wounds at the gate. From what I’ve gathered the other two houses have a full lot on mending. We only have Yujun and your track record of healing a paper cut.” He pauses, shuddering, “Badly, somehow.”

“More than you can do.”

“Never claimed to-”

“Um-” All eyes draw forward, one of the Lilies has turned around, mouth quivering between a frown and a smile. Yechan doesn’t remember hitting him with an arrow so that’s something, “Could you maybe, um, quiet the combat talk a bit because…” He drifts off but his eyes dart two people over to where Prince Sunghoon’s shoulders shake. Considering the game of hide-and-seek he was forced into yesterday Yechan spitefully hopes it’s with rage.

But it’s somehow not nearly as funny as the face that Hyunwoo makes in his periphery, scrunched up like some of the cats who hang around here when they get picked up by their scruff. He raises his hand and points at the other with an almost worse level of irritation, “We’re trying to keep you alive!” is certainly a thing to say–in a church of all places, during a service–and Hyunwoo does his best to look as serious as possible with his hand trembling in annoyance.

And it works. The other’s face swiftly morphs into confusion, so caught off guard that Yechan cannot in fact keep himself from laughing behind his hand this time, “Oh, um… carry on, then?” 

Hyunwoo’s becoming his second favorite at this rate.

His first favorite, however, leans into his space, frowned up at Hyunwoo, “Jinsik’s nice.” He whispers in the meanest tone someone like Yujun can conjure up but Hyunwoo only raises an eyebrow at the younger,

“Healer or fighter?”

“Healer?”

“Then he can stay nice. We are in fact trying to keep him alive.” Hyunwoo decides, without any help it seems as he straightens up, “Just how long is this song.” He mutters and even Yujun can’t bite down the smile as he settles back against the chair. 

⚔

Cornering Sunghoon does not come easily for him, no not when he’s unable to say no to someone of the same station as him.

“Just try one more time.” Jay had said as they stood from the pews, hand placed firmly on the younger’s shoulder, “The worst he can say is no.” he’s told with a promise that they can return to planning if it goes awry.

Which is how Yechan ends up here standing not that far from a very tempting exit and where the worst Hyunsuk actually does is cause a scene that draws more eyes than he feels comfortable around, under a microscope now and it makes him bristle.

“Why do you want me to stay so badly!” Hyunsuk all but yells at him in the emptying cathedral, towered over him.

To keep everyone from being killed.

But it comes out as something more prideful. They have an audience after all, “Because you’re part of my house, part of my country. I want all of you safe-”

“Safe? You think it’s safe here? In these horrid halls where a goddess looks down at us but will not speak with us?” Even amongst the horrified gasps from what Yechan assumes are the very devout Hyunsuk continues, “And you’ll be the one to keep us safe?” He laughs, looks down at the four of them before his arms gesture out towards the crowd his theatrics have gathered, “By the goddess, you are a child-”

A child? Or a leader? No one can ever agree, “This child has saved your life once already!”

“Some saving that was! Now I’m stuck here!” 

Yechan pauses for a moment when that sentence actually hits–stuck here? Hyunsuk’s problem is that he’s stuck here? There are people dead in the forest on the mountains and Hyunsuk thinks he’s stuck here-

He snaps, seethes, “You get to leave!” His hands shake at his side and a hand grips around his wrist from behind, not as much a comfort as he’d like, “You’re leaving tomorrow! You get a full fucking guard to deliver you back to the border made of us!”

“Yechan-” Yujun says behind him but he takes another step forward.

“Am I supposed to be thankful?” Hyunsuk scoffs and all goes silent around them.

It’s eerie, the stillness that settles when Yechan realizes just what kind of person Hyunsuk is. Suddenly there is no saving, there is no willingness. If Hyunsuk wishes to leave then it should be without them, Hyunsuk should be thankful he’s still standing, “We didn’t even get to bury the bodies. If I were you I’d count myself lucky I wasn’t one of the-hrk-!” His words are cut off when Hyunsuk’s hands grasp into the collar of his shirt and drag him upward.

“On a battlefield we are even-it’s you who should think he’s lucky, all you’ve ever been is lucky!” Frankly, being barely able to touch the ground with his tiptoes while at least five different voices beyond Yujun’s get louder is not something he’d consider himself lucky for. The nails of his free hand dig into Hyunsuk’s wrist the best he can from the angle, 

“Yoon Hyunsuk!” A deep voice booms behind them and even if he could turn he doesn’t have to, hears the way Sunghoon’s boots echo against the marble floors as they come close, “You may not have faith in the goddess but I will not have you defile Her house in front of Her devout.” Once in view, he grips a hand around the wrist Yechan doesn’t have, “And may I remind you this is your future leader, one well within his rights to execute you-” 

While he admits it had been a passing thought, so is the idea to spit on Sunghoon for even thinking that he’d use his authority like that.

Especially when Hyunsuk has the audacity to listen, lowering Yechan back to the ground slowly and unfurling his fingers. By no means does he look any less angry but even unarmed Sunghoon would be a more formidable opponent than Yechan would. 

“Milord.” He spits, addressing Sunghoon with slightly less vitriol, before he takes a step back, “If you’ll both excuse me.” No one stops him as he leaves. No one wants to. 

“I don’t…” The one northerner from before—Jinsik—starts but he’s quick to taper off. Like him? Understand him ? However the other’s feelings may turn out in regard to Hyunsuk there is a certain look of displeasure that’s echoed throughout the others that gather around. And Yechan sure shares it.

“Yeah, if anyone dies, I hope it’s fucking him.” He mutters before beginning to walk, with or without Yujun even when he knows he’s bound to have a shadow before he reaches the door. 

But unfortunately the prince is talkative right now.

“Lee Yechan!” When he looks back his vision is indeed blocked by Yujun, moves until Sunghoon stands proudly in the middle of the aisle, surrounded by his entourage.

“What?”

“We’re working together tomorrow. I think it’d be appropriate for us to have a meeting in the courtyard later this evening to discuss. I’ll make sure Prince Kai is there as well.”

It feels like a trap. Very few things have ever felt more like a trap but he nods when he remembers that he’s doing this to alleviate Yujun’s nerves and mitigate whatever horrible things could come of just letting either house do as they please.

“I’ll be there.” He shrugs and Yujun’s arm interlocks with his when he turns and begins to walk off.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay by yourself?” Yujun says when they make it to the door.

“Is that because you don’t like Sunghoon or you don’t trust me alone with him?”

An elbow digs into his side, Yujun causing them both to stop as he thinks about it, “You both bite.” He finally says and lets them start walking again.

I’m not that bad.

“Sunghoon’s not that bad.”

⚔

Park Sunghoon is his worst enemy. The headache already blooms its way across his forehead when he remembers yesterday, steady enough that he just lets it be. Less things to have Jay and Yujun worry about on a battlefield, especially when it’s Sunghoon’s emergency plan they’re working with.

And Yechan’s one condition.

“If anything happens we keep the mages behind us.” He’d asked, almost commanded when he and the other two house leaders had stood outside the dining hall amidst barely blooming begonias in the courtyard. Sunghoon hadn’t been one to give in easily, not when Sunghoon knows his mages are strong, trained to be resilient.

Yujun, he knows, is strong to a certain point, is resilient in the face of certain obstacles for sure-

-but Yechan's fears gnash their teeth together right behind his.

It was only thanks to Kai that Sunghoon agreed. Yechan might dislike Kai for basically handing him a win but the other does know the Lilies weaknesses and it comes in handy for situations like that. If Yechan files away information he learned about some of Sunghoon's mages for later he doesn't tell anyone.

And so now they wait, gathered in the entrance near the gate just like when they arrived here barely a few weeks prior. The academy has had stalls set up in the time since then: vendors with wares and men for hire all lined up each side, smiths sharpening swords and lances, most of them from the town just down the mountain and some from farther. Yechan sits on one of the wooden boxes off towards the steps to the entrance hall, watching the rest of the students chosen trickle their way down, donned in pieces of leather or metal armor that clash with black and gold of the academy uniform that have remained unshed. Even Yechan’s forgone the coat of his uniform in favor of a chest guard, the leather biting into skin through his shirt.

There isn’t supposed to be a fight but they’re already being prepared for one, and not well. There are some of them that aren’t afforded much protection with their skillset and more that look awkward and disjointed behind the metal.

The two nomads are the latter while Yujun and Sunoo are the former, barely in bracers; it’s always been hard to safeguard mages behind armor. Necessity lies in the ability to have their hands free, to be able to move—flee—at a moment’s notice.

He picks up Yujun’s hand from where it lies between them, checking the laces on the underside for tightness before his hand travels up, slotting their fingers together tightly. Their interlocked hands fall into the space between them and the clinking of metal and shouts of seller’s settle over them. Conversation has been dull since the early morning and Yujun’s eyes rarely leave the darkened patch stained on the stone closer to the gate. He doesn't know exactly whose blood has become one with the path but it is theirs.

When the other’s eyes do move though they settle on a group that keep their distance from the students, dressed in far nicer armor but still lackluster in comparison to the knights of the monastery.

Mercenaries. Killers for hire. Barbarians bound by coin. Supposedly safe here and yet still they are followed, still the bile rises.

“And so that’s the help the archbishop has afforded us?” Sunoo says with a scoff, “I think I’ve had enough of murderers.”

They’re all unsettled at the sight of that group gathered like that. There’s not many, barely fifteen but that same number has done enough damage before.

Beside him Yujun shrinks at Sunoo’s words, knee knocking into Yechan’s as he shifts, “They’ve got to be okay, right?” He reasons, voice barely audible above the hum of the marketplace. His hand tightens around Yechan’s who grips back just as hard, grounding, “The archbishop chose them, didn’t he?”

It’s a good hope. Yechan’s tongue presses against his teeth to stop from spitting at the thought but it’s Sunoo who’s wounds are still open, raw and exposed but his voice is gentle when directed at Yujun and he’s thankful, “They follow whoever has the biggest purse.” He says and that alone causes his friend’s gaze to drop, “What’s to stop them from turning on us?” 

The goddess won’t. 

“Well, actually-” Yechan’s head snaps up and behind them is another giant of a man looming over them, dressed in a knight’s attire with everything from his pauldrons to his sabatons done in a dark metal, “Most of us don’t work like that anymore, knights in all but a name.” The man smiles at them, non threatening and pleasant until the stares seem to weed their way through that, turning it into nothing but a sliver as his brows furrow, “We—all of us—understand why you’d be adverse to working alongside us, but-” A metal hand places gently against Yechan’s shoulder and he jerks away. 

The man pauses, hand still outstretched. Yechan can feel the eyes all around that bore into him. He can’t say he didn’t mean it. He did. The man that stands above him’s eyes are kind but the hands that are too close to him are just as stained as his but the reasons are not the same. Beside him he can hear Yujun become restless, breath a little faster and he puts himself between them.

“I-” The man begins but he stops, regards the group of them like wild animals and out of the corner of his eye Yechan can see Jay rise from near a fruit stall just across the square. 

“Yunho!” A voice calls from the gate and the man’s eyes jerk up towards the noise but Yechan’s stay locked upwards, “Another check is needed on the wagons!”

He regards them one last time, somber before he turns, “Coming!” He calls before stepping away from them in swiftness as his sabatons clink against the stone. Yechan’s eyes do not leave him until Jay blocks it.

“That went well.” The older says, amusement pulling at his face, “Don’t know how it could have gone better but it could’ve definitely been worse considering it’s you.” He aims at Yechan.

“Thanks, I’m practicing.” 

“We appreciate that.” When he places a hand on the younger’s shoulder it’s not shoved off, “I know we’re all a little skittish after what happened but I think it’d be prudent to not act like loose fuses. The last thing I need is to be aimed by a stray arrow,” His eyes turn to Yujun then Sunoo, “or whatever you two shoot from your fingers.”

“Who said it’d be an accident?”

“Would you like to find out?” Sunoo speaks at the same time he does and Jay smirks at the two of them before laughing.

“Hissing again already? And here I thought you’d all need an actual pep talk.” He claps his hand against Yechan’s shoulder one last time, “Yujun you’re on my side, right?”

“Nope.” Never has, never will. 

“Worth a shot.” There are voices that rise louder closer to the gate, students gather from their hiding spots among the stalls and from the stairs. Jay removes his hand and lets Yechan stand, pulling Yujun with him as they watch the gathering. The two princes stand at the center of it all and Sunghoon stands the proudest between them. When Sunghoon looks him in the eye, Yechan holds it, doesn’t let it drop until the former looks away first. Yujun holds his hand tighter and Jay clears his throat. 

Jay looks at Yechan like he’s someone younger, like he’s something other than their house leader, but it morphs, shifts until there’s far too much respect than he deserves spreads across Jay’s hardened features. The beginning of the end—of what he’s not sure yet but Jay’s hand is once again heavy against his shoulder, pushed forward towards the group,

“Put on your commander’s voice, Lord Lee. It’s time to go.”

Chapter Text

Purple Orchids

- Junghoon -

11th of March;
Sovereign Year 1143

They make camp as soon as the sun begins to set.

A day’s worth of travel has led them far—into where the Oghma Mountains start to slope upwards, valleys giving way to a forest full of tall, dense trees, their trunks soaked through with water from all the rain they’ve gotten.

Here, Junghoon feels more at ease already.

When the wagons stop at the faintest site of a clearing his feet start to move quicker, nails dug into the bark of the first tree he gets to beyond the sight line. He climbs up, up, up until he’s settled on the lowest branch that can hold his weight and undoes the sword at his belt, watching as the others begin to set up camp before night falls.

Not long after they notice he’s missing. White hair’s easy to spot the moment it’s in view, “Let him out of sight for five whole minutes and he’s gone-” Kim Minjae grumbles not far from his hiding spot with a hand perched at his hip. If patterns persist Junghoon’s sure the older’ll be the first to find him like he has been, but a crowd gathers, one of them notably blonde with a kind smile and he sulks when he hears the voice come out a little clearer than the others.

Their prince speaks a bit too confidently for Junghoon’s liking when he says the younger can’t be far. For a second he thinks their eyes meet but the prince’s flicker off from his location quickly, “Can’t be actually. He’s smart enough to know where food is.”

“Food hasn’t motivated him before, your highness.” Kim Minjae huffs and Junghoon bites back a snicker. In the brief time he’s spent with them he’s learned these two are opposites–one distrusting of the ground beneath his feet while other would trust water offered by a stranger. They’re weird in their own right, just like the rest of them. Each of them has their own little quirks, some better than others.

“Did you lose someone?” A deep voice sounds off, commanding in its tone and it’s Park Sunghoon that makes his way beneath the bough that Junghoon’s perched on, “If it’s one of your mages I suggest you find them quickly. It’s your swordsmen we can do without.”

“Hey!” 

Park Sunghoon’s quirks are definitely not that good.

Energy isn’t well spent on conversations that don’t pertain to him in full and it’s wasted effort to listen to a prince that isn’t his talk down to him. Instead he leans back against the trunk, covered from view by the leaves as he lays his sword across his lap, well sharpened in its sheath as he continues to watch them.

⚔

When night finally falls he’s still not found. His legs stretch out along the branch while watching them gather round the fire, and he's almost beckoned to it when meat is skewered and laid to cook.

Well, most of them gather at least.

Their main reason for being out here seemingly has the forethought to stay back, close to the opposite edge of the small clearing, knees drawn up near a set of bushes between two small trees. The others’ eyes dart to him every now and again only to flit away before being noticed.

‘Yea, if anyone dies, I hope it’s fucking him.’ Even whispered it had practically boomed within that large church. The sentiment seems to be shared amongst some of them if any of the glares can be gone by.

Junghoon teeters; having to be so on edge about the unknown while out amongst the trees doesn’t suit him. But having anything other than indifference for an alliance member's life also isn’t something he’s for either.

That one at least. When he looks down towards the gathering a familiar head of short hair and sharp eyes seem to spot him, squinted through the darkness and up through the leaves but Junghoon stays still, staring right back.

Eventually the other looks away. He breathes in, shifting in place before he turns his eyes to the sky and he remembers why it feels better to be out here. 

The stars are out for the first time in a while. There’s no clouds or fog to obscure them, no large academy walls caging him in. His mother taught him constellations when he was young and seeing the same ones that hang over their little house in the snow helps him pretend he’s back home. In the east the wounds of Cethleann bleed into hands with Cichol, blending into a herd of wyverns that his mother said always came from the north and led their way south across the sky. The saints keep their heads pointed to the goddess but She only ever rises in the winter. It’s that time that he waits for, when their year here comes to an end and he’ll be let back to that little town near the border.

But his hand grips around the hilt of his sword, and that seems so far away now.

And when he looks back at the fire the boy’s missing. His ears perk, eyes darting around the campfire trying to catch sight but the other’s not there amongst the rest.

“Kim Junghoon.” He hears from his right and jolts as he hears the scraping of bark, head turned to watch as those same eyes from before glint in the darkness, “Ah, so it was you.”

“How’d you-” He starts but there’s not many ways to get up into a tree, especially when he can hear the graceless way the other’s boots drag across the bark of the trunk, pulling himself up before reaching for a slightly higher and closer branch, “What are you doing?”

“Getting even.” Junghoon tenses. The thought of being shoved out of the tree is an unpleasant one but thankfully the boy whose name he’s never got is content with just settling—quite clumsily at that—on a higher bough, “You snuck up on me; good to see that it’s not that hard to do the same.”

A weird way of getting even, “Thought you were gonna push me…” He whispers, trailing off when he turns his face away. 

The other laughs at him, low enough that it doesn’t seem to disturb any of the others, “And what would that accomplish? If you’re actually from the knight’s academy-” His head snaps up in time to see the other clutch around the trunk, unsteady, “-we’re going to need you alive and in one piece just in case. Oh, also,” A hand gets shakily held out towards him, “Choi Hyunwoo, from Liecester.” He says with a small lisp, keeps going about how he knows Junghoon’s name but Junghoon stares at the hand like it’s poisoned while the words knight’s academy keep dancing around his head on repeat.

“Who told you that?” He finally interrupts.

“Told me what?”

“That I’m from the knight’s academy.” There’s only one person here that he remembers ever seeing at that god awful place, eyes darting back to the fire to see where that Sim something-or-other is.

But the pause that lingers between them is too long, and when he looks back up the other boy regards him strangely, off put with his bottom lip caught between his teeth and fear whirls around in Junghoon’s gut.

“Is it supposed to be a secret?” Hyunwoo says once Junghoon’s sufficiently disturbed by his own thoughts, one with the bark as he shrinks in on himself, “If so you’ll have to talk with that one Orchid-Jake, I think? I overheard him talking with the others-I didn’t think anything of it, I just know people there tend to be a little stronger in fights even if the place has a… weird reputation the way people act when they hear about it-”

Hyunwoo is a talker. An over-explainer and a rambler and in a weird twist of events it makes Junghoon huff, eyes closing with relief when his body realizes before his brain that there’s no harm to come, “It’s… fine.”

“It doesn’t seem fine.” He opens his eyes and Hyunwoo’s shifted farther towards him, fingers practically imbedded into the trunk above Junghoon’s head to keep steady, “I’m sorry if I hit a nerve, it’s just we-”

Decidedly, he puts Hyunwoo into the ‘far too earnest’ category right next to the prince and that boy from the Ministry of Religion. Simple in a nicer way than most others would mean it, “I said it’s fine. Like you said, some people act weird about it. Can never tell how someone will be.” Much like he expects Hyunwoo goes to speak again; but Junghoon’s not fond of talking about a hell he’s escaped from, “You’re going to fall.” 

His hands reach up, one gripped around the wrist above his head, the other pressed into Hyunwoo’s ribs to push him back into place despite the noise the other makes in retaliation, sharp and loud but it sounds enough like a rabid animal that he’s sure it won’t draw unusual attention.

“The trees where I’m from aren’t meant for climbing.” Hyunwoo explains when he pulls back.

“Neither are the ones I know. You adapt.”

“I think I’ve adapted quite well.” Hyunwoo purses his lips, nose scrunched up before he puffs out a quick breath, “Haven’t fallen out of the tree yet.”

“Yet? You were about-” He stops and both their eyes draw back to the fire when the clanking of metal sounds above the crackle of wood. Knights start to move, plucking supplies for tents from the wagons and feeding horses. Skewed meat has been divided out, bowls of soup in rightful hands as the fires begin to dim. If he squints he can spot the way Kim Minjae’s eyes dart into the forest before adding to the conversation he’s having with a few others. 

They watch for a bit, see bedrolls pulled and placed along the edge for after. Hyunwoo’s eyes are narrowed towards them when he looks back up, quick to shift into something less hostile when he’s caught. He’s curious surely, but the question dies in the back of his throat when Hyunwoo speaks first.

“Are you planning to sleep up here?” He’s asked and whatever face he makes causes Hyunwoo to tilt his head and scoff, “You give me that look but you seem the type to do that. You’re practically perched in this tree like some big cat.”

“Cat?” That’s rich coming from someone who somehow got up here without him noticing despite not being able to keep still where he sits, “And not here.”

“So you would?”

“If I knew the area.” This side of the Oghma Mountains is foreign , much greener than where he comes from but the rains had done little to make up for just how dry the land beneath the grass was as they were walking. He’d known the land around Igna better than his own body but the ground here could be host to anything—more foes than friends for certain, “Can’t trust some bugs.”

“Bugs.” It’s not a question, said with disbelief more than anything else.

Junghoon shrugs, “Or animals. There’s a giant fox in this tree right now.” He says as he points up at the other, barely manages to avoid getting swatted in the process. He’s quicker though, just barely when he realizes and catches Hyunwoo’s wrist in his hand, “It’s like you’re trying to fall.”

“I’m not!” Hyunwoo hisses, “Just not used to being up this high.”

“Then get down.” He says and Hyunwoo’s nose scrunches up. He shakes the arm that Junghoon has a hold of lightly before pointing straight down at him.

“If they see me coming down they’ll know where you’re hiding.” 

“I’m not hiding.” If anything, being up here has two boons: seeing the stars and annoying his seemingly peer-assigned handler. Being up here is less a secret and more him learning just how unaware the others seem to be of their surroundings, whether it be on purpose or not . And he’s not sure which is worse.

The longer that Junghoon continues to stare up at him the faster Hyunwoo crumbles, “Well… well!” the wrist in his hand goes slack and Junghoon lets it drop, “I don’t think I can get down.” He’d assumed as much. He shifts, legs hung towards where Hyunwoo’s feet are, and when he reaches up the other jerks back, foot heel driven into his knee. Hard. Altruism starts to leave him swiftly as he reaches to grab the hem of Hyunwoo’s jacket and tugs, causing the other to panic, "What are you doing?"

"I was going to help you down if you'd stop kicking. We're not that far up, just throw your leg over and we’ll jump.”

“Jump? We can make it that far?”

“Scared?”

“No.” Junghoon doesn’t expect the confidence behind the answer, eyebrows raised when Hyunwoo shakily pulls his leg over, feet knocking into Junghoon’s knees again, “Tree expert Junghoon.” He snorts, morphs into a yelp when Junghoon tugs at his jacket a little harder but settles quickly. It’s an awkward angle to be at when he’s only used to jumping with the younger kids in his arms. Hyunwoo can surely make it though—doesn’t fight much when Junghoon’s left hand reaches to grab the opposite side of the Hyunwoo’s uniform, switching the other to grab Hyunwoo’s hand and urge him off the branch. 

‘Tree expert’ be damned, “Bend your knees.” He says before he tightens his hold in the fabric and pulls. The noise that bubbles from Hyunwoo’s throat chokes out and dies near Junghoon’s ear, hitting the ground after Junghoon does and crumpling. Without the shaky breath that escapes Hyunwoo and the near death grip he has on Junghoon’s hand there’d be little evidence against Junghoon having killed him.

‘Are you okay?’ Seems a bit redundant but Junghoon asks it anyway, squeezing back as Hyunwoo’s chest rises and falls beneath their hands.

Hyunwoo exhales a “Yes?” as if unsure that all his bones are all in place and Junghoon watches him shift his legs, his arms, as if assuring that he can still move but his face shifts into a smile and chuckles, “Need more practice before I ever do that again.”

“And you called me insane?” 

“I stand by it.” 

Hyunwoo’s thankfully easy to pull off the ground—to his knees at least—before Junghoon stands. Footsteps come closer behind him, a figure eclipsing the campfire. He expects Kim Minjae to stand there huffing in anger but his eyes widen at the sight of his prince standing there with a small smile, haloed in light by the campfire. In his hand is a bit of cloth with two skewers of meat laid upon it, “I knew you’d come down eventually.”

Neither of them bow. 

Junghoon begins to out of habit but catches himself, “Not of my own accord.” He says candidly, “Someone doesn’t know how to land on their feet.” Hyunwoo sounds off with a ‘Hey!’ and a light shove but his prince’s face simply churns as he tries not to smile wider and takes a few steps towards them.

When Hyunwoo flinches and bows his head, Junghoon doesn’t mention it. Neither does the prince as he stops, “In spite of the grumbling Minjae was afraid you’d miss dinner, so I saved a few back.” His eyes go to Hyunwoo and Junghoon’s follows, “Did you eat?” He asks kindly and Junghoon watches as Hyunwoo’s head nods, sharp and short.

“I did, milord.”

And this, it seems, the prince notices–”Just Kai.” He says softly, the way he’s told many of them. He stays where he is, arm outstretched with the cloth and skewers for Junghoon to take who does just that, cringing at the way the juice of the meat seeps through the cloth even as his mouth waters.

The seconds of silence during the transaction linger, get far too loud, and Hyunwoo’s sudden case of jitteriness reaches a head as he steps around the prince with a wide berth, “I should probably get back to my group–didn’t tell them where I was going.” He says, and his eyes meet Junghoon’s briefly before fully facing forwards and quickening his step.

Once Hyunwoo’s out of earshot the prince’s voice is but a whisper, “Am I that scary?”

Hardly, Junghoon thinks to himself because he’s met rabbits more ferocious but he’s also aware that he’s speaking to someone of a higher class even if they’re supposed to be on even ground here. ‘Commoners ought not scoff in the face of someone that high above them.’ That’s what his mother always told him as a child and it served his family well–their village stayed intact, on the border as it was. He’d never interacted with the royal family before coming here but there’s something about the prince specifically that has Junghoon not nearly as nervous as he feels he should be.

“Pretty sure the fall was scarier.” 

As predicted, the prince is not like the nobles that own the land that his village inhabits–does not frown or yell, does not lash out and Junghoon does not reel back–no, the prince only laughs, a bit loud as he smiles, “Is that so? Good to hear then.” Something cracks off in the distance, like a branch snapping under the weight of something heavy, “My sisters say I can be a bit imposing when I…” Their prince trails his words when he sees Junghoon turn towards and the weight of his stare burns into the side of Junghoon’s head, “Something wrong?”

Yes, “No. It’s probably nothing.” He says when he turns his head but his eyes keep their place off to the side, his ears open. 

He’s not good at making people believe him but their prince… their prince is too trusting, gives Junghoon another of those small smiles as he nods, “I’ll take your word for it.” Junghoon wishes he wouldn’t, “It’s probably a deer.” 

Junghoon’s unfortunately familiar with deer. The unease tightens in his shoulders, leaves the bulk of its weight at the top of his spine and he shivers. There’s something out there. 

His hand tightens around his sword.

The prince’s hand grips into his shoulder lightly and his eyes meet the other’s again, “We should go back to camp. We leave at sunrise so it’d be good to get some rest before then, right?”

He doesn’t bother to argue, only nods and follows in step behind the prince as he makes his way towards the dimming light of the campfire.

When he lays on his bedroll that night gazing up at the stars and surrounded by those of his class he takes the moment to remind himself that there are knights that are with them, trusted men of the church taking turns watching over them. He pretends that puts him at ease.

Whatever is out there will not get them while they are asleep. They will not pounce while it is dark out.

⚔

They’re all in one piece in the morning. He’s not the first one up, actually opens his eyes to see Kim Minjae’s fiance’s staring as he kneels, hand mid reach towards his shoulder. He’s overslept. The sun isn’t that high for the morning, probably barely up for an hour but the camp seems alive with the grumbling of half alert teenagers that aren’t ready for a lengthy walk.

“Sorry–was just about to wake you.” The older tells him with a nod, pulling his hand back and standing back to his full height, “Breakfast and then we’re heading out.” A smile creeps on his face, “So we wouldn’t want you climbing into any more trees before then.”

A very funny joke. Junghoon doesn’t laugh.

A small bowl of porridge and a bit of stale bread of jam gets complaints from a few of the nobles but to him it’s a dish that’s heaven sent, savoring it as he watches a few of them meander about camp, doling out weapons and checking armor that shouldn’t have to be used. 

At some point Hyunsuk returns from behind the trees. He didn’t even notice the other was gone. Someone says, “A snakebite would save us a lot of trouble.” and Junghoon’s pretends his meal doesn’t seem appetizing.

“There’s no snakes out here.” He says between slow bites, “Ground’s too cold under the first layer and too many snake killers run out here.” Mongooses specifically. When he looks over he sees a head of orange hair—Lee Yechan, next leader of the alliance, someone who definitely knows there are no snakes out here—and cringes.

“Pity for us then.” A shiver runs down Junghoon’s spine. The conversation ends there for him, jaw busy with the bit of bread he has left. The other’s shot a blunted arrow cleanly across a field, through trees, and into his side when they were on neutral terms. He’d hate to see how accurate Lee Yechan is when he loathes someone.

⚔

They begin their trek before noon. The trees start to thin out the closer they get to the bridge, to the chasm that breaks up the southeastern side of the mountains. Fear does not strike him in the way he sees it play out on others but anxiety does not leave him. The sound from last night still plays in head as he marches closer to the edge of their little group, keeping his ears open for anything above the tuneless melody of everyone’s feet hitting the ground.

Unlike at the knight’s academy, Garreg Mach does not drill into them the pacing of an army from day one. They do not walk in a formation that would benefit them beyond the stringrant order to cocoon around the mages. When he looks over them he catches Sim Jaeyun’s eye, getting a nod like they’ve shared some unspoken agreement before turning forward. Junghoon feels his mouth pull down at that. Though they share the same softer steps and purposeful strides they are not friends, only victims of the same circumstance. With a firm grip on his sword’s hilt he turns away, goes back to keeping his ears open but he keeps Sim Jaeyun in mind. If there’s anyone who’s ready for a fight it would be them and perhaps the northern prince that seems bent on making himself a target. And at least that one can take a hit.

When the trees finally give way to the chasm he’s nearly blinded with the way the sun reflects off of the barren land, holding a hand to shield his eyes. He’s not surprised when it is not red as the name suggests, the color of most dirt in an almost painful way as they approach a bridge that is thrice as wide as their little group, probably made for trade routes and couriers, pilgrimages to the church like all goddess fearing individuals should do. The closer they get the more some of them wobble like trees in the wind, hands wrung together in anticipation as they close the gap to the stony landmass, murmurs that get louder with every step, buzzing like bees.

”Who is that?” Someone asks. Junghoon steps out a little farther and raises a brow at the man he sees standing out in the middle of the bridge. 

Lavender isn’t a color or a flower he associates with Liecester in any form but it’s stamped into the stout man’s golden chest plate, gaudy and unappealing for decoration much less a fight just like any other noble that Junghoon has ever seen.

A fighter’s pantomime. Axe and all.

‘Have you seen him before?’

‘Not at the capitol, no.’

‘No noble I’ve ever seen.’

‘What family has lavender as it‘s-’

All of the voices are from Dahlias and it makes the rest of them weary to fall in line behind the knights that lead them closer to the solitary being that stands in the middle of where they need to cross. As his feet hit the stone of the bridge he starts thinking: if this is who they’re meeting then where’s the rest of them? The land that stretches beyond the bridge is flat and arid like he expects Liecester to be, lacking lush trees and bushes to provide cover for anything, just dry, dying, messes of branches that dot along the land. 

“Are you our rendezvous?” One of the knights speaks as they get closer, voice echoing off of the canyon. When the knight stops they all do, thirty paces from the other, “If you are can I ask where the rest of your battalion is? We were assured that Yoon Hyunsuk would have a guard back to his village and you’re…” 

Unsuitable for guarding cattle, let alone a person.

“My battalion will arrive shortly, I assure you.” The man speaks, slow and unbothered. The axe he leans on is clean, no sign of wear or use, “However! There are more pressing matters for you.”

Before anyone can question it, a sharp Twang! rings out across the valley and he turns sharply towards the wood where he expects them to come from-

But there’s nothing.

”Arrows! From above!” 

They are not fast enough to scatter. He looks up and sees as they fall from the sky and some of them land their mark, inaccurate as they may be. He doesn’t know who’s the first to drop but few of them do, someone taking a hit to the shoulder and dropping next to him. He’s quick to grab them, pulling the weight towards the edge of the bridge and it’s there that he’s able to see them, at least thirty to forty archers on this side alone, poised and ready at the bottom of the chasm.

”They’re shooting from below!” He yells above the chaos before kneeling, hand pressed around the wound and breaking off the shaft. It won’t kill him, pierced through above his clavicle but it shouldn’t be moved and Junghoon tells him such.

”No worries.” The other says with a shaky smile, hisses when he moves the arm too much, “Just… motion Yujun over here, you know, when he gets the chance.“ Sure. When they’re not being bombarded from the sky. If the other’s lucky he’ll be safe here based on the angle, just has to worry about the other side falling towards him.

“Keep your eyes up, if you see one coming then move .” He says as he stands. The sheath falls from his sword, turns on his heel and keeps his eyes up. They’re shooting in waves. The man in the center of the bridge has not moved an inch. None of the arrows reach him and the knights they are protected by are busy with shielding mages, busy with shouting orders. One of the horses whinnies pitifully as one of the arrows lands through its back and he winces.

And then it dawns on Junghoon, the sound he’d heard in the forest, the lack of coverage in front of them-

‘My battalion will arrive shortly, I assure you.’

He looks to the forest just as they start to come from beyond the trees, less in number than archers but they are loud, screaming their battle cry as they rush forward with weapons raised above their heads and feet stomping against the dirt and then against the stone in less leather armor than even they’ve been afforded.

It becomes unfortunate then, that barely trained students begin rushing forward as well, the ones that have more brawn than brain as metal clangs against metal but easy meat must not be appetizing as many rush past towards the rest of them.

Junghoon raises his blade, grip lax and malleable as he’s been taught and the first hit doesn’t nearly have the force he expects behind it, able to drive it away with ease but the expression on his opponent’s face changes, raw and cracked lips pulling open to reveal a nauseating smile as they both back away from an arrow that lands between them.

”Ah, you’re a wee bit better than we’ve been told.” He says and Junghoon’s eyes widen as the force comes back, feeling the pull in his shoulder when the other drives his and Junghoon’s blade’s upwards but he tightens his hand to keep it in his grip, slips away as quick as he can from the man’s slice. The man backs away as Junghoon swings his blade again, horizontal, parallel with the man’s abdomen but just out of reach only to come back into range as he fist connects with Junghoon’s chin and he stumbles, “Keep swinging, boy. Might just land one.” He goads.

And swing he does, changes his grip as he comes up from the bottom and only grazes the other’s fingers on his sword hand but it breaks skin, three fingers trickling with blood between where they meet knuckles. He swings downward but is met by steel against steel, pushed back by force when their swords connect. He’s better than this, he knows that he is and so he pushes forward again, slashes and is met still with metal to metal until he isn’t, until by some stroke of luck he ends up hitting the other’s arm in a broad stroke and the man only smiles when the long gash seeps out.

“Very good.” The other breathes, a shallow laugh breathed out as he raises his arm, tongue pushes out to lap at the blood that dribbles down his arm, “Do it again.” 

Junghoon shivers. The man stays put.

They’ve been told not to kill, they have to have been told that—to hold back against literal children. He can see it in the way they fight, the way they lazily gnash blade against blade and don’t push back, only stand their ground.

But some of them are not. He sees as much when he glances over and an axe raises above one of their heads before it is brought down towards one of the Lilies that have fallen to the ground, aimed squarely at their face.

It doesn’t meet its mark. Instead it lands cleanly against the plate armored back of a knight and slides. It’s not the blade that does damage but the speed of the impact, the sickening crack as momentum catches on a well made pauldron and drags it down, taking the shoulder with it. The yell that’s given comes from the Lily more than it does the knight, louder when the point of the knight’s blade drives up through the fighter’s neck and out through his skull. Strength, far more strength than the enemies are fighting with.

He knows that from how he’s being toyed with, how the one in front of him does not move unless Junghoon does, stands with his sword drawn and pointed at Junghoon, waiting, taunting. Another wave of arrows comes down and all the other does is flick away the one that comes too close for comfort as Junghoon side steps them. 

There is a strangeness about the whole thing. He goes against what’s been drilled into him. The ache is in his jaw throbs and he sighs through gritted teeth but still he asks,

“What do you want?”

”Me? Well, boy, I’m just here for a good time as I was promised.” Junghoon dashes forward, grunts when his blade clashes against the other’s and isn’t pushed back only held there, “We’ll be out of your hair soon,” He says lightheartedly, other hand raised quickly enough to barely graze Junghoon’s jaw again and forces him back, “so just gimme a nice show till then, okay?”

Blood trickles in his mouth from where his teeth hit his tongue. It makes him ill—fighting for fighting’s sake, thought he escaped the most of it when he finally made it out of the knight’s academy with his head intact but yet here he is again, giving a nice show to someone who’s playing him. The other’s blade raises at him again, arm stretched to the side and blade pointed towards him, open and inviting to attack but Junghoon waits.

The sound of bow strings snapping reverberates across the canyon and he goes forward again, swings his blade up and then down and he’s deflected lazily but it’s not a strike he’s aiming for.

No. Not yet.

The arrows start their descent and he keeps moving, keeps the man focused on him and unable to deflect the ones that come down because Junghoon keeps slashing, keeps swinging until it burns to breathe but he just needs one to land. It does. With a grunt the head pierces through the skin below where arm meets shoulder, slices cleanly into the man’s muscle and another sinks into Junghoon’s calf. The man’s sword arm falters, dropping from his guard and without hesitation Junghoon grits through the pain and rears the point of his blade forward.

It’s with far too much ease that the point slips above the leather armor the other wears, going deeper and deeper until the hilt of his sword touches the man’s breast. He’d always thought it would be harder to get through bone but his sword has slipped between ribs with ease and his eyes widen with the startling revelation:

Junghoon has killed this man.

It won’t be instant—the man still clings to life but this will be the first time he’s ever dealt this blow; even through the hell he was put through at the academy, this is the first time that his blade has been soaked from tip to guard in blood. 

There’s a gurgling near his ear, metal crashing to the stone below as a hand grabs weakly at the back of his neck, nails digging into the skin there as the weight that leans on him becomes unbearable, becomes something too great. His ears ring—the sounds of weapon against weapon and yelling die down to a hum as the man claws him, clutches with the last bit of strength until it wanes, until it recedes and now there are words whispers his last words so close to Junghoon’s ear he can taste the iron.

Does it make it all the more easier when the man he kills tells him he’s done a good job through the blood that bubbles up from his throat–that Junghoon has promise? Does it make it a good victory—something worth valor and honor—when the man you kill slides off your sword with ease to the stones that begin to stain as red as the canyon’s namesake? 

He still stares up as he lays on the ground and Junghoon’s eyes begin to sting at the smile the man wears until they become unfocused and bleary. The time at the knight’s academy had not prepared him for the way bile pools in his mouth when he realizes what he’s done. Enemy or not, a life has now been taken and his unarmed hand shakes and his knees wobble even though he thought he’d been so prepared. 

He wasn’t. The blood that’s seeped into his shirt is warm, uncomfortable where it starts to dry on his skin. Pain radiates from his leg, sharp and throbbing but he can’t stop the way his free hand claws at the blood he can’t see but he feels it, can feel it filtering through his pores into his body before a hand that isn’t his own stops him.

“Junghoon!” A hand curls around his bicep and he’s greeted with Kim Minjae’s face, ”You’re okay.” That same face is speckled with blood but unmarred, flecked all the way to white hair with brows furrowed together in worry as he looks up, “You won.” Junghoon feels like he’s lost . Kim Minjae says more but Junghoon doesn’t hear it, only feels the sharp sting as he‘s pushed over towards the edge of the bridge and forced to sit, to stay and the older takes care to try and pry Junghoon’s fingers from the hilt of of his sword but he won’t let go, “It’s okay, Junghoo-damn it, Junmin!” The pattering of feet hits his ears before he registers the cherry red hair, coming from the crowd, cold hands that cause him to jolt touching the skin above his wrist where he didn’t notice it’d broken open.

Park Junmin whispers apologies as he applies more pressure, as that bitter coldness turns into something more warm, soothing as he feels the tiny cuts knit themselves back together and when Junmin pulls his hand away there’s not even a scar to be had. The older moves to his leg, sees the head of the arrow coming through the back of his calf, “The arrow’s the worst part, but I’ll try to be gentle-“

His voice surprises him when he speaks, whispered and hoarse, ”It’ll be fine.” 

”Yes, yes-“ Park Junmin’s hands move swift, frozen fingers being felt even through the material of his pants, “You’ll be fine.”

”You’ll be fine.” Kim Minjae parrots, like he’s telling it to himself instead of Junghoon and for a moment it makes him feel like he’s not the only one in the depths. Reluctantly his grip slackens, knuckles scraping along the stone for purchase as he straightens up.

Kim Minjae locks eyes with him and the words tumble from him, ”Is the man-did I kill him?”

Junghoon already knows the answers. The older merely confirms, ”You did.”

”I didn’t mean to.” I didn’t want to. The arrow gets pushed through and he cringes, chokes back a noise as the shaft releases itself from his leg. He deserves this. He’s killed another and now he deserves this. The white haired boy grips into his other leg and Junghoon watches his eyes drift over to the dwindling chaos before coming back.

“You had to.” 

Kim Minjae has killed before. The words strike him at the same time Park Junmin breaks the arrow close to skin. He wasn’t lied to when he was told it’d be the worst part, pulled free from his flesh as he’s told to relax but the warmth soon comes to cover for the pain that makes his head spin and his vision blurs in agony. When it clears white hair is gone from his vision, back into the fray and he feels the mage’s hand tighten around his calf when he looks over to the fight, pooling more warmth as he feels something grow in the hole the arrow’s made. 

“They have more than half left. These knights- “ The other spits the word like it poisons him, “-are efficient. As well as a few others.” A lance edge slices clean through someone’s arm and he turns before he can hear the scream but still it burns into him. That man had not screamed. Only gurgled and groaned as he was pierced through by an heirloom.

But Park Junmin doesn’t seem fazed by the noise. He wonders if Park Junmin has ever had to kill but he keeps it to himself.

Instead he points out the obvious to distract himself from the way his palms start to feel like static where he’s been holding himself up, “The archers have stopped.”

We’ll be out of your hair soon. But not soon enough.

Someone screams out and his hand finds his sword again, both he and Park Junmin looking up to see their mission tumbling to the stone bridge and clawing his way up towards the parapet on the other side like a coward.

Park Junmin’s eyes narrow, and Junghon sees that there two men that chase after him, weapons drawn and stalking prey, ”Is that-“ 

“Yoon Hyunsuk.” When Junghoon moves to get up, the other stops him, confusion coloring his features as they watch the way the tallest of them climbs onto the low wall and thrashes a sword with little practice.

Whispers of cold are felt through his clothes, eyes darting down to see a flicker of magic from the hands that are on him as Park Junmin stands.

But Yoon Hyunsuk is already falling backwards, body disappearing behind the wall with a scream that rings across the chasm. The noise burns into Junghoon’s ears and he covers them, and the sound dulls the farther the boy falls, the clashing of metal from the fight slowly, yells of war dying out before it all stops.

Because Yoon Hyunsuk is dead.

Chapter Text

White Lilies

- Hunter -

12th of March;
Sovereign Year 1143

“Fall back!”

It’s not the knights that shout it for the rest of them to hear. Definitely not Sunghoon’s voice that booms over the chaos. 

The back that’s braced against his breathes with some difficulty, his own arms ache from what he thinks are superficial gashes, blood pooling in his cuticles as he grips onto his axe.

But their enemies pull away, draw back out of striking distance and Hunter dares not give chase when he’s unsure Seeun can stand on his own two feet without help. There’s a glint in the man in front of him’s eyes that’s not unlike something from his youth, something he’s seen before as his village was swallowed whole in flames.

Conquest. The knowledge of having had the upper hand. There are bodies on the ground from the man’s side alone—one taken by Hunter’s hands–but still he smiles at Hunter like he’s won, because just one clean slice and he would’ve and Hunter knows that.

But Hunter’s alive. His axe falls to the ground with a soft thunk once the man faces the forest instead of him, hands reaching back to steady Seeun before turning and letting the two of them slide to the ground. 

“I’ve got you.” The cuts that dig through the other’s legs are worrying, but they’ve been through worse and proof of it peeks out from Seeun’s collar. This is nothing. This is fine. Seeun whispers out of a small sorry he doesn’t want to hear it right now, shushes him sharply, and just watches as the other side retreats because you learn when to pick your battles.  

The smarter of the students do not move, letting the enemy move from them without much fuss. 

But there are those less than smart. It’s a solace, barely, that it’s no one from his own country that shouts and rushes forward with their weapon drawn like some kind of hero.

By all means. Let the nobles prove their folly and burst their ego in one go, but the mercenaries that masquerade as knights hold back the few that don’t understand their courage and sense of justice does not always equal the strength to do something about it. 

Sunghoon is wise enough to not give chase, but there’s a passive anger in his eyes that ignites when he raises his lance and takes aim, sending it flying above them.

It hits its marks. Hunter hears the way the body slumps to the stone. No one runs towards them in retaliation. He does not look back. 

Sunghoon has had the last word.

What comes next is the licking of wounds. Seeun tries to say sorry again but Hunter pinches him in the side to silence him. The ground holds bodies that bleed out, students not much older than him that are covered from head to sword tip in gashes and rips of all sorts. Memories are funny in the way that they get brought up out of nowhere. One bloodied axe and suddenly he’s back in his grandmother’s barn watching his father slaughter the family sow. The longer he looks around the easier it is to see that sow’s face in place of theirs. 

It’s tricky, getting caught up in things like that. Seeun’s thumbnail digs into his palm where it lies on the stone and he’s brought back to the bridge as his words get parroted back at him, “I’ve got you.” 

“Can’t even walk, pretty sure you’ve got nothing.” He tells him and Seeun is still in good enough humor to chuckle despite the hiss of pain when he moves. It’s not a mage of theirs that scuffs his way towards the two of them. There’s a scrape on his cheek and a somber tone to his smile but Seeun seems more than happy to see them.

”Hunter, this is Jung Yujun. Yujun, Park Hunter.” He introduces as Yujun kneels, lips flickering into a frown when his fingers trail against the worst of the gashes. 

Again, this isn’t the most crippling injury they’ve suffered, and Seeun’s clearly spirited enough. They’re not on the brink of death so he finds it easy to joke, “Feel free to let him bleed out if it’s too much trouble.“ It gets an actual smile out of Yujun.

“I take back every nice thing I’ve said about you!” And yelling out of Seeun.

He’d be curious to know just what the other could be circulating about him but it’s Yujun that presses a hand to Seeun’s leg and clears his throat,

”Seeun says you’re-“

”My best friend,” Seeun nearly chokes and Hunter feels the need to pinch at his side again, ”very good with–ow–an axe, neatest handwriting in the north-“ And those are facts but not something he’d find worth telling people.

When he looks at Yujun, the other just shrugs, “Yep! Exactly what he said.” He says before moving his hands. Through the hole in his pants he can see the way Seeun’s skin is knit together now in some places, shallow and thin, probably easy to break again.

”Is that going to hold?”

”Ah, it’s temporary. Yechan said the knights want us to move and there’s… a lot of injuries to get to.” Surrounded by them actually, whoever’s not on the ground is trying to move those that are, “Was always taught closing the skin is priority.“ The glow burns from his hands where they are on Seeun’s thigh, “If you work from the muscle up, you’ll risk using too much energy.”

The goddess prioritizes efficiency, “We’ve heard that before. He’ll live if you don’t get to everything; he’s had worse.”

”I’ve had worse.” Seeun repeats.

It’s not very confidence boosting, “I think I’ve heard that from too many people.“ When Yujun removes his hands and asseses the work he’s done he frowns. Still he seems to deem it enough, rolling on his heels and standing as he dusts off his hands, “He… could walk… hypothetically, but-“

”Carry him?” Yujun nods. Expected. Twice now. Hunter moves, arm hooked under Seeun’s legs even as the taller protests, easily settles against him.

Seeun doesn’t seem to be the worst among them. Someone from the Dahlia’s has their shirt ripped open, carried by two of them. It’s Jinsik that has his hands pressed to their chest as they walk, desperation in the way he murmurs something. Whatever wound they have he can’t see through the blood and he wonders if the same thin skin method is used there or if Jinsik will be the next one they carry from exhaustion and he trails behind them towards the wagons.

The knights that are less covered in blood make space in the back of one of them, lays out a blanket before the Dahlia is loaded in and he holds onto Seeun a little longer. Two more get helped over, both of them Orchids the last time he checked but they are near fine.

“We’ll need to push through.” He hears one of the knights say. Seeun perks up too, “We can’t risk being in the forest when night falls.”

”Yeosang-“

They’re already down one horse. At least the injured have to get through. That’s the gist of what he hears. Two of the mages seem worn out; Jinsik can barely keep his eyes open when he’s ushered into the back of the wagon, gets held back from trying to press his hands back onto the open chest wound even as he resists, and resists, but he’s too weak.

It must be hard. To have a goddess call on you to heal but hold you back so harshly. His mother was like that—still is—and so is his older sister. He’s heard it never gets easier to ignore that call.

Pain starts to get the better of him as adrenaline wears off, arms aching less dully than before so he helps Seeun sit at the edge of the wagon while they wait for orders, for some semblance of a plan to get them out of here safely. 

But Seeun doesn’t let go easily, still keeps his hands around Hunter’s biceps where wounds were shallow. White shirts of the academy don’t do much to detract from the sight of blood. Slowly he raises his hand, tips Seeun’s chin up so he’ll stop looking where he shouldn’t before he wipes the sweat from his own brow. He’d stay there as long as he needs to but it’s not long before they’re ready, before the sound of neighing from one of two good horses kicks up. The knights nod at him to get Seeun in the back before they disappear on the other side.

But still he hears them talk.

“How many casualties?” 

“From us?” There’s a pause, and Seeun’s nails dig into his arm, “Three-”

Two knights. One student.

Which one that happens to be he’s not sure yet; those from Faerghus seem to be faring fine enough, counts heads and finds that the Orchids seem to have their numbers intact–

It’s as if the Alliance is never able to catch a break, even when they were already trying to offload one of their own.

Seeun releases his hold but he’s still hesitant when he moves, eyes darting around in order to figure the same thing Hunter’s wondering. It’s made worse when he knows how Seeun gets when he realizes he’s going to have to go without Hunter. He gets it, he really does, but as he hooks a sore arm under the other legs to swing them into the cart he knows Seeun'll get over it.

Seeun can't walk. Hunter can. 

It's simple, “Hold on tight.” He says but instead of the wagon he grabs Hunter’s hands, an action so unhelpful but so Seeun that he still smiles as he rolls his eyes, “Not what I meant. With your luck they’ll let you bounce out of the cart and leave you to the wolves. You won’t even taste good.” He adds for good measure and Seeun swats at him with negligible force considering he won’t let their hands break apart,

“I hope you trip and fall.”

“And then who would you spar with?”

“Heeseung.” And oh , the grip he has on Seeun’s hand is a little too firm, skin a little too thin beneath the calluses on his thumbs, “Not that he’s much of a fight.” And as if Seeun doesn’t even see, he keeps going and Hunter pushes down the unwarranted bitterness that bites at the back of his mouth. “You’re the only one who keeps up with me.” For now, and even that’s a farce.

But it’s not worth thinking about.

By grace of a goddess who doesn't bless Hunter, Jinsik crawls over through the small space he has and grabs hold of Seeun's arm to finally pull it away from Hunter's grasp, “I’ll make sure he’s fine.” He speaks and his voice is thick, far more tired than Yujun’s had been, and the redness that surrounds his eyes ages him, 

Hunter breathes a little easier, “Thanks. He’s a handful.”

“You’re an ass-”

“You’re both fine.” The older interrupts, and his souring mood is palpable, face so downturned when he stares at the blood that dries on Hunter’s shirt. 

When he reaches out Hunter’s careful to push the hand back, already knows just how close to dropping Jinsik is just from the look of him, “They’re fine for now. So are Seeun’s.” He adds for good measure and Seeun catches the hint, seizes Jinsik’s hands before they can drop to the wounds on his legs.

Jinsik’s not dull enough for their actions go unnoticed. His eyes fall closed, body far too lax as he leans against one of the barrels behind him, “Okay.” He breathes, “Okay, fine.” 

There is no shout of warning before the wagon rocks forward, before Seeun’s out of reach and he’s left watching the way the wagon jerks along the imperfections in the stone.  

“Be safe.” He whispers, because even if Seeun won’t hear it Seeun will see it, keeps their eyes locked before he’s too far out of sight and Hunter’s left here with the rest of them.

⚔

Song Mingi is from the north. It’s one of the only reasons that Hunter doesn’t feel on edge as he talks, much less used to the man out on the battlefield than he is to seeing him in the dining hall. Whether or not that does anything to cover up a history that was essentially blood for coin isn’t up to Hunter as long as it’s not his blood that’s spilled—barely thinks it’s up to their goddess when her history’s just as stained.

“We’ll be pushing through as best we can.” The way he speaks is strong but soft, something almost pacifying as he talks above the murmuring. There are seventeen of them left not including the knights. And like a twist of fate the Dahlias make it out the least scathed despite holding their only unfortunate casualty. Hunter still doesn’t know who that is. They seem to have figured out early the harder you fought the faster you lost, “The plan is to go without stopping but please, if any of you think you can’t make it I’m begging you to tell us and we’ll stop.”

“Yes sir.” Comes out as a chorus before it devolves into silence barely punctuated by the others. On his left he sees someone whisper into Yujun’s ear words he’s too far away to hear before the latter nods, the message carried on down the line. Alliance things. 

Most of the walk is anticlimactic. A few stops are made every couple of miles for water, to let the weaker ones get the feeling back in their legs. They’ll have to carry at least one of them before long but at least for now they have daylight, can probably make it past where they made camp the first time if they keep it timely.

“C’mere.” He hears, turns and sees Taehyun but a few steps away and gesturing him over. He doesn’t, instead locks them into a staring match he wins out of spite before the lord gives in, “Playing hard to get is going to get you nowhere, gimme your arm.”

Before he can be reached, he moves, quick to avoid the hand that goes for him, “I’m o-”

“You have one of the worst wounds in this group. By the time it heals we won’t be carrying you we’ll be burying you because of infection. Come now.” The way he speaks is firm, but he’s patient, “You may convince Ham Jinsik but I don’t give in that easily.”

Doesn’t mean Hunter won’t try, “You’re going to waste your energy. We need you walking-”

“I’ve got more talent to my name than simply magic. I can afford to use a little and still walk.” The hand is still held out to him. Taehyun doesn’t go to snatch his arm like he expects, just watches but necessity will run that patience thin, “Stop arguing with your elders.” The older finally sighs and in a way he’s reminded of his father. Maybe that’s why it’s easier to give in.

The frigid nature of the other’s hands on his arms relays the nature of his magic. Hunter can’t help but hiss when cold fingers press into the deeper of the wounds, worn cotton wearing at the edges of gashes as his eyes drift out to the others where they sit or stand to distract himself. Soon that chill turns warm, the eerie feeling of his skin weaving itself back together in threads sends a chill down his spine. 

And Sunghoon’s eyes are on him.

To break eye contact is to lose and he’s not exactly fond of doing that. 

Taehyun’s hands move, turn him so his other arm can be reached and even then he does not turn his head. 

It gets noticed, “Just because he’s related to your fiance doesn’t mean you can start fights with him. He’s still your prince.”

Taehyun smiles as he says it. But it’s confusion that finds it’s place on Hunter’s features. That’s what makes him lose his battle. What an unfortunate turn of events, “Fiance? Who?”

“Park Seeun?” It’s Taehyun that’s now confused as the warmth recedes from Hunter’s other arm, “Is he not?”

“No. I’ve known him most of my life and we live together-” Circumstances have dictated as much and stories certainly circulate through nobles with far too much time on their hands, 

“-but we’re nothing like that.” 

“Ah, my apologies then for assuming.” And Hunter begins to say it’s nothing to worry about before Taehyun’s voice lowers as he turns away, a hand to his chin in thought, “Or maybe it was something Beomgyu had said.” As if he didn’t listen to what Hunter had just said he bows his head like they’re of the same status before moving past. All questions to answer some other times when they mean more. All questions to answer when he doesn’t feel Park Sunghoon’s stare burn in the side of his face.

⚔

The sun starts to leave them as the forest clears out on the other side. Spitefulness towards one's limits and a nagging need to get out of an area too foreign to most of them means that yellow bleeds into orange as they get greeted by the sight of the valley. A red sun descends over Garreg Mach in the distance, the town of Neirin at the base of its hill a warm welcome as the temperature drops.

They can make it there by nightfall, not more than another hour’s walk if they keep pace.

However, despite wanting nothing more than to finish this journey in relative silence he’s once again reminded of the folly that comes with being surrounded by those far too talkative for their own good. And it’s once again that he’s reminded that at times Sunghoon falls into such a category.

“You did good.” It’s gruff, pushed out as the other catches up to him and Hunter turns his head to roll his eyes without being accused of treason.

I always do good. 

But there’s peace to be kept if not for his sake then Seeun’s at least, “Thank you.” He says, wills his feet to walk a little faster despite the strain he feels in his ankles and hopes that like every other time that’s where the conversation stops.

It doesn’t, ”If I were to give you advice-“

“I would save breath, your highness. We’ve a long walk ahead of us.” One that would have the trees dying from oxygen depletion if it was spent hearing all the things Sunghoon would want Hunter to change, “Would be wasteful to have talks of my flaws at this time.” 

“Perhaps you’re right.” He is. He’s also foolish enough to think he’s won because he takes a few more steps over broken branches without feeling like the cousin of his friend isn’t breathing down his neck before the other’s voice picks up again, “We can schedule it for supper time.” And it’s not anger that builds, no not this time, as their walk begins to descend.

He’s tired. 

Exhaustion and worry weaves through his body like a weight, bones like lead as they trudge down the hill so he stops, hears how boots stop not long after his.

”Sunghoon.” He says as he turns and instantly a hand is on his shoulder, a warning but he stares straight up at the other’s face. 

”You do not address me by my name. It’s your highness to you.”

”No.” They are equals here, he’s tired, “I understand you have some feelings against me,” Irrational as they may be, “but even you must know that we were lucky–we were incredibly lucky to be fighting against an enemy that didn’t want us dead.” He brushes the hand off, stands his ground as others begin to pass them, “Your cousin is injured. Surely you must realize what that means?” His voice lowers, a mere whisper but he can feel Heeseung’s eyes on his as he presses forward into Sunghoon’s space and repeats, “You must know what that means? That Seeun was injured but you made it out without a scratch?” You, the one who can’t-

”I am your prince.“ 

“You are. But your goddess does not smile down at you as fondly as She does him.”

And it must hurt. 

It must hurt so terribly to be so devoted to something that does not love you in kind. 

Hunter knows Sunghoon’s pride, the fact he’s made a self glorified name in never stooping to commoner squabbles, is the only thing that keeps him from getting hit. Insurance comes when Heeseung finally intervenes before Sunghoon can get too red in the face, a hand upon his shoulder to ease him away.

“Your highness.” It’s hushed, urgent enough that Sunghoon falls back with his mouth sewn shut. Eyes are on them–many now that they’ve been passed. Worry paints itself on some while intrigue clings to others, catty smiles and raised eyebrows. There are no more words worth sparing for Hunter it seems, not even any chatter from fatigue-ridden students as they finish their descent.

⚔

He’s not murdered in his sleep. Seeun should find some peace in the fact Hunter didn’t go that far.

The wooden floors of a small inn they flooded into before midnight are not quite as comfortable as he’s become accustomed to. Three rooms worth less gold than it would to feed all of them from a street stall but he can’t complain though, not when his arms don’t seem nearly as weary when he wakes. He’s  surprised when he rolls up his sleeve and finds skin weaved together where it’d been open previously, thumb brushed against delicate white lines that all but blend into his skin. They would’ve healed like that in time-

“Sorry.” When he turns, the boy from yesterday greets him from his place near the window, chewing happily on a bit of bread he’s acquired somehow, “Should’ve asked, but you’re very good at saying no.”

“Not the first time I’ve heard something like that.” He’s very fond of the word.

Yujun only nods, hand extended over whoever sleeps beside him to offer the other half of the piece in his hand and he takes it, “Me and Tae… Taehan?” Yujun questions as his hand rests on the person’s arm, “We did a bit of patching, just the ones that were a little big don’t worry.”

“Taehyun.” He corrects, a bite of bread before he looks around, “And thank you.” Even if the patching was unnecessary, doesn’t say that out loud when Yujun beams at the praise and turns back to the window.

⚔

Deja vu hits him the moment he steps foot in Garreg Mach before the noon sun hits its peak. 

Even if the chatter’s different it’s still the curtains around the same infirmary bed in the corner being drawn back, the same brunette asleep on his side under the covers, the same pinch in his eyebrows from whatever dreams that plague him. Hunter does his best to smooth them with his thumb, pushes bangs back to feel at his forehead. 

No fever. Good. 

Still, Seeun shivers beneath his touch and Hunter’s dutiful to pull the blanket up, fingers brushed against that same scar at the top of his spine before pulling away.

“You always get so cold.” He whispers below the sound of talking from behind the curtain. Unfortunately, the chair from last time is gone. Slowly he lowers himself to the bed, careful not to disturb as he waits. Blood’s still dried in his own cuticles, a larger extent than what he sees on Seeun’s from where his hands peek out from beneath the blanket. 

They’ll get to that. 

Something metal clatters to the ground outside, distant to Hunter’s ears, but he watches as Seeun’s shoulders draw up, knees kicked into his back like he’s trying to push away. Seunghun’s picking up a handful of scalpels when he looks out, sighs when he turns back and slips his hand between Seeun’s, lets nails dig into his skin as he whispers to wake up—that’s Seeun’s safe, that they’re both fine. 

It’s not the first time. It’ll never be the last.

When his other hand gets between Seeun’s cheek and the pillow is when eyes finally blink open, unfocused till they land on his face. He plays a losing game when he tries to remove his hand because he knows how Seeun is, almost endeared the other traps him by shoving his face into it.

“We have to stop meeting like this.” Seeun smirks and it gets a chuckle out of him, eyes rolled fondly as he lets the other do as he pleases.

“Don’t remember you hitting your head.”  

“Didn’t, jerk.” Seeun shifts, lets one of Hunter’s hands be free from below his cheek but still keeps the other hostage as he toys with Hunter’s fingers, “How was your walk?” 

Honesty is best, “Was fine.“ As honest as it takes to assure Seeun.

And it does to an extent. Fingers trail their way down his wrist, push his sleeve up to see where two faint white lines that’ll fade in time are, He hears Seeun hum as he traces one of them, “You’re in one piece.” 

”So are you. Gonna be walking soon or do I have to carry you to the dorm?”

Seeun snorts, “Tonight. I’ll be there tonight. Miss me that badly?”

”Never.” Always.

⚔

16th of March;
Sovereign Year 1143

There’s nothing but screams and fire.

Pain bites its way along his abdomen, peels at his flesh as he stumbles.

Hunter wonders if this is what hell’s like, an arm gripped tight in his father’s hand as they run from the farm, his younger siblings sobbing as they’re pulled away from the only home they’ve ever known before it catches them in the fire.

In the arms of Hunter’s mother Seeun wails too and it rings in his ears. Never will he get used to the sound. Never will it get easier. 

They’re right on the edge of the village, doesn’t take more than a bit of running before they come across it in ruins, his aunt’s flower shop burning to the ground and bodies piling up near the well.

The sight of It takes the breath out of him, heaves its way into his lungs along with the smoke that rots with them, the skin of his knees peeling open from rocks buried beneath the snow as he kneels. There is no goddess of theirs to pray to. What being so supreme and benevolent would allow her people to weep like this? To burn like this?

It was supposed to be safe. The conflict wasn’t supposed to come to them, they’d been promised but now look at them.

Meat cut open, splayed out and roasting on spickets during the weekend market they’ve been nothing but sows to slaughter.

The scene before him sways, blurs with the smoke until his knees are no longer dug into the snow, his father looking down at him in equal parts remorse and relief as blood stains his hands and a knife lays at his feet.

There is always a void, a pit of shadows that lays not far from him, the screams dulled as his heart pounds in his head because he’s saved them, truly he’s saved-

He wakes up freezing, his skin tacky with sweat even as the covers have been pushed off. It’s been a while, quite a bit of time since the last time he dreamed as horridly as that, pictured the way skin crisped and puckered beneath flames before it peeled back to reveal fatty tissue.

The sows. Pig’s heads where a human’s should be. 

Tethra had been wiped off the map that night and taken most of its inhabitants with it.

He turns and faces the wall. As he wipes the sweat from his brow he listens for the one on the other side. The walls are thinner than at the Park estate, thicker than any you’d find in Tethra.

But there is no tossing and turning that comes from beyond the wall. 

He knocks thrice, sharp and quick, and waits. Nothing comes of it.

It's a brief impulse that has him throwing his legs over the edge of the bed, the rug rough beneath his feet but he is to the door before he can process the motion fully. The moon is high as it illuminates the small courtyard, veils everything in a soft blue but he is quick with his steps, just a few paces on chilled stone and he stands in front of Seeun’s door. Anxiety bites at his jaw, spits poison in the back of his throat as he raises his hand, already can imagine the sound of the other stumbling out of bed, eyes full of sleep, and a mouth full of complaints he’ll let lose before pulling Hunter into the room without asking, wrap them together like grey wolves in winter burrows to keep warm-

He decides against it. Something feels undeserved.

His hand drops, still held in a fist that was so ready to knock but instead he reaches for the doorknob.

It turns in his hand, unlocked and he stares down at it in disbelief.

“Idiot.” He says softly, careful to make little noise as he pushes it open far enough to reach in and click the mechanism into place before pulling it closed again. Their rooms at Garreg Mach are not like that at the estate, across the hall from one another with the locks undone in case nightmares deemed them worthy prey. Unlocked doors here have felt less like an act in trust and more so baring your neck for a wolf to gnash its teeth into considering the company they share a space with.

When he crawls back into a bed that’s damp with sweat and far too cold he finds his comfort in the fact that Seeun’s not disturbed for one night this week.

⚔

“Spill it.”

It’s the first thing Seeun says when Hunter steps foot onto the training grounds, the tip of his sword dug into a divet in the stone as he leans on it. He’s a bit too quick for Hunter this morning, already starts in before Hunter can defend himself, ”Don’t even try. Look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

It’s said with all the authority of a noble but with no bite. Even as he stands there Seeun’s face softens, like the weight of his own tone wears at him, it doesn’t suit him.

There’s no one else in the combat arena to hear so Hunter sighs, “Just a nightmare.” He says, gets it over with because Seeun already knows which nightmare because it’s been the same one for years. Even now there’s a familiarity in the way Seeun’s eyes cast to the ground before they come back up to Hunter’s face, the smallest nod before he pulls his sword from the stone beneath him.

“And you didn’t come?”

“No, but I locked your door,” He smiles, much the opposite to the confusion that befalls Seeun, mouth agape, “you should try that.”

“Yea ,” He gets a scoff, the blade hilt pushed into his hand, skin warm against skin from how long Seeun’s been out here waiting beneath the sun, “And I’ve been talking to people. You should try that. Might make you less jumpy about classmates.”

It’s less the classmates he’s worried about, watching as Seeun moves towards one of the racks of weapons on the wall, grabs a blade as fine as the one Hunter now carries, “Why when I have you to introduce me?” 

“Well, consider yourself introduced. Yujun’s coming.”

Hunter blinks and the blade comes at him, counters as the sound of metal rings out, echoed in the little arena. Seeun’s face is split with a smile and Hunter smirks in kind, “Already introduced me to him if you remember, bring someone new next time.” He says and it’s like it signs a death sentence the way Seeun lights up at that. Thankfully the wooden door behind him pushes open, the change in Seeun’s demeanor giving away who it is, joins in the hi ’s and the hello ’s and the ready to spar ’s-

“Just here to watch!” Yujun says cheerily, eyes trained on the two of them before his attention flickers up to the birds that fly in paths above them, “Yechan said he had something to do, and I wouldn’t want to bother Junmin.” When he looks back he’s still all smiles, eyes narrowed in the sun, “I’m not much with a weapon in my hand but I’m good for any scrapes you get.”

“Better than we’d do without you.” Seeun says easily. Hunter’d like to say they wouldn’t have much need of a healer but the taller’s already in stance, blade pointed in a taunt that gets thrown towards him just as fast. Metal clashes, pushed back and all he sees are teeth that glint in the sun before Seeun’s in his space again.

“With… real blades?” Yujun seems shocked, voice tight above the sound of their blades crashing against one another.

Seeun’s always been quick with telling people Hunter’s the only one that’s worth a fight. Yujun takes that easily.

There’s always been a grace to the way Seeun fights, a swiftness made of lunges and quick taps better suited to a thinner blade. Long limbs give the advantage of range, rapidly in and out of reach. It’s what made aiming for his legs so effective. 

Hunter’s always been the opposite.

‘Heavy hands for harder strikes.’ That’s what Seeun’s father had said when he’d first started training him, ‘Watch your arcs, if you slope from above they’ll strike you dead before you land. Keep your blade centered, swing up-’ But that doesn’t always work out well when your opponent knows all your tricks.

And standstill happens when you know theirs. Even days later Hunter can notice the difference in the way Seeun stands, legs closer together to offset the way pain of some barely healed wounds hinders balance. Seeun has smelled of balm made from calendula and yarrow for days now when he gets too close because Seunghun had said fully healing him would be a waste and Hunter had bit his tongue before saying something he’d regret.

Wounds heal. It’s not the worst he’s had.

The sun starts to move its way higher in the sky and it starts to look like a draw when their lungs heave from too much movement; his ears ring with the sound of iron against iron until it becomes dull like background noise against the sounds of birds in the distance. Routine strikes give way to familiarity, to the haze as his brain slows and his muscles take over in full as his eyes dull, just parry, dodge, underhand, parry, strike, overhand-

The flat of Seeun’s blade smacks against his outer thigh and his mind comes back to him, mousey eyes and a sharp nose so close his eyes nearly cross to focus. An overhand swing has been his folly again, blade still held above his head and poised to be brought down. He can almost hear the disappointment in Lord Park’s voice from hundreds of miles away. 

“Checkmate.” Seeun whispers before drawing back, gives him room to drop his blade. Beyond that there’s a round of applause, a bright and cheery congratulations that’s tied into the smile on Yujun’s face when Hunter looks at him. 

“Whoa! ” He nearly shouts, “That was-hey, is it always that close?” 

“No,” Hunter breathes out, wipes the sweat from his bro with the cuff of his shirt, “he usually wins faster.”

“But Hunter sure gives me a challenge.” Shameless flatterer . Almost a decade out of it now. When he speaks it Seeun chokes and turns his face but embarrassment is plainly seen bleeding up his neck and to his ears, “How’s your lessons going, Yujun?” He misdirects and it’s not as smooth as the other probably thinks it is considering the way the mage’s head cocks to the side.

“They’re going fine. Seunghun’s trying to help me learn a new spell but I’m… a bit slow with it.” Finger’s brush against Hunter’s as Yujun speaks, Seeun taking the sword from him before turning on his heel, “Our afternoon classes today are basically free but Monday he wants to go into the origins of magic?” He phrases it like a question, eyes cast in uncertainty, “Says anyone can learn magic-”

“He’s wrong .” Comes out like an echo, Hunter’s eyes meeting Seeun’s across the stone as they speak in tandem. Seeun clears his throat, “Hunter comes from two mages and can’t do anything .” And it’s true. His mother’s healing is unparalleled in the north to his eye be it magic or herbs and his father’s bolts have always struck what they’ve been aimed at. Neither passed down the line to him, “I can’t either.” Seeun tacks on as he walks back from the weapon racks.

“What do your hands feel like?” Yujun asks. Hunter watches as Seeun raises a brow, “‘Mage affinities are always felt in the palms’ I got told once.” He raises his own, and Hunter knows that they’re far too warm to the touch. 

When he gestures to them Seeun’s quick to slip his palm against Hunter’s, the cold not as biting as Taehyun’s had been but it still brings a chill as he laces their fingers together and brings them up to his eyeline. His thumb brushes against a scar on the back on Seeun’s hand from a misfortune incident with a letter opener. Better years , he thinks before Seeun speaks,  

“They feel… normal?” He turns their shared hands over, stares intently at the back of Hunter’s hand like he’ll find some minute difference if he looks hard enough. He might.

“Seeun’s always cold. It’s not just his hands.” Legs, back, face, they all share the same nip to them ever since he’s known him. Even flames couldn’t quell it, he thinks to himself.

Yujun hums in thought, “I don’t think it’s supposed to extend that far?” He frowns, “Junmin’s ends at his wrists. Mine too, I’ve been told.” His hand locks around his own wrist as if to check, brows knit in concentration before he sighs, “Might have to have someone else check Hunter’s? Wind maybe? You’d be shocked by now if it was thunder-” He rambles, thinks out loud as the chill of Seeun’s hand starts to mellow below his palm, “Maybe it’s a mental block–Yechan’s like that, says he can’t learn how to mend but everyone connected to the goddess can do that much-”

Out of the corner of his eye Seeun looks at him and he knows, nods along with whatever Yujun says but he knows.

At least one of them has no goddess.

Chapter Text

Purple Orchids

- Minjae -

8th of March;
Sovereign Year 1143

Mourning lace is haunting the corners of his vision.

It has been for some time now, first seen the day they stepped through the gates of Garreg Mach. He’s been pushing it away, pretending he doesn’t see it because it reminds him of things far too painful but it’s getting too much, too frequent. In its absence a stillness creeps through the days, a confrontation that’s a long time coming.

His eyes follow spots of dust, flickers illuminated by the morning sun that pours in through the thin curtains of his fiancé’s room. His future mother-in-law’s shawl hangs over the back of a desk, white roses from Monday still holding on in a small vase next to a nearly melted candle. Everything else is in perfect order as he expects from Junmin, on par with the other’s room back home, close to the sea, close to the-

He stops. Mourning lace threatens to take his vision when he isn’t even near it.

Junmin doesn’t ask questions, not right away, but they hang in the air. His legs dangle off the edge of his bed as he lets Minjae’s head lay in his lap, chilled fingers brushing through Minjae’s hair and he waits so patiently. It’s supposed to be grounding, calming but it does not settle him. Minjae’s hand curls around the leg he rests on, holding on as he closes his eyes and wills himself to just rest, just sleep for now as Junmin begins to hum, low and soothing above him.

Too neat, too clean. Too quiet, too calm.

Eventually the silence has to break and he can’t even blame Junmin for it.

“Was it another one?” He asks. Minjae keeps his eyes closed. No, not this time, he wants to say but mouth doesn’t open, hasn’t had a single dream since they left the capitol, since the sight of mourning lace served as a waking reminder. Junmin’s fingers slip through his hair once more, then again, and again and Minjae sighs when he feels the other shift, feels eyes on him as Junmin’s voice drops, barely a whisper, “Did you fall asleep on me?”

“No,” He peeks an eye open to see a soft smile painted on the other’s face, corners barely lifted, “not yet.”

Junmin hums above him, goes out of view as he rests back against the wall, “Talk to me then?” The fingers slide down the side of his face, trace his jaw before coming back and Minjae holds his eyes open, trains them on the wood grain of the wall but the color of it shifts from brown to red and he looks away, “What’s wrong then, hm? Sick?” Fingers drift softly across his brow, sends a shiver through him, “You don’t feel warm.”

“That’s rich coming from you.” He huffs and Junmin chuckles. He’s allowed to lay there a little longer, the buzz in his ears getting louder, fingers roam here and there along the planes of his face. Tender, soft; Junmin doesn’t know what Minjae’s been seeing, who he’s been seeing, he knows he doesn’t, “I think it’s finally time to talk to him.”

There’s confirmation in the way that Junmin startles at the words, tense beneath Minjae before he relaxes. He doesn’t ask who. He knows, “Sending a letter? He was in Boramas last I knew, there’s paper on-”

“No,” Minjae’s a little slow to stop him, “no, he’s… here. Been here, I’ve just been… avoiding him.”

Junmin’s hand finally settles, a soft weight, and Minjae turns so it slips down, lets knuckles brush against his cheek light. From this angle it’s easy to watch the way the other’s face shifts, already losing the furrow of his brow that comes from confusion as his mouth straightens into a tight line.

Under his own hand Minjae feels his heart beat against his chest, pulsing beneath his palm.

“Okay.” Junmin finally breathes out and that makes him feel a bit lighter, hand moved to thread with Junmin’s.

“Do you want to come with? Been a bit… since you’ve seen him and all. And he was your-”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” The chill of his hand is so harsh against his cheek now, “Minjae. I wasn’t able to save him, I’m not exactly a face he’d like to see after that.” And Minjae knows, lets his head fall back against his fiancé’s legs once again and stares up at the ceiling, eyes watching the sway of an unlit chandelier above them.

Because Kim Hongjoong had been a hero in Adrestria, someone Minjae had looked up to, someone who felt more like family than that which was blood to him.

And it’s time to apologize to his widower.

⚔

He takes the morning to prepare himself, to find his words before he finally makes his way across the campus with the sun high in the sky while the others keep their places in class.

The cathedral at the monastery has always been a place far too big but far too dark, candles lit even in the early afternoon to keep the place from growing too filled with shadows from pillars upon pillars that keep the place aloft. The goddess watches as he walks down the aisle, Her giant form amidst a golden altar—something about Her eyes on him makes his resolve weaken, his steps echoing against the polished tile in the wide space. There is no chance to turn back now, not as he steps closer, as a head of light pink hair catches his eye beneath a veil of mourning lace, the fabric draping down to their shoulders in the front pew. They turn to him and he stops just short of the second row and uneasiness weaves its way through his bones, settles in his throat as he’s rendered unable to speak.

Park Seonghwa’s gaze has always been soft as it was hard, but the light of them are dulled now as he watches Minjae from behind the veil. As Minjae takes the final steps towards him the veil is lifted not far off his face, Adrestrian mourning traditions dictating it’s far too soon for it’s removal but Minjae says nothing of it to a man that’s not native to the country. As he expects the other’s cheeks are tracked with tears, his eyes not nearly as full of life as Minjae remembers them to be, almost… gone with the way they do not focus on him.

“It’s been a while, Minjae.”

Seonghwa’s voice is more stable than he expects, a gloved hand patting at the seat beside him and Minjae takes it, keeps his hands in his lap as he stares at the tile. He’s never been good at talking with Seonghwa, not in the way Junmin was, never had commonalities in conversations that flowed from something far above his comprehension. Luckily for him, Seonghwa takes pity.

“How have you been?” He asks neutrally but Minaje can still feel eyes on him, “Have classes been well?” He asks like a parent at dinner, “Has the… church been treating you well?”

“They’ve been fine. All of it’s been… fine.”

“Your family?” That makes Minjae look up. Whatever face he makes causes the side of Seonghwa’s mouth to pull up, barely a smile but it’s better than the passivity of it all, the awkwardness of forced pleasantries when he doesn’t deserve them, “Thrilled as usual to have you anywhere but under their thumb I’m sure.”

“You could say that.” His mother’s hand fan had been smashed to bits against the dining room table the day he told them where he was going—who’d he’d be seeing there—pieces of splintered wood still left along the floor the next morning before the maids had cleaned it up, “You know how they are.”

“I think the whole of Fodlan knows about the southern Kim, quite well renowned I fear, for better or worse.” Worse. Definitely worse. The western guard had been directly under his family, finest border guards on the continent, proved that even commoners could be made into a well oiled battalion if you stripped everything but the necessities out of them.

The southeastern guard had always had it easier. That’s what he heard, what he was told by Hongjoong right up until the end.

‘Long stretches of beach and nice breezes. We haven’t had problems with Morfis in decades so your father wouldn’t have any argument about me adding you to my regiment. Get you a little freedom, get you closer to him too-’

The country of Morfis had been on pleasant terms with Adrestria, a supposedly sprawling metropolitan of magic that drifted not far across the sea from them. A common trade partner, a majority of their imports. Decades. It had been decades of peace. 

Proximity made it easier for them to invade, a small group in hindsight but tradeships had caught them so unaware-

He closes his eyes, remembers the smell of the sea and how it changed, salt turned iron. He never remembers farther than that, can only see trade ships on the horizon, feels a firm pat on the shoulder as Hongjoong grins and says something before it goes black.

“You’ve changed since then.” Seonghwa says and he grinds his teeth against his cheek, “I don’t remember your hair like this the last time I saw you. But it’s been quite some time.”

You didn’t even go to his funeral.

“It… wasn’t. It happened after…” Goddess above he can’t even bring himself to say it. 

‘We found him in pieces. Most of the others too.’ He’d heard his father say above his bedside right after he’d opened his eyes and that’s all he’d be given, all that he’d heard but he’d lay awake at night and paint his own visions of that day; his father’s would shift to his as the salted air turn sour and the ocean ran red-

You were lucky. It’s his father, unable to even face him as he spits the words.

Why was it only you? Who are you to have escaped Judgement? Why was it you? Hongjoong’s voice always rings out, his blood pouring into Minjae’s chest where it’s laid open.

Do you deserve it? Sometimes it’s Junmin. 

“It’s okay.” A hand pats softly at his head and the sound of whispers deafen as he slowly opens his eyes, sees the bits of concern that warp Seonghwa’s face as he draws closer, “There you are.” He says softly, “Thought I’d lost you for a bit there.”

“I’m sorry.” He can’t breathe.

“Don’t be.” He still can’t breathe.

The sky shifts in its color as the church bells ring above them. Time’s lost; he’s come here to console but time’s lost and the weight upon his head is too comforting, too much like something he’s craved. The words pour out of him before he can stop them, mimicked in the way his father always said them as trumpets played over mass graves, blood stained weapons handed over to wives in pity.

“He was a good man.” He says. It’s solemn, empty, and it’s like the blood pours over his hands all over again. Like his mentor—the man who was like a brother to him—loses the light in his eyes right in front of Minjae. Like Minjae’s heart is about to stop. Just like it had.

The shakiness sets in again, nails dug into palm to keep him here, keep him off that beach, keep him here in this church where he begs for penance from a goddess who does not listen to him and a man whose husband was defiled amidst the sand. 

Seonghwa’s hand grabs them before he can do more damage. But the words he says bring comfort this time, shoot him through with a reality he cannot run from.

“History is littered with good men, Minjae. They’re all dead though.”

The words are soft, whispered but they break him as he dips his head, “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

You don’t, “It should’ve been me-”

“Don’t.” Minjae’s head snaps up at the change in tone, more forced behind it than anything else that’s been said. Seonghwa’s eyes are hard when they meet his. He shrinks again before he can be burned through by them, “Don’t say that. It shouldn’t have been either of you, not when it was almost both of you.” And he’s right, Minjae knows he’s right.

In another timeline he pictures Junmin in Seonghwa’s place, red hair beneath lace as he mourned for a man he wasn’t even able to wed. Junmin would never willingly be in a church. And Hongjoong would’ve never been able to find him. In worse thoughts he knows Junmin would’ve buried himself right next to Minjae before their families could’ve separated them.

Seonghwa must see those timelines too, “You know Hongjoong would have never wanted you to be in his place. I’m sure he did all he could so you would live.”

Minjae wouldn’t know, “He did.” He says because that lie is healthier for both of them, a realistic narrative that’s not out of place.

“And for that alone I am happy, Minjae.”

That’s where the two of them leave it. He has a thousand apologies locked behind his teeth but they are lost as Seonghwa sits there holding his hands and Minjae stares at his lap. Finally he breaks, his vision blurring and the other allows him to weep, doesn’t tell him it’s okay or wipes his tears away. He lets Minjae walk himself through it, the way his brain cycles between remorse and frustration, the way the voices continue to ask why it was him that survived, why he’s here walking among the living when better men are placed in the ground.

And it walks back to what Seonghwa has told him. That Hongjoong would want it this way given the choice. Even if it hurts; there’s nothing that can be done about it.

Right now he’s here. He’s alive.

At some point there are no more tears to cry. His head hangs in exhaustion, and it’s only then that Seonghwa speaks to him again.

“I forgive you. You don’t need my forgiveness but you have it.” And Minjae’s shoulders shake with the weight of it. There is no lifting of his guilt as he thought there’d be, instead there’s a hollowing but for now it suffices. The church bells toll and he is as blessed as he will be.

“By the way,” Seonghwa speaks again, “tell Park Junmin he doesn’t have to worry.” And with the first mention of his fiancé this whole time Minjae looks up, watches as Seonghwa speaks into the open church with eyes trained on the statues of the goddess, of the saints above them, “I’m not mad at him. I’ve never once thought it’d be better if he was the one grieving. So tell him I’m not going to bite if I see him,” when he looks back at Minjae it’s like his youth has returned, more like the person that Minjae met all that time again, “especially considering I’d hope I’m still invited to the wedding?”

“Of course you are.” He says too quickly, his voice still raw.

The other smiles, “And Yang Jungwon?”

“I’m… working on that.”

And Seonghwa laughs at him, letting his hands go, “Ah your fiancé never looked like the one to start trouble but he’s got his father’s temper.”

The words ring bells in his head, “Junmin’d never-” He begins but Seonghwa raises a hand to make him pause.

“I know. He’d never hurt you.” Not when you’ve done worse, Minjae’s head supplies, “More that I’d worry for anyone outside of you. Who’s to say he wouldn’t draw blood?” He laughs but Minjae doesn’t laugh with him.

I wouldn’t let him.

But he doesn’t say it out loud. Not when he can’t promise it. Seonghwa can see through it though, looks right through him, “I feel our conversation has gotten too heavy as it is–we’ll have plenty more time to talk like that at a later time. For now it’s good that you’ve finally come out of the shadows. I’ve had something for you for months now;” With his hands now free, Seonghwa reaches up to pull the veil back over his face, obscures his features so that Minjae can’t figure out where he’s going with this, “was Hongjoong’s, and I considered keeping it out of sentimentality… but I feel like it’d be better in your hands.”

“What is it?”

“Hongjoong was always a fan of wyverns.” He says and that sparks something in Minjae. If there’s one thing he ever remembered about Hongjoong it was the regiment of riders he looked over, the longing he had to join them and electricity starts to trickle its way across his skin in anticipation. Even below the veil he can see the white of teeth, a smile as Seonghwa watches him fidget,

“And I fear I can’t take care of this one.”

Chapter Text

Yellow Dahlias

- Hyunwoo -

18th of March;
Sovereign Year 1143

Breakfast, he decides, is not a fight worth having.

March will bleed into April soon but the weather’s still got a chill to it in the mornings, almost reminds him of summers back home when the cool raises bumps on his arms above the covers. His room has become more of a bane than it was, the closeness to the greenhouse—a fragrant escape—drowned out by the fact he can hear them on the second floor. Yechan’s quick footsteps sound off in the room right above him and he rolls over. Every couple of minutes one or two sets of feet sprint their way down the stairs from behind the wall next to him, trying to make their way to the dining hall before the first toll of the church bells and he shoves his pillow against his face just to try and drown it out.

The birds don’t make a sound today, nothing to offer in an effort to dampen any sounds of them surrounding him. They might be in mourning, he thinks—can sense that one of them didn’t return underneath the gates of Garreg Mach, overlooked by the archbishop who he’s told hadn’t smiled as they passed this time. 

The archbishop’s balcony is a bit too far out of his sight every time. He wouldn’t know.  

Crowds have never been his favorite, not fond of being swarmed together like bees on the best of days. Worst of all he’s never been terribly fond of sharing a space with those above him—Leicester, Faerghus, Adrestria, they’re all the same. Old wounds, ones long healed physically but they pull open every time one of them decides to open their mouth. Those of the church have never been much better, doesn’t look forward to having to meet the man who overlooks all of them in person at the end of the week, put off so long one of knights had to chase him down to make an appointment. He can count on his fingers how many of them he can tolerate just because horses have always been a good judge of character and Yechan—despite being someone that’s far too much like Hyunwoo’s younger brother—would rather spit in the face of the archbishop himself than have rank brought up at every turn.

Leicester’s picks for the year have at least outnumbered royal blood. It makes them easier to handle, easier to corral even if most of them are older they don’t care much for that. Jooyeon and Yujun are particularly docile, easy to placate with simple gestures even when they invade his space.

It’s what makes mornings like this–ones where he’ll choose to avoid them for his own sake and they won’t question it–something to look forward to. 

Once the bell finally sounds he throws off the covers and stands, making quick work of gathering what he needs. A clean set of clothes and his uniform jacket end up folded neatly on his desk chair. He rifles through the chest at the end of his bed before he finds a bar of soap his mother so diligently made before sending him to the capitol, fragrant even through the cheesecloth it’s wrapped in. A little bottle of medicinal salts joins it before he shoves himself in a pair of pants and collects the rest of his things, boot laces undone still as the door closes behind him.

It’s a bit warmer with the sun hitting him as he walks his way up through the leveled courtyard, the smell of the pond and greenhouse being carried on the breeze coming from behind. The baths aren’t far from the entrance to the training grounds, up another set of stairs in a small building that’s closed in between that and the dorms. 

Fires are already going when he enters, pots of water lined up against the stone wall as they settle to a rolling boil. The attendant turns on her heel as soon as the door closes, dressed like many of the other priests from the neck down but her hair’s drawn back underneath a simple kerchief as she smiles at him. Minjeong, if he remembers correctly.

“There’s already a bath drawn on the left down there at the end.” She says, handing him a clean towel, already warmed by the fire, “One or two you always manage to make it here before the rush, very smart.” He says his thanks before moving his way down the row of curtains, wooden baths not even filled just yet this early in the morning. Just as she said though there’s one that’s already billowing with steam and his body already aches as he draws the curtain closed. Sometimes forgoing food has its benefits when it comes to the prospect of uninterrupted peace .

He hears the door open as he strips his shirt off and not long after he steps in she’s coming down the hall, the sound of water pouring in the tub across the hall as he slips beneath the surface. His head goes under, water burning at his ears as he clings to himself. Just a little bit, just till the sounds start to wear down and he’s able to think around them. 

It’s calmer when he comes back up.

Whoever’s across the hall makes barely a sound as he reaches for the soap, unwraps cheesecloth only to be immediately hit with the smell of jasmine oil and he’s once again painfully reminded of home.

If he’s lucky his letter will get to his mother by next week; then one will come from her not long after, saying whether or not his brother’s still a little pest, if he’s able to hold a bow yet, are the villagers helping hunt, are they getting enough food-

He breathes. That’s what he’s here for after all.

Scrubbing his skin does him good, gets rid of a few days of grime and emotions built up as the water burns away anything that clings after that. If the monastery’s good for one thing outside of the prestige it offers it's that the water sure knows how to stay hot, warm to the touch still as he clambers out of the bath and towels his skin till it’s raw. He dresses quickly; Minjeong nods to him as he leaves and he says his thanks as he hears the curtains draw back at the end of the hall and he looks before he can stop himself.

A Lily—Jinsik, not the worst—smiles at him when he’s noticed, stops the way he aggressively towels at his head just to wave at Hyunwoo.

Hyunwoo only nods before he flees out without realizing he’s out the door, only stops when he notices he’s on path to his class and not his room, an arm full of laundry and homey scents to be put away and quickly backtracks.

Even with the detour to drop his things at his room he ends up being the first to class.

Jay walks in just as Hyunwoo takes his seat in the second row. He averts his eyes as the older greets him good morning through a breath that’s a little too labored as he passes and Hyunwoo nods back and that’s the end of their pleasantries. Hyunwoo tasks himself with finishing a paper due next week; Jay lays his head on his desk to sleep. Life as a noble must be a breeze when you’re basically handed admission to the academy, he thinks to himself as he dips his quill back in ink. The thought’s a little unfair when paired with the way Jay’s breath rattles as he breathes out but that’s what happens when a brigand tries to rip your lungs through your ribs. Yechan’s good aim and some very quick patch work are the only reason the other can stand right so he lets it be.

The more of them that file in the louder it unfortunately gets. The same topics circle around from a few of them as he writes away, chews his lip in frustration because the efficiency of bladed weapons has no bearing on an archer and it gets harder to be nice about that when he can’t hear himself think above them.

Eventually they come to that area of conversation, a tired subject, and an almost week-long mystery at this point and Hyunwoo’s hand tightens around the quill in his hand when he can’t take it anymore.

“Why all that work to kill one guy-” Jiseok says from his place in the front row, across the aisle from Jay’s stirring form, “Hyunsuk wasn’t even a noble.” He says it passively enough, has no bite to it the way most of them speak.

Still it grinds at Hyunwoo, “Hyunsuk is older than you.” He says–like it matters, like Jiseok’s not older than him, shouldn’t shrink away and tip his head at the chiding while his hands wring together in his lap.

He almost feels bad. Until he remembers who he’s around.

“Was.” It’s loud, covers over all of them and he turns to see Yechan in the back row, chin balanced on his hand, having raised his voice to be heard even in the silence of the early morning, “He’s dead now.”

He’s dead now. He’s the only one dead now. There could’ve been two of them. Yechan had wiped away his tears pretty fast at the bridge, tried to erase the way Hyunwoo’s mind claims that he is a child before he is anything else but now Yechan’s the only one in the back row the way Hyunwoo’s the only one in the second. Two archers, two isolations, two different reasons to be here. Before he can say anything against their future grand duke, Professor Seunghun shuffles through the door with less liveliness in the past weeks.

Class just resumed today, given the weekend to mourn and send prayers that Hyunsuk’s soul made it up to the goddess. They all knew that their professor had personally known their fallen classmate, probably tasked with the bulk of rites considering he was the one closest to Hyunsuk here.

Hyunwoo doesn’t know who would be told to keep incense lit for him here, doesn’t delegate much time to it when he notices a piece of cloth folded into a neat square under their professor’s arm, catching quite a few raised eyebrows across the aisle when he’s not the only one confused.

“What,” Professor Seunghun starts as he takes his place at the front of the room, “is the difference between physical medicine and faith?” None of them answer, “Jooyeon?”

“Medicine is for internal, magic is for external?” Hyunwoo hears behind him.

“That’s a very bare way of putting it.” They’re told. Their curiosity is left unsated as the bit of cloth is unfolded—larger than Hyunwoo thought—laid out on the stone floor before he steps onto it, “Medicine is all about preventing infection and suppressing symptoms. Magical healing focuses more on closing wounds, raising a body’s vital energy, that type of thing. Those of higher proficiencies can even mend bones but it’s not something that’s common. Do you know why?” Once again it’s only silence that follows and Seunghun shakes his head, “Come now, you must know a little. Even if you have no talent in healing the smallest of towns in Leicester have a healer.”

Not Ecne. Not in the time that Hyunwoo’s been alive has there been one. Just an old woman who they always said was around longer than the village itself with a knowledge so vast it used to make his head spin.

Slowly, Jay raises his hand, “Because it’s easier to heal what you can see. It’s already a lot of energy to pull skin together when you know what you’re looking at so it’s not recommended for things under the surface.” He says and all of them nod when he looks around for agreement, “You can’t do surgery blind. Magic is an even more fickle thing.”

“Correct. Along with that all open wounds are not created equal; the shallower it is the easier it is to close. Yujun-” He calls, and the younger of them is dutiful to get up and run forward, nearly trips on the cloth as he steps onto it, “you are the only one who can heal here?”

“I…” Yujun looks out at them; many of them turn their eyes away, slowly shaking their heads before Yujun looks back at their professor, “I am, it seems.”

“All is well, we can change that in time.” A preposterous thing to say in Hyunwoo’s mind; even Jay, with all his meager skills, does not speak up. Instead they all watch as their professor raises a hand towards Yujun, his palm facing out at the rest of them, “Heal this then.”

Before many of them even blink he has a small knife, palm split cleanly but shallowly, barely a trickle of blood escaping from beneath skin.

Yujun’s shock seems to wear off as fast as it can, hands clasped around their professor’s as that familiar golden glow shows itself through the cracks of his finger, that crackle of energy flickering where it escapes into the area surrounding their hands. When Yujun removes his hands there’s nothing that Hyunwoo can see from this far away but he knows what the aftermath of healing is like, pictures a barely perceivable, faint, little line across the palm that their professor smiles at.

“As you can see,” Seunghun gestures, his hand to them now, “smaller cuts require smaller bits of energy, quite easy to knit the skin together. There was miniscule damage to the tendons beneath so Yujun here didn’t bother trying to piece that small bit together.”

“I-!”

“No, no, you did exactly what you’ve been taught and exactly what I wanted you to do, don’t worry. In this case this was the right action, however,” The knife slices deeper this time, blood spilling to the floor. Hyunwoo doesn’t see just how deep it cuts but it alarms Yujun who cringes when the blood pools over the top of his hand as it stays pressed against Seunghun’s, “for deeper cuts it’s always practical to close the skin and then knit together the muscles and tissues beneath it, especially if you are without salves or access to such. When you have access to those then you can start from the bottom up. Your body is a vessel of energy that you are pulling from to vitalize the cells of another, it's not some bottomless well you can continue to pull from; you run out and you’ll be no good.”

When he pulls away this time the wound isn’t nearly as small, a thicker white line that Hyunwoo can see in the places of their professor’s palm that aren’t covered in blood. He draws his eyes across the aisle to watch the others so he doesn’t have to watch the view in front of him.

“We’ve got a little bit before we have to go to the field for combat practicals, excluding Jay.” Seunghun says, and Hyunwoo doesn’t like the cheery tone he hears when the knife is raised a little too high for his liking, “So, who’d like to try?”

⚔

21st of March;
Sovereign Year 1143

None of them prove to be very proficient outside of Yujun.

Three days of lecture go the same as the days before to the point he can only imagine how sore their professor’s hand must be after being split open so many times. Mourning someone must be hard on Seunghun—an insane way of coping with a death he wasn’t there for so he’s trying to prepare them in retrospect even if it tears at his own skin.

Jay is the only one that can cause skin to even pull back together but it doesn’t hold very long. Jungsu and Jooyeon are able to staunch the wound with pressure more than any magical skill.

Hyunwoo’s hand overflows with blood when he tries.

Not even a spark of warmth to be had, tries to visualize the skin knitting itself back together similar to how hunters back home pieced rabbit skins together. It doesn’t work. Their professor gives him a look of sympathy before Yujun’s called to stop the bleeding, always looks weary by the end of the hour because he’s having to make up for their limitations, has to use his energy to fix what they can’t. Hyunwoo’s only saving grace is that the hardened glances and narrowed eyes of his classmates aren’t aimed at him.

Yujun’s fatigue gets them out of combat practice, leans on Yechan as the pair walk out while Seunghun gives the rest of them another assignment for tomorrow, “History of Fodlan’s separation; Leicester’s split was a particularly interesting case.” He writes on the board with his non dominant hand and Hyunwoo makes his way off the blood soaked cloth with swift feet, hands dipped in a basin filled with water already tinted dark by the rest of them.

He escapes as soon as the bells toll, runs straight across the courtyard to a covered hall that serves as an intersection for most of the campus. The bridge to the cathedral spans north, the entrance to the reception hall goes south, and the stairs to the second floor of the building lay not far from where he enters. Two of those hold more people than he can handle right now, watches a group of knights head their way across the bridge and barely a moment of decision has him nearly flying up the stairs.

It’s quieter up here, small and contained. The archbishop’s audience chamber has its doors closed, an unusual sight but he still makes a point to tiptoe by, passes into the hall across from it towards his main destination. 

Two more days of freedom before he has to come face to face with the man and he’s not in a hurry to do it any sooner. 

The hall forks and he goes right, following it around the corner. People meander here, priests and knights stopped for conversation that drops the moment he walks by. They give him a nod of acknowledgement that he bows to, moves swiftly past before he finally happens upon an open door on the left side and breathes easily.

The library isn’t small but it isn’t massive by any means, probably the size of four or six of their dorm rooms shoved together, but it’s larger than anything he’s seen. Shelves of books reach up to the ceiling with ease, thin ladders of cherry wood leaned up against them here and there with a few tables lined up in the center. He’s not been in here many times because of the path but the quiet is something he looks forward to. Even now there’s not a soul in sight, stacks of books left here and there from other student’s late night study sessions that he sees them walk back from.

His fingers graze over the spines of a few of them before he drifts back over to the shelves and does the same. There’s quite a variety—curated, hand selected by the archbishop from what he’d been told the first time by the librarian the first time he’d walked in here. Curated is a simple way to put it, a nicer word for what he knows it to be but he can’t knock that this is the largest amount of reading material he’s ever been privy to.

Weathered tomes hold a shared history of Fodlan; unification and separation, structures of political powers for each of the three nations, lineages of noble houses that have some of their own heirs here. An unappealing section, not much use to him and his hand drops. Farther down there’s things more to his liking–something useful he can write back to his mother, Ok Taecyeon’s Guide to Medicinal Herbs, Lost Remedies, How to See Through the Skin. He pulls one out, fingers slid over soft gilding before he finally reads the words through the fancy script: Medicinal Recipes Overseen by the Goddess. 

He scoffs, pushing the book back into place before continuing down. A fairytale would do him good, let him reset his head with words of fanciful adventures and have something new to recite to his brother; but the blood that poured out over his hand this morning has him changing path to the back of the room. Introduction to Healing: A Beginner’s Guide to Mending is the thinnest of the books he finds, slipping it out and finding page length paragraphs of text so thin and densely back his eyes can’t make anything out.

“Most beginner books are too wordy to help.”

Hyunwoo nearly jumps out of his skin at the voice as he spins, the book held as a shield even when he comes face to face with Junghoon far too close. The scenario is a little too familiar with all the times they’ve almost literally run into each lately with how much the latter tends to frequent the greenhouse not far from Hyunwoo’s room, even now smells of bergamot and angelica. It’s not unwelcome and Junghoon’s… friendly enough even when he tends to show up when Hyunwoo doesn’t expect it, easy to talk to.

Still he frowns, “Is this your thing?” Hyunwoo nearly yells, “Sneaking up on people?” 

“Something more like ‘healing for infants’-”

“Are you listening? ” And yes, possibly, considering the briefest bit of a smile the other has as he reaches past Hyunwoo and pulls a book off the shelf.

It isn’t healing for infants but it’s close enough, Fundamentals in Faith by one Lee Jieun, that looks older than the elder in his village and then some. 

It comes paired with some mocking. “We’re in a library.” Junghoon shushes as his finger presses against his own lips before gesturing to the room. The librarian’s nowhere in sight, no one else beyond him and his shadow that has grown sentient in the past week. Quite brave when he’s in striking distance, but he barely even reacts when Hyunwoo smacks at his shoulder. He raises an eyebrow, doesn’t back up when Hyunwoo turns to put the book in his hands away, “This is a good one though.”

“Can you even heal?” He asks, genuinely curious as Junghoon tilts his head.

“...A little. Not… that much though.” And if Hyunwoo squints he can almost convince himself that Junghoon is embarrassed, watches eyes flit away from his face to the books behind him, to the floor.

He shifts again and Hyunwoo nearly chuckles at the awkwardness, “Probably better than me.” He concedes.

“Mm. I learned from my father when I was a kid, before-oh?” The tone of his voice strangles upwards. Hyunwoo doesn’t know what’s wrong until he looks at the cuff of his shirt below his jacket, revealed from when he’d reached up and splotched with red turning brown, “Are you hurt?” A hand hovers near, fingers flexed but he shakes his head, undoing the buttons of his jacket.

“Our professor didn’t take what happened at Zanado well, considering our house this year doesn’t seem to have many healers.” It’s a struggle, considering the lack of space but he manages to wrangle his arm out, “‘You should all learn a little healing’ but he has a very hands-on approach; practical learning.”

“And how well is that actually go–it’s all the way up your arm.” And just as he says a small streak of it runs down towards Hyunwoo’s elbow but thin enough to not be that much of a concern. It’ll wash out—the laundress will have his head but it will wash out.

“One of them can close a wound.” He says as he shoves his arm back into his sleeve, “For a good couple of seconds before the professor moves his hand and then the whole thing’s bleeding again. Our only good healer is being used like a perpetual bandage to make up for the rest of us. Can’t imagine the sleep he’s getting considering he’s about to pass out by the time we’re let out.”

When he looks back up Junghoon is quiet, not something he’s unused to, not something that causes worry from what he’s seen so far. What he does say when he finally speaks is about what Hyunwoo expects.

“That kind of impulsive healing practice works for some but not everyone.” Currently it’s not working for any of them, “Watching the way the skin weaves is easiest. You’ve probably seen it where you’re from, healers-”

“No.”

Junghoon blinks, “No?”

“There’s no healer in my village. Our healing comes from the land and considering the climate it’s not usually all that giving. Too north for the snow to disappear, too much snow for much to grow–coastal mountains.”

“Practically Faerghus.” Junghoon says and he frowns, hands gripped into fists. He gets that a lot, too much actually, to the point that a part of him resigns to let it slide.

But most of him doesn’t, “Leicester.” He enforces, “Where I’m from is still part of the Alliance, not the Kingdom.” He spits and regrets it in an instant when the other’s eyes widen, “Sor-”

Junghoon holds a hand up before he gets to finish, “No, I get it; just a little weird hearing someone talk about somewhere other than the Empire like that.”

“Actually, I’m fan of neither.” And Junghoon nods. Both of those countries have their own histories built on a little too much blood or a little too much faith depending on which side of the line you were on, “High societies lose sight of those below them once they get too high up.”

“You’re more right than you realize.” Hyunwoo doesn’t get a lot of time to process that cryptic statement in full before Junghoon’s walking away from him, down towards the other end of the wall. Hyunwoo follows without question, cautiously curious as Junghoon stops where the wall isn’t fully covered in books, gives way to a map of the continent, boundaries clearly painted. He doesn’t speak till Hyunwoo stops right beside him. 

“Point it out.”

Hyunwoo looks at him for a moment, lip caught between his teeth before he nods. His finger hits right where he knows it to be by heart: the western edge of Fodlan’s northernmost mountains, ever so close to the boundary of the Alliance and the Kingdom, small enough that it isn’t labeled. But he knows it’s there.

“Ecne.” Junghoon cocks his head to the side as he says it. Even the knowledge that it’s there, waiting for him churns his stomach a little. If what the knights told him is true it’s too early for any mail to come through but it doesn’t make him any less worried. He shoves it away, “Where are you from?”

Instead of pointing on his own, Junghoon wraps a hand around Hyunwoo’s, ignores the way the latter fumbles with his protests at the touch. His hand is warm as he drags Hyunwoo’s across the map, lands it right where Adrestia meets Faerghus, just below a river that weaves itself half of the way to Garreg Mach before it ends, “Igna.”

“Practically Faerghus.” Hyunwoo repeats in the same way Junghoon did earlier, smiles when the other’s mouth draws down slightly.

“You’re right,” Junghoon huffs, dropping Hyunwoo’s hand, “that is frustrating to hear.”

His hand twitches at his side, settles alongside a sense of longing he doesn’t understand when his hand feels a little too cold. He chalks it up to homesickness, “Then we’ll both never say it again.”

“Hm.” is all he gets, but he takes it as an agreement when it seems enough like one. Junghoon pats a hand to Hyunwoo’s shoulder as he turns, placing the book in his hand. When he goes to leave Hyunwoo watches, doesn’t follow when his feet are planted in the spot he’s at.

“I could teach you healing.” He says when he finally reaches the door.

“I’m a lost cause.” Hyunwoo tells him.

Junghoon turns, faces him, “Maybe.” He smiles, and Hyunwoo feels his shoulders straighten up, just a bit, “But either you learn healing, or nothing changes.” He turns back, takes another step into the hall as he speaks again, “You don’t seem to have much to do around here anyway so it doesn’t matter.”

“Hey!” He yells but Junghoon’s already gone from sight. Fundamentals in Faith stares back at him when he looks at it, placed under his arm before he runs out too.

⚔

The next day Seunghun has fully given up. The cloth isn’t laid across the floor when they all sit, the basin of water gone from sight as well. Seunghun doesn’t even mention it as he draws on the chalkboard, gives them a rundown of next week’s itinerary before launching into his promised lecture. When Sir Minho and Sir Chan come to collect all the houses for combat practice he merely waves and wishes them luck.

LIke usual they’re separated once they make it out to the field; lancers practicing with lancer, swords with sword, and so on depending on their strengths. There’s usually a third, a boy from the Empire that joins for bow practice but today Hyunwoo breathes easy as much as he suffers when it’s just he and Yechan that shoot at targets in the mid afternoon sun, jackets discarded in the grass near a row of arrows.

“I feel bad.” Yechan says as Hyunwoo takes aim. He has a smile on his face, leisurely leaned on a bow as he watches Hyunwoo with a little too much intensity. 

Whatever remorse he feels clearly isn’t all that encompassing, takes enough time to clear his throat when Hyunwoo lets his posture slack like a good house leader, “Then get better at healing. Prove him right and make him proud or whatever will clear your conscience.” 

“Can’t.” The younger says simply. Hyunwoo lets the arrow fly and hits dead center from what he can tell, earning a whistle of approval before Yechan continues on, “Most faith healers are… incredibly devout. Yujun likes to pretend the goddess doesn’t mean shit to him but out of the two of us you’ll find him praying more.”

“He shushes you in church.”

“Wouldn’t find me doing the same.”

They switch spots. Hyunwoo isn’t surprised when Yechan draws his arrow back and strikes dangerously close to his own, “So I’m in the presence of a heretic. And they let a kid like that into an academy run by a church?” He means to tease but it comes out with too straight of a tone.

Yechan doesn’t let it dampen his smile.

“Bit harsh. You’re in the presence of a soon-to-be grand duke of your country. One who didn’t ask to come here.”

“So you’re saying your spot could’ve been given to someone else.”

“It could’ve. Doesn’t mean anyone else would’ve bit.”

Hyunwoo begs to differ. The church almost turned him away because of his pedigree; being the son of a bedridden woman whose husband ran from her the moment she had her second son didn’t exactly fit the knightly image they were hoping for.

“Seemed like there was enough competition. They sent a scout to put me through a trial just to see if I was good enough. Could’ve got another commoner for morale.” Commoners diversify the student body. The church wouldn’t be looked on as kindly if they only let in nobles but they put up a fight. Apparently having nomads is a first this year; in Leicester they aren’t looked on fondly but they’re a necessity for the trade, economy boosting. Hyunwoo’s never met one he didn’t like. 

“They wouldn’t have found anyone. Plus you’d be pretty lonely out here without me to talk to.” He gestures for Hyunwoo to take his spot. When he takes aim and splits his previous arrow down the middle Yechan beams like he did it himself, “Best sniper we have here. Well, besides me.”

Hyunwoo walks and pulls another arrow from the ground. Pride isn’t something that’s a noble’s burden alone but there’s something in the fun of the challenge that has him closing his eyes as he pulls the bowstring taut.

When he lets it fly he hears it hit the target. Opening his eyes it’s a little lower than he’d like, looks about two rings out from the bullseye if he squints. His form must’ve been off.

Yechan pats a hand at his shoulder, one that gets a little harsher when Hyunwoo tries to shrug him off. Menace, “Wow! You'd have hit their shoulder if you were aiming for the head! Maybe you are bet-!” He’s cut off. Being a house leader does not spare him from Hyunwoo’s retaliation, a little too comfortable in their chatter that he forgets himself as his elbow juts into Yechan’s stomach. He’s sure if it was either of the princes he’d have been hauled off to be hung. The soon-to-be grand duke just laughs a little too loudly as he falls to the grass.

Despite himself, he smiles at the sight. Not too soon, he hopes. Just like his brother Hyunwoo has the smallest wish that Yechan gets to be a child for just a bit longer, “Brat.” He mutters as he watches. He hears footsteps, turns to find an amused Sir Minho making his way over and shrinks on instinct.

They’re scolded, lightly in spite of his reaction, barely get a flick to the forehead before the knight leaves them to go watch another group. Yechan picks up another arrow and lets it go, grabs another as Hyunwoo makes himself busy dusting off their jackets. He’s proven himself, thinks he can give himself some reprieve to stand and watch the arrow blur through the air but it’s not that convincing. 

The silence is still comfortable as he looks over at the other groups, farther off in the field as blobs of color against the forest. He watches the sword fighters for a moment, tries to see a face he knows but can’t. Every now and then he goes to clean off the target as the sun walks its way over the sky.

Eventually they trade off, jackets for a bow as Hyunwoo’s forced—quite easily, but he’ll never admit—to volley for the younger’s amusement, before it trickles down to just one again. Then Yechan breaks the silence.

“So you have to see him?”

It startles him, “Tomorrow.” Yechan hums in response, a curious noise that has Hyunwoo raising an eyebrow, “Why?”

“Nothing. Talked to me too; he’s apparently checking on us after Hyunsuk’s death or something.” 

“Bit of an overcompensation to talk to us individually?”

“When have they not overcompensated?” Hyunwoo knows he means Seunghun, “But I guess this is a special case. They didn’t expect a student to lose his life in the first month, especially on a mission back home and all.”

Hyunwoo lets one last arrow fly as the knights call for them to gather.

“They shouldn’t be expecting deaths at all.”

⚔

23rd of March;
Sovereign Year 1143

“You’re a hard man to track down.”

The archbishop motions for Hyunwoo to sit, keeps his hands neatly folded in front of him along a large desk that separates the space between them. The smile on his face is passive, unnerving for Hyunwoo who’s seen smiles like that. They’ve never led to anything good. The room they’re in isn’t one that Hyunwoo’s ever seen before, a small study off from the audience chamber, barely enough room to breathe. 

“My apologies, Your Grace.” He bows from his seat, the words feeling foreign in his mouth.

‘Don’t forget to be polite.’ Yechan had told him as they walked off the field, ‘You can talk to me like we’re friends all you want but I don’t need you hung from the rafters because you were… you.’

“Oh, goddess above, no it’s as I’d expect from someone of your background. ” And the way he says it isn’t unkind but Hyunwoo stiffens regardless. It doesn’t go unnoticed, “You seem a bit tense. Hyunwoo I pray you do not feel that way because of me?”

He does, “Of course not. May I ask why you needed to see me though?” The archbishop seems to wait for something.

“Your Grace.” He tacks on. 

That does the trick, “Just an introduction.” He’s told. There’s a large map hung behind the man—similar to the one in the library but without borders, the smallest of towns marked. Ecne stares at him, “Something I meant to do with all of you before the misfortune that befell you Dahlias. A tragedy that was, I can’t imagine the grief you must be feeling.” He wipes at his eye like there’s a tear, something Hyunwoo can’t see with certainty at this distance but he bets there isn’t, “The goddess weeps for all Her children, I beg his soul finds its peace, amen.”

“Amen.” He repeats. The silence takes its place after that–a supposed solace he’s learned means your prayers might get heard by that woman in the sky that apparently watches over all of them—as the man before him keeps his hands clasped and eyes to the ceiling.

The awareness of his own discomfort grows, hands gripped together in his own lap. It’s unpleasant, suffocating in this small room with the world looming over him as he shifts uncomfortably in his own seat. How the others have gotten through this he doesn’t know—how the nomads or Jiseok sat still long enough, how Sunoo or Yechan faked smiles. Jay and Yujun probably shined here, the pinnacle of nobility treating this like a war meeting and a devout meeting the highest ranking man of their religion.

Eventually that passage of silence is forsaken, the archbishop’s face turning back to him, “I thank you for partaking in that prayer with me, I know the people of Leicester in your parts are less than religious but it means so much that you would allow me that time.”

“It was no burden, Your Grace. Thank you for allowing me to… witness that.”

The archbishop nods, “Truly a blessing. Shall we get to something more interesting to you, perhaps? Your mother?” Hyunwoo’s shoulders tighten, “Have you heard from her?” 

“I sent a letter. One should come from her soon.”

From here the man’s smile is still present, wider even with teeth glinting so brightly in the candlelight that confusion colors Hyunwoo’s features, “May I say that it’s a great honor then that I have a surprise for you?” A drawer is opened, no eyes taken off him as he waits for what kind of surprise this man could give him that’d be any good. It’s not long before the hand reappears with a letter held between his thumb and forefinger. For a moment Hyunwoo is nothing but confused, “You have to excuse our humble order, prereading is something we do for protection reasons. But it’s so nice to hear that your mother is doing as well as she can right now.” He says as he draws it close enough for Hyunwoo to faintly make out his name as the recipient.

Barely, just barely, does he stop himself from going over the desk, pictures his hands quite calmly wrapping around the man’s throat despite the rage that builds up in him.

“You read everyone’s mail.” He says.

“Briefly—a cursory glance at best. Dissension is common, dear Hyunwoo we had to snuff out a flame like that not even two years ago but you’d have never heard about that where you’re from. You never realize how many rats are in your house until you find them.” When it’s within reach Hyunwoo’s calm as he takes it, stops himself from snatching it out of the man’s hand and holds it close, “We can keep this between us. We usually don’t hand out letters we get until the beginning of the month but I know how dear your mother and brother are to you and how trying a time this is for your house.”

‘Sorry one of you died, here’s a letter from your sickly mother you desperately wanted to excuse the fact we read through it.’ Hyunwoo hears instead.

“Is that all, Your Grace?” He says calmly, but the letter feels like it burns in his hand. From the outside he can’t even tell where it’s been tampered with and that’s terrifying. Does he tell anyone? The way the man speaks of his mother alarms him, wonders how safe she’d be if he even dared mention this out loud but surely he has to do something?

Instead of answering the man motions for the door, Hyunwoo stands quickly. As he turns the handle he’s called again, turns as the man smiles and he tames down the fear, the anger, “When you write to your mother again, tell her she’s in my prayers.”

⚔

He feels like he doesn’t breathe till he’s back in his room, the door slamming behind him so hard it rattles. For a moment he just stands there, his hands shaking at his side. The invasion of privacy still stings, the violation. The breaths he takes in sting, stab into his lungs. His skin crawls with it, jacket removed so it does not press into his skin, scratch at his pores, but even then he does not calm.

The bed feels hard beneath him as he sits, draws his legs up to his chest as he sticks himself as far into the corner as he can. The letter is crumpled when he pulls it from his pocket but he knows his mother wouldn’t mind it, dappled with tears he doesn’t realize he’s spilling until his vision blurs beyond something salvageable. He tears the letter open as he sobs. Someone knocks at his door but he ignores it, blocks it out as best he can when it pounds along the sides of his head. 

His mother’s handwriting is the only comfort he has when it greets him, letters sized up to accommodate him and it brings a new round of tears he chokes down as he reads, as he hears something else outside. 

‘The pain’s nothing to worry about.’ She writes to him, ‘My baby,’ She dots with hearts, ‘you don’t have to fret about your mother, she’ll be just fine until you get back. Your brother asked if he could write to you but I promised I’d pass along his feelings, he’s doing so well-’ And the rest goes like that, details how well his brother’s doing with a bow, how he’s been fishing more, how the gathering women have been taking him along. It should calm him, placate him into thinking they’re doing just fine but he knows her better, knows that she doesn’t write about herself because it can’t be anything good, knows she doesn’t let her brother write because the younger wouldn’t lie to him.

“Momma…” He says quietly, and he fears and he hopes but he knows what’s going to be coming soon. Just faintly he can smell moss and poppies, knows she’s in pain and he’s not there. ‘I love you more than there are stars in the sky, my baby.’ She ends and he breaks. His wail is buried in his knees, teeth gnawed in the fabric to dampen the sound and he cries until he’s emptied.

When the door to his room opens with a little too much force he doesn’t react. When Yechan and Sunoo look at him from the door he says it’s just a letter from his mother and both of their faces are too hard to focus on from where he is.

Yechan waves Sunoo off and steps inside, closing the door softly behind him, “Do you wanna talk about it?” He shakes his head and Yechan respects it. The younger takes another step closer to the bed, “Do you… want a hug? Yujun says a hug makes him feel better.”

“I’m not Yujun.” It hurts to talk, throat raw but full.

“I know you’re not.” He says softly, "But you could still use a hug.” 

And maybe it’s the fact that Yechan does remind him so much of his brother that he nods, drops his legs and opens his arms. It’s not as awkward as he thought it’d be, not stiff when Yechan’s the type to throw his full weight on someone if they allow it. Hyunwoo feels a new rush of tears and Yechan lets him cry into his shoulder until he can’t anymore. When they separate Yechan sits at the edge of the bed, eyes a little redder than they had been. With the letter crumpled in his hand he thinks that maybe he can trust at least one person here,

“Yechan can you keep a secret?”

Chapter Text

Yellow Dahlias

- Yujun -

20th of March; 
Sovereign Year 1143

This isn’t the first time he’s dealt with magic tax.

Definitely won’t be the last; two years at the magic academy in Fhirdiad had him to get quite used to it, has done well to get past the times where it’d take at least a week to recover.

But two days of continuously closing the same wound over and over has done well to have that old tiredness settle in his bones, muscles weighted like stones as he slowly makes his way across the grass. Combat practice would’ve been actually nice –a beautiful, wide field to nap in while the other mages covered him from those northern knights’ wrath but the walk alone would’ve had him dead on his feet before they got there. 

Going to his room seems like a poor idea as and sneaking into Yechan’s is certainly a concept, one that wouldn’t have any repercussions beyond an evening of teasing but it still boils down to the same problem:

Loneliness.

Instead his feet take him a different path from the dorms and towards the eastern edge of the monastery’s grounds. Knights nod to him pleasantly, just like every day and he bows in return, waves off any worries he gets when he must look as tired as he feels. 

Two of them don’t until he’s upon them, their conversation dipping when he passes but still catches the same rhetoric they’re all taught since before he was born—Park Jinyoung, the greatest archbishop in over fifty years, the Great Unifier. 

The title’s rightfully owed, that type of renown is something you get well you bring together three warring nations. A hero who penned a treaty designed by the goddess, he thinks as he rubs at his eyes. Even talking to that man yesterday, Yujun couldn’t help but be in awe as the man spoke to him, holding something brighter than the priests at the cathedral in his hometown.

‘I wish you rest, child; the goddess finds little spirited ones like you to be the ones she worries for the most.’

And rest he’s getting, almost smiles to himself when he rounds the corner and sees a stallion with a beautiful black coat sticking its head out into the open air through the stable door that’s been left open, “Hi, Moghwa.” He calls out, his hand already outstretched as he pets at the stallion’s muzzle, stepping into the stable, “You’re not supposed to be doing that you know?” He’s rewarded with a snort and smiles. A few of them are missing today, taken out riding by the knights if he were to guess, and moves down the line. He pets Nan and Baekup as he passes, frowns at the empty stalls before he stands before one of the most beautiful mares in the stable, dappled grey and smoothest coat of them all.

He once again whispers out a hello, hand flattened against Jangmi’s neck as pets down her side. The fatigue gets to him, eyes falling close the moment his head rests against her muzzle and listens to her breathe. 

It’s not until she butts against his head that he notices how close he is to dropping where he is. He yawns out a ‘good girl’ and gives her one last pat on the nose before stepping back. Bed still sounds good but he’s already made it here, isn’t fond of hoofing it all the way back across campus again.

And there’s a nice, full pile of hay right behind him.

No one’s… no one’s gonna get mad, he reasons. It’d only be a short nap, just enough sleep to get his energy back. The worst the knights can do is give him a warning; surely there’s no worse punishment for sleeping, not when he was told quite literally by the archbishop to rest-

Without much more thought he flops back against the hay, happy enough when he doesn’t hit anything too hard, no worry to be had as his eyes fall close again. Sleep–sleep is so desperately close that he can’t find it in him to mind even the itch that tickles at the back of his neck from the texture.

“Wake me in twenty minutes.” He tells the horses, unsurprised when he hears Moghwa snort a few stalls down in response.

⚔

Humming isn’t exactly what he expects to hear upon waking, confusion easily taking over when he’s not fully aware of what he’s hearing. He thinks it’s Yechan at first, guesses combat training might be over when he notices—barely—that the stable seems to be a little darker than it had been.

So he is indeed the faintest bit surprised when he finally turns his head and isn’t greeted by the sight of orange hair but Jinsik who lays next to him, ink stained fingers a quill tightly in his hand.

Doodles cover the page of the notebook that’s propped up on his legs and Yujun feels a smile tug at his lips when he notices it’s Jangmi that the other’s trying to draw, notices crude little figures fighting in the corner of the page that look suspiciously close to Yechan and the northern prince. 

He barely gets a good look at the rest of the page before he’s noticed, stays still when Jinsik turns and smiles wider than he thinks should be possible.

“Morning!” He says cheerily, “We missed you at practice. Jungwon thought you skipped on purpose but Junmin said you wouldn’t miss without reason.” A few more scratches hit the page, coloring in the mare’s mane, “We all wanted to know how Jay was doing.” 

“He’s right, I wouldn’t.” Would try not to, at least, “And Jay’ll be back on the field tomorrow, he’s healed up pretty well.”

And they can thank Jinsik for that.

“I got the afternoon off.” He yawns, “Exhausted since no one else can heal.”

It gets a frown out of the other, “Are you guys… having a lot of accidents?”

Yujun shakes his head, “Our professor’s just trying to force them to heal.” He explains and Jinsik nods, puzzled but not pressing any further as he returns to his sketching. 

In the quiet the other continues to hum, something soothing but it’s not anything Yujun’s heard before. His head falls, lands on Jinsik’s shoulder despite himself but he’s allowed, the latter moving closer. He’s almost asleep once more when he hears the other whisper above him.

“Sorry.” 

When Yujun makes a noise in question, Jinsik mumbles out the rest of his words,

“About Hyunsuk.”

Yujun’s eyes snap open. He hadn’t expected that–hadn’t wanted it actually when it feels like bugs start to crawl across his skin at the mention of the other’s name, when he remembers how the other was . It’s not good to speak ill of the dead. That’s what they’re taught but even before their unfortunate meeting with brigands on the way to the monastery something had unsettled him in the arid countryside. Part of him thinks that has to do more with Yechan’s feelings of discontent—or hate, hate might be more apt—towards the other than his own. And he finds that he keeps himself from mentioning any of that to Jinsik because he knows Yechan loathes—again hates—Jinsik’s prince more.

The bridge replays in his mind again the way it has for days; parts of the scene are missing and he can’t say he wants them back when a knot forms in his stomach just trying to conjure them up, digs his hand into the hay beside him as he tries to keep it down.

But he’s never been good at that. A hand slips into his and he jolts like he’s been caught in blasphemous thoughts but that can’t be right. If anything Jinsik must think he’s just upset that one of them’s died but that’s not… all of it. When he feels the usual healing warmth spread across his palm and up his arm, he sighs. 

“You’re gonna waste energy doing that.”

Jinsik laughs, light and clipped, “I didn’t really have that much to practice today,” the sound of that is bitter, not something he’s heard from the other before, “so it’s fine. Rather share a bit than have to carry you. Right?”

“That’d be a sight.” Or a fight; depends on who’s there to see when Yujun’s dropped by his room.

He hears footsteps and once again he thinks he knows who’s coming only to find he’s wrong.

“Jinsik?” A voice calls out and Yujun lifts his head to see Sumin walking down the aisle, apparently amused to see Yujun and Jinsik where they are in return, “Oh? Starting on stable duty already?”

“That’s tomorrow, I thought?” Jinsik says, confused, and Sumin concedes easily as he walks over to where Jangmi reaches her head above the wooden stall door,

“You’re right, you’re right. Have you thought more about what I said?”

“I told you I’ll be no good at it.”

“You won’t know until you try. I’m sure Yujun would agree it’s a good idea.”

“Yujun doesn’t know what either of you are talking about.” Yujun snorts and despite the energy that has started to flow through him Jinsik’s shoulder is still terribly comfortable.

“I’m trying to persuade him to let me teach him how to use a lance.” Sumin says before he coos at Jangmi, “But he can be very stubborn apparently.” He smirks and Yujun hears a noise he can’t describe as anything other than indignation from the one beside him.

“I’ll throw my quill at you.” Jinsik threatens but Sumin shakes his head.

“You wouldn’t risk hitting Jangmi.” 

Yujun would agree verbally but his eyes begin to droop a little too heavily. It’s nice that Jinsik can talk and heal, he thinks plainly, thinks Jinsik must be near as good as Junmin to be able to do so when both require a bit more concentration for himself.

As both of their voices turn to a jumbling of murmurs above him he has another thought, a nicer one that he finds a bit humorous–that a member of each house is just here, talking amicably without being at each other’s throats the way he’s seen most of them.

When he laughs at the idea he’s not sure the others get the joke.

Chapter Text

White Lilies

- Hunter -

24th of March; 
Sovereign Year 1143

Spring, it seems, has one last rain in store for them.

It started yesterday evening, and hasn’t let up since, soaked to the bone on the way back from the dining hall. He hears it now, the pattering against the stones outside, a heavy downpour bound to greet him later. It lulls him, dim, morning light fading as his eyes drift close and the sound of snoring that makes its way up from beneath his covers—

Which is another thing to deal with.

His arm fizzles with static underneath the weight of Seeun’s head, the latter having snuck in at some point in the middle of the night. 

Pulling back the covers with his free hand he finally opens his eyes, greeted with the top of Seeun’s head at first, fist balled up beneath the brunette’s chin as he sleeps very soundly when Hunter tilts his head. He shifts his foot and feels the other’s bare calf against his ankle, files it away to yell about when he’s never been much of a morning person, and for someone who complains about the cold, Seeun doesn’t seem all that eager to do anything about it.

His hand hovers, just above Seeun’s head, contemplating waking him—brusquely, considering the mood he’s in.

But the bells haven’t rung quite yet, light still faintly blue as it seeps through the window above their heads, not yellowed by the sun.

So he decides against it, dropping his hand to Seeun’s head gently, hair soft beneath his fingers.

“You’re lucky.” He whispers with a pout that goes unseen. Whether or not the other hears it he’s not sure but Seeun begins to stir and not long after Hunter feels his head turn up, barely sees eyes that stare up at him in the dim light.

“Good morning?” Seeun whispers, groggy and confused about where he is by the way he stiffens before realizing quite quickly that he’s in safe hands in a very literal sense. Perhaps the safest, Hunter thinks pridefully before shoving it down. Before Hunter can even open his mouth Seeun rolls over with a soft ‘good night’, pulling up the covers and not making another noise, still trapping Hunter’s arm as a pillow.

The next time he wakes up he’ll blame his current stupor on fatigue. But for now he’s thrown off. His hand still rests gently in the other’s hair, stubbornly stuck right in the place it’s used to being when this happens and it’s that same stubbornness that has him almost going back to sleep so he doesn’t have to with right now. 

That is, until something catches his eye.

He almost misses it: the thin, silver chain that sits just above the collar of Seeun’s nightshirt, pulled taut against the scar he knows is there. It’s not something he’s seen before—at least, not something the other’s worn before coming here.

His hand trails down, finger running along the chain delicately before hooking under. He pulls as slowly as he can, wondering what he’ll find hanging from it when he knows the other wouldn’t wear a bare chain for nothing.

A hand catches his. 

“Don’t.”

It’s not harsh, not firm, the way Seeun says it, spoken like a plea. Despite not being seen Hunter nods. Only when he unhooks his finger from the metal does the other’s grip lessen, letting him slip away.

“Sorry.” He murmurs. Seeun doesn’t say anything else. His hand just slips into the one of Hunter’s he has trapped and Hunter stares at the back of his head so long he’s surprised when Seeun doesn’t turn back around. Eventually that grip loosens as well, a tell tale sign that sleep has gripped the other once more and it’s not long before it finally wraps itself around Hunter too.

⚔

Seeun’s already gone when he wakes up again.

There’s no pang of despair, no relief, no nothing when Hunter opens his eyes and finds the covers tucked in around him. It’s simply what he’s used to.

He kicks off the covers and groans at the sound of rain, goes through the motions of getting ready—pulls over a fresh shirt, tucks it in before clipping his suspenders into place with a sharp snap. Sundays aren’t a favorite of his, a boring affair when he’s never tempted by early morning mass in the cathedral. The bells haven’t rung during the time he’s been up so he’s not entirely sure on the time, takes a brief look up and out the window to an overcast sky as he walks across the room.

He knocks on the wall, three quick raps against the wood.

He gets three in turn.

Can’t be that early. Can’t be that late either. Not when there’s no knock on his door within a few minutes.

With those thoughts he backtracks, slips over to the desk without much thought as he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, pushing them up to his elbows. An unfinished letter is left on the desk, jacket over his chair that he moves. His mother had been adamant about keeping in touch—adamant about doing that for both he and Seeun, knowing that the latter’s never been one to update his mother.

He stares at it while he waits, fingers the quill that’s still speckled with blue ink from the night before only to realize it’s still wet when it shouldn’t be. The pages aren’t in the exact same order they were; he flips through dated sheets easily, smiling when he finds exactly what he’s looking for a few pages back.

‘Seeun hasn’t started any fights,’ he’d written a week or so ago, ‘You’ll be surprised to find that he’s actually made a friend. Be sure to tell the lady of the house to prepare a celebration for when we return just for the occasion.’

‘That’s MEAN!’ is written in the margin, quickly scrawled along with a frowning face and a splatter of ink. At least Seeun put the lid back on his ink before slinking away. He smiles despite himself, pulling away to sit on his bed and pull his boots on before slipping into his jacket, doesn’t get a knock back when he thumps against the wall.

“You’re shivering.” He says as he pulls the door closed, seeing a shadow just beyond the alcove a few steps from him. 

Just like home.

“Of course I’m shivering.” Seeun says when he rounds the corner, “It’s raining.”

“It’s misting.” Hunter argues, “The same person who wears shorts to be is the one that complains it’s cold.”

“I was wearing pants, they rode up! ” The other protests and Hunter hums, walking past but Seeun catches up easily, shoulder bumped against his, “I thought it was supposed to be warmer towards the south. Yujun says it barely rains in Leicester.” And, well, Hunter can see he wasn’t overdramatizing the fact Seeun seems to have made another friend.

And that’s… fine, “Leicester’s dryer once you get past the mountains. Garreg Mach’s humid and so is most of Adrestria where it’s not connected to us.” Seeun frowns at that. Hunter prepares for an argument that the south’s not connected to them specifically but it doesn’t come. Interesting.

They’re not too soaked by the time they reach the dining hall, the room barren at this hour and in this weather beyond a few vaguely familiar faces. His stomach sours when he’s presented with something wrapped in bread, sided by boiled potatoes and overdone vegetables before following Seeun to somewhere in the middle of the room. His tray’s barely on the table before the other starts picking at it, dismantling the bread shell and revealing something more stew-like. He takes a look around the room, watching for eyes.

Specific eyes, “You don’t have to-” The look he gets shuts him up fast enough, worse when Seeun carts the offensive material off Hunter’s plate before dismantling his own and porting his stew onto Hunter’s growing pile. He opens his mouth again.

Seeun’s still quicker, “Pipe it, I’m not risking you getting anaphylaxis-”

“Big word for you.” 

“-when I have something fun plan-” Hunter’s words catch up with him, “I take it back, choke and die.”

He smiles, “You’d save me.”

“Unfortunately, yes. Don’t know what I’d do if I had to write your mother and tell her bread flour got to you before my sword could.” And Hunter laughs at the thought, “She’ll probably already see it coming; you don’t take help-”

“Calling me out for pride? Looked in a mirror?” He scoffs and Seeun mutters under his breath, shoving a spoonful of potato into his mouth before scowling, “What?”

Seeun chews for a moment. Finally he stares down at his plate, “I said I swallow my pride every day with you.” 

Hunter raises an eyebrow. And then he turns away, pushing his food around on his plate as more students file in and their table grows fuller. Yujun takes a seat across from them, pulling the next leader of the Leicester Round Table with him and it makes for a good distraction, something that lightens Seeun’s mood even if it’s just on the surface. There are other eyes on them now, eyes of the crown and when he looks over Sunghoon glances away and he frowns. Great. Great day.

Eventually, however, his eyes are drawn back to the chain he knows lays below the taller’s collar, spoons a bit of food into his mouth and nods along with a conversation he’s not all that interested in. It tapers off, and he’s no longer got any excuse to watch, letting his eyes flicker around. But they always come back.

He knows not to stare—not when something else is right there standing out against the other’s skin. It doesn’t stop him, not when Seeun keeps looking off towards the other door, watching one of the knights post something on the board that usually shows their group activities. Hunter already knows he’s been tasked with weeding again, the usual group of four down to three now. Seeun hadn’t found any worth joining, took on extra sword practice with the knights instead, so the fact the board’s got Seeun’s attention is interesting.

“Go on without me.” Seeun startles him but he’s quick to calm, his plates and tray collected by the other. It’s a friendly action. One that’ll get twisted if caught by a certain pair of eyes but he doesn’t chance looking over when Seeun’s line of sight drifts that way. He allows it, standing with a nod before making his way to the front entrance.

The rain, thankfully, has let up almost completely. It’s just clouds now that coat the tan stones that make up most of the monastery’s buildings in a blue shadow, making sure no light reflects on the small fishing pond not far from the steps. The facing wall isn’t very damp when he leans against it. He doesn’t really care. Considering it’s Sunday and there’s not much going on he’s already made his plans out of an afternoon bath and some alone time in his room so a wet uniform isn’t something he’s all too worried about.

And it’s not like Seeun makes him wait long, already bursting through the open door and looking around with a wide smile before his eyes land on Hunter, “They’re starting something this week.” He says, excitement bleeding into his whisper as he gets closer, almost conspiratorial.

That doesn’t give Hunter a lot to go off of, thinks of a few things that the church has started before: beheadings, religious assimilation, ‘blessed’ unions, war. Seeun seems happy about it so that bumps out most of those, “And what would that be?”

In a feat that’s near impossible, Seeun smiles wider, brighter, knows now that the sun stays behind the clouds because it’d be rivaled-

He shakes his head. Very unproductive thoughts.

Seeun doesn’t notice, “Tournaments!” He claps and Hunter hums. He’s at Seeun’s mercy when the other links their arms and pulls him towards the stairs, feels like his grand plans for the day are going to include a second person because he knows how Seeun is when he’s like this, “They’re going to be every weekend but they’re starting Wednesday since the new month starts soon.”

What an incredibly timely diversion to have.

“Are you joining?” He asks when stone turns to grass for the courtyard of the first row of lower dorms.

Seeun doesn’t answer him till they get up the steps to the next courtyard, a bit of a hop in his step, “Might. Seems fun, easy enough considering what weapon seems to be the focus for the first one.”

“And that is?” He asks without thinking.

Unsurprisingly they end up standing in front of Hunter’s room, Seeun’s hand gripped into Hunter’s sleeve as he rocks on his heels, and that simple smile turns into a satisfied smirk,

“Swords.”

That one singular word causes the sides of his mouth to tug up, gleam still dim in the presence of Seeun.

He has a hunch who’ll win.

⚔

26th of March; 
Sovereign Year 1143

Axes aren’t common in Faerghus.

This isn’t some new revelation but it does dawn on him that outside of chopping wood or scaring off brutes they aren’t a familiar sight. Weapons of barbarians are what they’re seen as to the north and east—Sreng warriors and Adrestrain wyvern lords using them the most. Not much remembering is needed to picture his face reflected in the blade of the former.

Which, in theory, makes his desire to learn how to use one more effectively the past few years all the more difficult.

The monastery—despite making his skin crawl the more he’s up here on the second floor, barely a stone’s throw from an overly helpful priest—does have a library that avails itself of books from the other regions he otherwise wouldn’t know about.

He flips through a book on stances, frowning. 

One thing Adrestrian authors know how to do is to get to the point but it’s hampered by the need to make their religious aggression so well known it’s almost startling to have something like it in his hands. Beneath an illustration of favored stances and a half attempted sketch of a man too slow with his swing that he gets decapitated by a swordsman is two sentences, thick block letters along the edge of a page:

Umut won’t help you. It’s your strength that you’ll rely on. 

Calling Her by name in the middle of a book made for war. He almost laughs at the thought, can’t help but wonder how a book that would be considered blasphemous at best back home is allowed to sit on the shelves in the church’s library. Curious, he flips to the author’s page just to note the date. Barely two years after the church’s crusade swept through the continent and unified them under one goddess. Fresh wounds still unhealed. 

He hears steps come towards him and doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch when Seeun decides to hook his chin over his shoulders, pretends that the cheek that presses against his doesn’t feel warm when he expects it to be cool .

Even then, “You’re cold.” He lies, trying to lean away only for it to spur Seeun on.

“Am not!” Ouch his ears. Seeun either chooses to ignore or doesn’t see when Hunter rolls his eyes, squashing his cheek closer, “Warmed them before I came in, and yet you still complain.” The image of Seeun trying to somehow do that before coming to do whatever he’s doing is interesting, for sure. Seeun presses up against his back and he forces himself to remain relaxed, flipping to another page as Seeun peeks at it, “What’re you reading? Axe stances?” A hand presses upon his shoulder, “Why?”

“I’m not a sword fighter like you. Don’t try to deny it, you know it’s not my area. Never has been.” He feels Seeun’s mouth pull down, too close. The other’s hand comes up and turns the page, trailing along the words of descriptions.

“I could help you.”

“We both learned from your father. I already know what you know.”

Swords aren’t that common either but they’re always been more beneficial, more beneficial, more seen when their techniques overlap with lance and provide swift movements. But the Kingdom’s people, despite their unwelcoming nature, have never liked to be too close when they kill.

‘They think it disconnects them from the act,’ Seeun’s father had said one warm day, the heat of the sun glaring down on them even all the way at the top of the continent, ‘The goddess looks fondly upon you if you act upset about the blood you spill.’

Seeun turns another page.

‘But if I’m sending a man to meet Her, I think it’s only right that I be beside him when I do so.’

He’s pouting, Hunter doesn’t need to look to know that but he lets the other do as he pleases, holding the book open. The taller’s arm comes up around his, hand held at the crook of his elbow and he stills, watching Seeun flip through a few more pages. 

Seeun shifts again and he feels the metal of that chain pressed against his neck and shudders at the chill. 

He should just ask. He has a right to ask. Whatever’s at the end of it can’t be that secretive if Seeun’s all but flaunting it and Hunter hasn’t been in the mood to hide the way he eyes it whenever it’s in view.

He goes to open his mouth and get it over with but Seeun speaks up instead, “I think it’s a good idea.” He gets told, reluctantly considering the sadness in Seeun’s tone. 

“You were just fighting me-”

“Yes, well, you’re right, okay?” Hunter doesn’t even get to feel smug about it, too curious about the metal next to his skin, worse when Seeun pulls away and settles for wrapping his arms around Hunter’s shoulders, “You’re… built more for axes.” Hunter can’t see behind him to know what face the other makes when he says that but he has a guess when it’s followed up with “Stronger than me.”

“Jealous?”

“Not when I can still kick your ass, n-” Hunter throws his heel back and connects with the taller’s shin, “Ow! Actually, nevermind, stay bad at swords.” He expects Seeun to pull away but the arms tighten, Seeun’s face finally leaning into view with a frown, “And here I was going to be nice and invite you into town with me.”

“Why?”

“Need my sword repaired.” Seeun shrugs, “There’s a chip in it—been practicing too much.”

“The sword you inspect near daily and coddle like it’s a holy relic? Has a chip in it?” Unbelievable, “And you can’t get it taken care of at the blacksmith’s near the entrance hall?”

“They’re only there on the weekend.”

“They aren’t even going to let you use real swords in the tournament and the knights lend us weapons during practice.” The more he questions the more Seeun seems to shift on his feet, chin tucked down, and part of Hunter feels bad for digging but something else bubbles up when this isn’t the first time something like this has happened.

“What’s the real reason?” He presses and it starts to click together.

Seeun’s voice is small when he finally responds, “There’s a festival in town.” Hunter frowns, closing the book too harshly on accident and Seeun tenses, “I don’t remember what it’s for but I thought… it’d be nice?”

He places the book back in its spot. It would be nice.

But it’s never just been a festival with Seeun. Not when Hunter knows that Seeun feigns ignorance. Not when he knows what’s in season right now. Not when this is around the time that Seeun tries to…

“Just us?” 

“Well…”

“Seeun.” He warns.

“Not-! Not like that, I swear. Just a nice break, no-no, y’know, just us, it—okay, I know it looks bad, time wise, but I swear on the goddess-”

“And when has swearing on Her meant anything to you?” He should push Seeun’s arms away but he doesn’t. He should say no right now.

But he doesn’t. He actually thinks about it.

It’s not often that he gets to see Seeun visibly shrink, pulling his arms back, hands instead gently resting on his shoulders, giving Hunter full berth to turn him down.

And he does, he almost does, “Or,” Seeun speaks up, and Hunter raises a brow, mouth half open to accept , “how about this; the festival is going on all week.” He smiles and Hunter realizes that his options are dwindling if Seeun’s rearranging his words, “If I win the tournament tomorrow, I get to ask you for something. And if I lose you get to ask something of me.” He speaks fast, trying to finish before he can be interrupted and Hunter can only sigh, pulling away to lean against the shelves.

“Seeun.” He says, almost fondly and the other perks up far too quickly, “Do you realize the corner you’re backing me into?”

Seeun’s face draws into a pout, “I’m… not. There’s a good chance I won’t—I, if you think I’m doing this to force your hand I’m not-oh! Oh, new rule: we can’t ask for things we’ve already asked for before.” And well, that does limit the things that Seeun can try and weasel him into, “And if it’s something either of us is so truly against then we’re allowed to no—you’re allowed to say no.”

Hm, “Saying that like you wouldn’t say no to something I ask of you.”

“When have you ever asked something of me that I haven’t been able to do?”

He tries his best to hide his frown. There’s been quite a few of those. One very big one in particular but Seeun doesn’t seem to realize that despite this entire conversation.

“Okay.” He finally says. Seeun jolts at the single word, smirk growing.

“Really?” Seeun asks in disbelief and Hunter folds his arms.

“Yes. But only if you win? No things you’ve asked before?” Seeun’s hands grasp at his elbows, head nodding more and more vigorously, “And I can say no?” He’s still not sure of that one and Seeun stills at the mention of it.

“I promise. Swear it, not on the goddess but on my life.”

Hunter briefly considers that it would mean more to swear on his life, weighing himself a little too heavy but thankfully gets that out of his head before he can dwell on it, “Then I guess it’s settled.” He breathes and the words feel heavier when Seeun squeezes his arms, “Don’t expect me to cheer you on then, though.”

Seeun scoffs, but his smile softens, “That’s fine then. Doable, expected-” He chuckles and when he leans back and stares at the ceiling Hunter gets a peak at that damned chain again before his tilts his head back down,

“But I’ve always done better when you’re against me. Right?” He asks and pulls away.

Hunter’s throat is dry when he nods, “Right.” He agrees and Seeun laughs at him, signature smirk back in place before he takes a step back.

“Watch me then. That’s all I ask.” He gives Hunter one last pat on the arm.

And then he’s gone. And Hunter’s left to himself with a blonde librarian who he sets in search for another book.

Later that night as he undresses his hand happens upon something starting to fall out of his pocket, nearly cuts his finger on it and confusion causes his brows to pull together as he pulls it out.

A single, white alstroemeria, pressed between two pieces of wax paper.

“Idiot.” He sighs a little too softly as he sits down staring at the offending flower.  

Seeun always has been quick.

⚔

He wakes up alone and frowns.

It’s become a thing since the weekend, hasn’t woken up warm in a sense that doesn’t involve the weather for the past few days. A few knocks on the wall bring him nothing but silence and he runs a hand down his face, finding it tacky with sweat. The sheets are twisted this way and that as he sits up and he chalks it up to another nightmare.

That’s common. Waking up without some sign of the other isn’t and he’s not entirely sure why that bothers him as he goes through the motions to get ready—splashing his face with water and trying to cleanse himself of the sweat that sticks to his skin, fights between the want for a bath when he’s never been keen on them in the morning.

He knocks a few more times as he pulls his jacket on. Still nothing.

He stands there for a moment, staring at the wall like it’ll somehow morph under his gaze. Then he remembers what day it is and groans at himself. 

It’s nothing. It’s absolutely nothing beyond Seeun leaving to practice this morning and he curses for thinking it’s anything worse than that.

⚔

Seeun jitters in his seat when Hunter settles at the table next to him, a leg bouncing under the table.

“You skipped breakfast?” Hunter asks.

He gets a toothy smile, “A few of the monks came and gave us something to snack on. Then I rushed for the baths.” And, well, yes Hunter can see that, eyeing damp hair and a wet collar.

He keeps himself from rustling through it, pulling one of the books from the stack at the edge of his table, “Didn’t dry your hair.” He remarks, “You’ll catch a cold.” And Seeun sighs at the reprimand, leaning over to fiddle with Hunter’s jar of ink, thankfully still capped when he tips the glass to the table before standing it back up.

“You sound like my mother this morning.” He resists the urge to smack Seeun’s hand away when he tips the ink again, “If I win can I ask you to just relax?”

“You’ve asked for that before.” He succeeds in pushing Seeun’s hand away, only to hear a sigh, feel a head land at his shoulder despite the vast amount of room that should be between them but it is Seeun.

“Did I word it that specific way? Maybe I’ll just ask that you refrain from acting like a carer before noon.”

“Semantics won’t save you. Figure something else to ask.” And he can say no, though the idea that Seeun would waste something like this on something so banal that Hunter could easily deflect it isn’t very… well, Seeun.

Talking fills the hall courtyard behind them and he shrugs. Seeun takes the hint without a fight and the two of them turn to see Taehyun and his fiancé walking in, arm in arm. Taehyun meets his eyes and smiles in greeting and that, as fortunate as it is unfortunate, causes the other’s attention to turn towards them.

“Ah! Good morning Lord Park!” Beomgyu tells Seeun before his eyes drift to Hunter, “and other Lord Park. Ready for the tournament?” He asks and Seeun agrees—Hunter’s picked one to many battles this morning, knows better than to argue with someone who thrives off differences of opinion even more than Seeun just to correct someone on his rank. For once he wishes Sunghoon were here, if only to pull some document out of thin air to prove just how much of a commoner Hunter really is. The thought makes him shudder. Specifically when he’s been very close to that changing.

And still turned it down. The additional clause to their agreement for this afternoon is the only thing that keeps his stomach from swirling in anxiety over having history repeating itself.

The two take their seats across the aisle and Taehyun calls to Seeun. Hunter turns his attention to the book on his desk, flipping through the pages in mock distraction as the older wishes Seeun some encouraging words despite the goading that lies under them.

It works, not as much as it could, but it does, “Give me a good fight if we end up paired together.” Seeun says, dipping his head despite ranking higher and Hunter hears Beomgyu chuckle.

“Of course you’ll be paired up. That’s what the semi-finals are for.” Beomgyu says and Hunter raises his head to question that.

“He’s got the full tournament figured out.” Taehyun explains, “Don’t go easy on me Seeun, he’s already tried to destroy my pride with his predictions.” He says before the other complains, their conversation lowering as they speak amongst themselves.

Hunter takes one last—not the last, never the last—look at Seeun, earning the other’s confusion before turning to the couple across from him, “Who wins then?”

But Beomgyu’s eyes crinkle and Taehyun hums a little fondly when the former waves a finger disapprovingly, “Now, now, Lord Park, that wouldn’t be very fun, now would it?”

What else would I expect? He sighs, resigning himself to tapping away at the edge of the paper with his dry quill. Any prediction of Beomgyu’s probably includes what Beomgyu perceives and not what Hunter knows. His fate’s sealed. 

By the time the rest arrive their teacher is already there to greet them at the door, smiling broadly and giving a firm pat to the shoulder, in as good of spirits as he ever is when he escorts the last of them—Hyeongjun—to his seat.

“Good morning, Lilies!” He cheers brightly and they respond in kind. A piece of chalk is already in hand as he begins scribbling on the board and none of them have to waste a guess on what he’s doing as begin to appear along the bottom edge, “Now, I know you were all looking forward to a very comprehensive lecture on how terrain affects battle condition, but-!” He turns, a wry smile on his face, “I feel like the excitement of the tournaments would be a deterrent to actual learning. So, instead,” brackets form over the names, pairing them together, “me and the other instructors have decided to let you out early-well, earlier than I originally planned.”

“You were going to let us off easy? Unthinkable.” Jeongin teases and a finger gets pointed at him in mock warning.

“Of course, Choi Yeonjun, Ulsteran Knight, could never.” He shrugs, “Choi Yeonjun, instructor to the White Liles, however? Very, very likely.” It’s of course, that fondness for his country and their instructor’s general disposition that makes Hunter feel more at ease as he talks. 

“You’ve worked hard this month.” Yeonjun continues, making sure to catch each and every one of their eyes, making them know they’re seen, “You deserve a break where it’s allotted. And considering just how many of you have signed up for this tournament I think that this is the time we can allow it. And I can’t say I wasn’t surprised to see a few of you up there.”

Hunter knows exactly what that means. He himself is surprised at some of the names on the board.

Kang Taehyun— Han Hyeongjun

Kim Junghoon— Oh Seungmin

Choi Sumin— Park Sunghoon

Park Jay— Nishimura Riki

Kim Sunoo— Park Seeun

Sim Jaeyun— Lee Jooyeon

Sunghoon isn’t a thrilling entry but it is an odd one. Hyeongjun, however, is a name he didn’t expect to see anywhere near one of these despite the dedication he’s shown towards his combat training. A sword is up close and personal.

And he’s seen Taehyun fight—very up close, very personal.

“Was this part of  your calculations?” He hears Taehyun ask and he glances over and sees a smile creep onto Beomgyu’s face again.

“To an almost eerie degree, my dear.”

Expectedly they are outnumbered by Orchids. Two Dahlias he recognizes only because the names feel familiar when they’re said in Yujun’s voice, “Kim Sunoo?” He whispers, directed to his right.

Seeun frowns, “Too easy.” He sighs, head hitting his arms on the desk, “I had hoped to fight one of the Orchids.”

“Closer to your win.” He reasons but Seeun’s eyes grow harsh even directed at him.

“It’s not worth it if it’s handed to me.” He wonders just what it is Seeun wants if pride is playing into it. Then he remembers how Seeun is.

He goes to open his mouth but their instructor claps twice to silence the chatter, “You’re free to watch or not but I would hope that class spirit is alive and well.” He gestures for them to stand and then waves them away, “Off with you. The Lilies will win!”

⚔

Class spirit is exactly what has the training grounds more packed than he’s ever seen. Every single student on the campus seems to be here, most of the non-participants posted up behind the barricade that goes around the perimeter, a few steps up from the actual arena that’s not much bigger than their classroom. 

Hunter takes his own place, towards the northern edge where most of them have gathered, leaned on his elbows near one of the columns that hold the roof above him, and while not the first time he’s ever been on higher ground it still brings a smile to his face to be able to look down at Seeun.

“I don’t think any of the other classes were told the brackets.” The taller smiles, hand wrapped around Hunter’s wrist where it dangles over the edge. That seems to hold true. One of the Orchids—blonde, smaller than either of them—doesn’t hesitate to send a worried glance towards Sunghoon when he’s told of their upcoming fight, “That’s Kim Sunoo over there.” Seeun points towards a cat eyed brunette, built more like a mage than any fighter.

He can say that for most of the Dahlias though, barring a few, “Too easy of a fight.” He finally agrees and Seeun nods once. Some of them will be too easy indeed, doesn’t need Beomgyu’s predictions when it comes to that. He takes a glance over at the older now, finds him with his arms draped around his fiancé’s shoulders from over the barricade, a whispered conversation between them, “Lord Taehyun won’t win this.”

“He could.” Hunter has the want to argue but it dies as Seeun goes on, “If he’s not against me.” 

Very quickly does Hunter get his wrist out of the other’s loose grip, and very quickly does he get a hold of the other’s ear, earning a yelp that draws attention, “Pride will be your undoing one day.”

“You-!” Seeun complains but one of the knights comes to the center of the grounds, short, smaller than any of the students but definitely stronger. His hands raise for attention and he gets it easily before unraveling a small scroll—a practiced, booming voice coming forth.

“You’ve now learned of your brackets! One duo at a time and the winner shall move on to the next set. You may choose to forfeit at any time with no penalty and the challenger shall move on without competition.” The paper is crumpled, tossed to the side as his gaze sweeps over them, “Kang Taehyun and Han Hyeongjun if you would please come forward.”

They’re given practice swords, blunted steel and wooden holds. Breakable; just like the mock battle.

“On my mark!” The knight calls, a hand raised, “Go!”

If, by some small chance, he would’ve chosen to blink he’d have missed it.

In nearly an instant Taehyun has Hyeongjun on the ground, tip of the blunted blade his throat. All of them seem to not know what they’ve just seen until Beomgyu begins clapping and the rest follow suit.

“The victor is Kang Taehyun!” The knight shouts.

“My apologies.” Taehyun says as he picks a disoriented Hyeongjun from the sandy ground, “Toying with you seemed cruel.”

“King of you.” He gets in reply. The Lilies give Hyeongjun a celebration despite the loss, several healers’ hands coming to ward off a headache.

The next fight has more meat to it, if he can call it that. He’s not sure which name attaches to which person, only knows that the one with brighter hair is prey and Seeun snickers beneath him, “Adrestrian swordwork is interesting.” Seeun says and when he prods for answer the other bids him to lean down, “Oh Seungmin’s a noble but a tradesman.” Seeun whispers, close enough that his breath tickles his ear. The taller’s penchant for gossip does well during times like these, “Look at his stance.”

Hunter does. The brighter haired one—Seungmin—has his arm out straight from his shoulder, elbow bent so his sword tips towards Junghoon, “What of it? Beyond bad posture.”

“Viper. It’s one of the sword stances nobles learn there; father showed me once.” Seeun waves a hand towards them, flippant without drawing attention, “That’s my point, he’s learned it but he doesn’t know how to use it. And I’ve heard things about the other but you have eyes.” To any other person that would sound harsh. Hunter knows different.

He does have eyes—watches the way Junghoon tips his chin down and presses in on Seungmin in a way that has the latter backing his way against the arena. This fight lasts longer only because Seungmin does a good job of keeping out of range even when Junghoon doesn’t raise his sword above level but imposes himself like a threat in the way he stalks.

It’s of no surprise when Kim Junghoon’s name is called out as the victor as his “blade” presses against the other’s abdomen.

Disemboweled, but without the want to do so. Hunter sees how his hand shakes when he pulls away.

Both he and Seeun tense as Sunghoon and Choi Sumin are called up. Sunghoon swings his sword in practice before they are told to go, harsh movements that slice through the air as if sharpened. The display of power has its affect when Sumin raises an arm above his head,

“You said there would be no penalty,” he says, “if I forfeit?”

The knight regards him, “None at all, this simply an event to build camaraderie.” And Hunter scoffs.

“Then I do. I forfeit.” he extends a hand towards Sunghoon, “Good fight.”

Sumin says it with a smile, something lighthearted in tone with the event but there is nothing but steel in Sunghoon’s eyes when he looks down at the other, “As you wish.” He says before turning on his heel.

Camaraderie out the window. The whispers flair up immediately, looks of disapproval for which of the two he doesn’t know.

But he smiles, and Seeun catches it, squints up at him in the sun, “Happy? Finally?”

“Got to admit I love when your cousin takes a blow to his pride.” He’s so caught up in it he barely realizes when a hand cups around his face, a bright smile—both of which are gone as fast as they came when Seeun’s attention turns back to the fights before Hunter can speak. And he doesn’t, folds his arms over each other on the barricade behind Seeun’s head and hopes no one looks over at him for a bit.

Neither Jay nor Riki are swordsmen and that shows instantly in the way they fight, unbalanced and forceful in their steps but they make up for it in enthusiasm. The cheers from the Dahlias add to it, the first of them to go up and he swears he hears one of them laugh. In honesty this is what he wanted from this tournament—lighthearted competitiveness, something fun to distract from the past couple weeks.

When Jay wins he ruffles a hand through Riki’s hair and calls him an overgrown puppy. There’s something nice about watching students from opposite houses not be at each other’s throat.

“Kim Sunoo! Park Seeun!”

The smile on the other’s face is impossibly bright as he turns around, pushed onto his tiptoes to get closer, “Wish me luck.” He says and Hunter scoffs.

“You won’t need it.”

The smile dips for a minute but something else plays in Seeun’s eyes, “Good luck kiss?” And he’s made aware of the crowd as Seeun puckers his lips only for Hunter to cover his mouth and push him away gently.

“Don’t push it.” He warns and Seeun laughs before turning away.

When they take their places Hunter expects it to end much like Sunghoon and Sumin’s. Pleasantly though, it seems that the Dahlias are a rallying force and the sound of them makes Sunoo stand a little straighter, “I won’t dishonor you by forfeiting or asking you to go easy on however,” A few clean swipes are made in the air, “I am a bit rusty.”

That must be music to Seeun’s ears.

The match starts and it’s not of his own accord that his eyes do not leave Seeun. It’s simply the grace the other exudes with a sword in his hand that makes Hunter unable to look away.

Sunoo puts up a good enough fight. He is rusty, movements a little mechanical but he does block and dodge and strike. It’s something simple that Seeun can weave between, barely using any strength to defend but still Seeun seems happier to have been given any sort of fight. Neither of them push, neither of them pull—they stay centered where they start and Hunter sees that the taller hasn’t even gotten into any particular stance yet. Seeun flicks his wrist to break Sunoo’s blade off its striking path and hits forward, barely missing Sunoo’s face.

Seeun laughs and Hunter’s heart beats in time to it.

“You smile when you watch him.” He feels Beomgyu bump against his shoulder and doesn’t turn.

“He’s fun to watch.” He says because it’s true. Seeun’s foot slides across the dirt, allowing his weight to rest more evenly. It’ll end soon.

“Of course. He makes it look like Sunoo has a fighting chance.” Said mage strikes downward, meeting the flat part of Seeun’s blade before it’s slid off, “Makes the fight look more intense despite the very obvious difference in their skills.” Seeun’s very careful where he strikes, hitting right above the other’s hand hard enough that the blade flies, leaving Sunoo unarmed, “Sunoo should be happy that Seeun’s able to do so without making him look like a fool, Taehyun tries but he gets too focused.” The tip of Seeun’s blade is swiftly pointed right at Sunoo’s heart.

And it’s over.

Hunter doesn’t clap but he doesn’t need to. Seeun bounds over to him with a smirk, hands pressed against the barricade as he looks up. He hasn’t even broken a sweat, “I won.” He says simple and Hunter lets the smile take over his face.

“You did.” Names are called for the next fight and still Seeun looks up at him, reaching a hand up like earlier.

It drops. The hand catches his wrist where it’s over his arm and Seeun directs his attention towards Beomgyu when he seems to register that the other is standing there. Beomgyu watches, intrigued, when Seeun swallows harshly as he becomes nervous and by what Hunter doesn’t know, “What-what was it you were talking about? Was that fight in your predictions?”

“Mhm, down to the letter.” He leans forward and it’s curious how Seeun leans away, “And don’t worry, I was just having a very nice, one-sided conversation about your skills.” His chin rests in his palm, looks to Hunter and suddenly his stomach twists, “I fear your friend was too busy watching to offer any commentary.” Hunter’s defense against something that’ll definitely take up too much space in Seeun’s head garbles in his mouth as Beomgyu starts again, a hand gestured forward, “Jake will win this—watch.”

The Dahlias’ cheer does not pull the tide for this battle either. Both participants are heaving by the time Hunter looks up but Jake rushes one last time and the flat of his blade presses briefly against Jooyeon’s throat.

“As expected.” Beomgyu says, satisfied. He turns towards the rest of the crowd, most of them still caught up in cheers on the Orchids’ side, “Good luck on your fight with Jake, Lord Park.”

“Already decided who’s won?” Seeun questions him and the older stops in his tracks to turn around.

“The tournament contains our crowned prince.” Beomgyu laughs, a loud noise, “Don’t you feel like the results have already been decided?”

It’s not the first time he’s seen Seeun so bitter towards someone, but it is the first time it’s been directed at the older. Neither of them give a reply but Seeun spitting to the ground before turning back to the fights serves as enough of one.

Taehyun and Junghoon’s match is more exhilarating than the ones before. Taehyun poses enough of a threat it seems that the latter actually lifts his blade for the fight, shows more practice and precision in the sweep of his strikes. They are matched by the sheer strength of Taehyun’s blows. It’s a tense but even match that has them both standing as equals and Hunter finds it hard to get caught up in the intensity when he feels Seeun’s mood souring just beneath him. Beomgyu’s words have an effect on the other in a way Hunter knew would happen but he also can’t be entirely sure that Beomgyu meant that Sunghoon would win.

But—as he drapes his hand over Seeun’s shoulder, lets it get grabbed gingerly as Seeun runs a thumb along the back of it—he remembers that most people don’t know Seeun like he does.

“I forfeit.” 

Hunter barely hears it when it’s said at such a normal volume. Junghoon stands with his sword at his side, unblinking at the fact that Taehyun has had to halt himself mid strikes at such a speed his arm nearly rebounds. Everyone’s confused. A different fox eyed boy from Sunoo on the Dahlias’ side lets out a loud, “Huh? Kim Junghoon!” before the rest of them all stare.

“It’s a stalemate.” Junghoon turns on his heels, “We’d be here for days before one of us won. That’d be boring.”

Only the Orchids smile, and a few of them even shake their head fondly as if used to the sight, “Good job, Junghoon, wonderful fight!” Their prince cheers and Junghoon bows in return.

Sunghoon does not seem pleased as he steps down into the sand for his own fight. And Hunter’s respect for Junghoon grows because of it.

The prince does the same show he’s done before of a few practice strikes as Jay makes his way over casually, sword thrown over his shoulder.

“Will you forfeit?” Sunghoon asks and Hunter feels Seeun’s hand tighten around his, “Or will you fight me?”

“Oh I’ll fight, down worry Prince Park. I've got a bet to lose after all.” It gets a groan out of a Dahlia, that same one from before but the match is called to begin and he turns away.

Sunghoon was born and raised by the lance but that does not make him any less skilled with a sword. He weaves the blade like he and it together are a lance, his arm the shaft and his sword its tip. Sunghoon runs in the same category as Taehyun—overskilled, too competitive to show mercy to an opponent without being cruel. Jay takes a blow to the shoulder with the pommel but isn’t deterred, switching grips.

Hunter hums in appreciation.

“Maybe Jay has a chance?” A voice spooks the two of them. Yujun holds his hand down towards Seeun before either can greet him, a palm full of gold coins, “Yechan has a bet against Jay.”

“Yechan’s right to.” Seeun scoffs. In this instance Hunter hates that unfortunately the other’s right, “Sunghoon’s no swordsman but Jay’s not gonna win this.”

“Wanna bet?” Yujun says cheerfully but Seeun answer exactly how Hunter knows he would:

“I’m not putting money on Sunghoon.”

Jay hits the ground with an audible oof, the noise choked out as his head hits the ground.

“Park Sunghoon!” is announced and in a show of cursory pride in his country and not his prince even Hunter claps along as Sunghoon raises the sword above his head in triumph.

“Jay did well.” He says pleasantly and Yujun hums, the gold coins in his palm rattling as he shakes them.

“Yechan wanted to be proved wrong.” So did I.

His hand slips out of Seeun’s as the latter pulls away, a smirk thrown back at him before he walks to the center. Yujun steps away and Hunter finds himself pulled along, drawn towards the bulk of them that stand or sit against the barricade, former participants sitting closer to the wall away where the shade is stronger.

It’s Beomgyu, once again, that notices him, “Ah, Hunter you’re just in time.” From what he’s seen, thats’ never went well. And it continues to prove unwell, “We were about to do another round of bets.”

“This match isn’t even over.” One of them complains. And the split begins on who they think will win that.

“Are you certain that if either one won they’d stand a chance against Prince Sunghoon? You’ve all seen him fight. What evidence do we have that this match isn’t already over?” Beomgyu tells them and Hunter notices it.

The lilt in the other’s voice. Beomgyu catches his gaze and smiles pleasantly, draped over his fiance, “What would you say of Lord Park?” Beomgyu directs at him and it draws the rest of the attention his way.

Instead of an answer he looks out to see Seeun throw a strike against Jake. The other is a formidable opponent but he can still see the discrepancies in their style. Seeun stills toys with him. 

Even has the ease to look up at Hunter and smirk.

“I think my opinion would sway the others.” He replies.

Taehyun lets out a chuckle at this, “Don’t wish to have the people against your fi-friend as well?” Hunter thinks he misheard him, turning back, “Beomgyu’s already turned everyone against me.” 

“Sharing the wealth, dear. How about this then–Yujun?” The brunette perks up at his name and Beomgyu gestures around, “You did well with the bets last time. Do exactly the same as I told you then, you know my bet.”

“Yes sir!” Hunter is the first one he turns to. When Hunter—nicely—points out that Beomgyu is the same as him and has no authority, the other laughs, “But it’s fun! Who’re you betting on?”

“I have no coins on me.”

“I’ll cover you.” Yujun closes his hand around the gold, his voice dying down to a whisper, “Though I think I already know your bet?” 

Without hesitating he nods.

Yujun’s halfway through getting the bets, whispered names Hunter could place his own bet on, when Seeun’s blade hits Jake’s enough for it to snap . A good sport, he gives Jake a firm handshake with a smile, the two of them clapping each other on the back as they walk back and Hunter finds himself staying near the group instead of leaving.

Sweat coats Seeun’s brow, wiped away as he beams up at him.

“Congratulations.” Hunter tells him, hands gripped around the barricade, “Do you play with your food often?” He asks when Jake nearly collapses against the steps near his friends. 

Seeun chuckles, “Only when I have an audience.” And Hunter finds that a weird feeling crawls up his spine when the taller drops his cheek to Hunter’s hand, resting there and Hunter keeps his eyes ahead, “Two more. Or three more? There’s three of us, so I’m not sure if-”

Two fights.

The last three are called to line up in front of the knights, “Decide amongst yourselves who goes to the finals without contest.” 

So fate lies in their own hands. Strategy’s thrown to the wind when Seeun and Sunghoon call out each other’s names, glowering at each other for trying to deny the other a fight.

That leaves it to Taehyun, who—seems to, at least—weigh the options, a hand to his chin in thought, “Prince Sunghoon.” He declares and there are mixed reactions from the two on either side of him, “I would be honored to fight you in the finals.” He adds, smartly, but the reactions switch quickly.

“I find that favorable.” Sunghoon smiles, before glancing at Seeun, “When you lose, do it with honor.”

Seeun’s shoulders scrunch up to ears painted red with anger. Giving him a sword after that feels like a horrible idea.

But they do. And, very quickly, do the people watching start to understand what Sunghoon will have to face. All the force that Taehyun had brought to the fights before pales in comparison to the speed at which Seeun meets his strikes. The way that metal clangs together is sharp enough that it rings in his ears long after the blades draw away from one another. He puts Taehyun on the defensive completely, unable to get a strike in.

It’s in awe that Hunter watches, as he always does. As he always has. But sometimes it’s too much, when fire starts to creep in at the end of his vision.

“Ah,” he hears Beomgyu say but can’t bring himself to take his eyes off the fight, “how unfortunate.”

With a decisive strike, Seeun gets Taehyun’s sword slammed towards the ground. Then he kicks at it, one full force action that has the blade out of the older’s hand and skidding over towards them in the crowd.

He cannot blink. In his periphery Sunghoon picks the discarded blade.

“Park Seeun!” The knight calls out and he sees Seeun mutter out an apology through short breaths only for his eyes to grow hard when Sunghoon comes closer.

“Start the next match.” Sunghoon says as he gets into stance.

This isn’t a fight that should take long. History will repeat itself. But Beomgyu’s fingers dig into his shoulder as they rush at each before the knight can begin the match and his confidence starts to drain.

It’s just fun, he tells himself Seeun’s strike gets deflected by the flat of Sunghoon’s blade.

There’s nothing to worry about, he breathes in when Sunghoon skids backwards out of range.

They’ve always been each other’s equals in strength, in tenacity, and Hunter knows that it’s speed and technique that will be Seeun’s boons. They dance—dance like in the capitol, blades crashing against one another. Seeun is faster . Seeun is better , this is his weapon, this isn’t Sunghoon’s. For all his talk of Seeun’s pride being his undoing, it’s always been Hunter that’s stood on the side and placed his own right in Seeun’s hands as well.

Seeun keeps Sunghoon on the move but their prince doesn’t back down, a show of teeth as he snarls like the wolves Hunter knows them to be born from. 

“I don’t lik-” He starts to complain but he sees Sunghoon whisper something he can’t hear but it makes Seeun freeze mid strike, left open not for the prince’s blade but for his fist, knuckles slamming against nose.

So this is how you want to win.

There wasn’t much cheering to be had to be had when it’s two Lilies, when the others don’t know which side to cheer for, but even Heeseung’s voice dies the moment Sunghoon connects his fist connects into the side of Seeun face again despite the knight calling his name. 

Seeun stumbles backwards but it’s quite the sight, blood already trickling down over his lip, down his chin before it slips down to the ground in droplets. End it, Hunter begs as the shorter knight steps forward, just end it.

But it doesn’t end, “I can still fight.” You shouldn’t. They both seem to brush off the warning that this isn’t a brawling match as sword swings get intermixed with feinted punches. Blood hits the ground, metal hits against metal, feet scrape against the stone.

There’s renewed vigor in Seeun’s strikes, like his patience starts to wane, something moving through his blood in a way that Hunter isn’t privy to. Does Seeun’s request mean that much to him? Or is it whatever Sunghoon said? 

Something in Seeun’s face changes and Hunter takes a sharp breath in. In that same breath Seeun’s fist and sword pommel strikes upward, connecting with the underside of the prince’s jaw with a CRUNCH so loud it nearly sends him back eight years as the sound echoes.

One of them lets out a horrified gasp and Jinsik covers his eyes.

Sunghoon drops to his knees and his sword pierces into the ground to steady him, blood spat out on stones.

“Yield.” Seeun says through a wheezed out breath.

“No. ” 

Seeun kicks the sword from the ground and Sunghoon twists his wrist to force it upward, deflected with a loud CLANG.

“Yield, cousin.” Seeun says again, and for once Hunter begs that the prince listen. Sunghoon tries once more to swing but Seeun’s foot meets his chest and pushes him backwards.

Heeseung is the first of them to cry out, shouts for Sunghoon to yield but Hunter knows that pride has always been a noble’s downfall. This isn’t how he likes to see Seeun. It’s few and far between, his chin tipped upwards, eyes narrowed at the enemy. It’s never good. It’s never easy. His hands tremble against the barricade and he grips them tightly together to quell it. The fight on the bridge had been drops in a bucket against the river that his childhood had always unleashed upon him. Blood. Pools of it.

Seeun takes a step towards Sunghoon’s form when the latter doesn’t move and Hunter closes his eyes, alarmed at the way that images flicker and fade over the scene in front of him, forms fading in and out like fuzz, Seeun’s body on the ground instead, half covered in snow.

“It’s done.” He hears instead. Seeun’s name is called out as the victor but everyone has frozen in their places. Hunter doesn’t like the way that Seeun sways on his feet but this gaze is the first that Seeun’s meets before he gestures to the prince, “Any healers-?” He asks, hitting his knees and not only Jeongin but Jinsik run but so does Heeseung as the three gather around their prince. Blood still trickles down Seeun’s lip but he’s only glanced at, priorities at work when none know the extent of either’s injuries, only heard the cracking of bones.

Beomgyu has already left, at his fiance’s side, when Yechan takes one look at the chaos and then one at Hunter, “Yujun, go.” He orders and gold clatters to the floor, forgotten as Yujun passes behind him. Yechan turns to pick them up. Numbly, Hunter leans down to help, three coins in when Yechan speaks again but he doesn’t process it.

“Huh?”

“Split it in thirds: you, me, and the clown of a mage you all have.” Hunter’s hands stop moving and Yechan looks up at him, “Couldn’t pay me to be on Sunghoon even if he was gonna win. Worked out favorably.” His fingers are unfurled, pulled open by Yechan before the coins are deposited in his palm, “Give Seeun my thanks, think Sunghoon could do with a few more hits here and there, might make him nicer.”

“Sedition.”

“You bet! Kinda. Doesn’t count though, trust me.” Hunter breathes out and Yechan laughs at him, “Thankful for more but I’ll tell him that myself at some point.” He says and that only makes Hunter more confused, “Nothing. Go to him. Might do him good to see you before he passes out from the pain.”

“He won’t.” Hunter feels the coins push into his skin when he holds them tightly. Yechan gives him a look of questioning but Hunter just repeats himself, “He won’t.”

⚔

He nets eight gold coins. They lay on his desk later that night when he shakes beneath the covers despite the way his skin is still warm from the bath that had been scalding how hot against his skin, his lamp still lit on his desk from where he’d penned in more to his mother.

Seeun won the tournament. Refrain from telling the lord and lady of the manor that their son nearly killed bested his cousin. Not sure how the king would deal with his son’s defeat. Not sure how we’re going to deal with it.

Politics. Dealing with Seeun in general. He grips his sheets as he curls tighter into a ball.

He hadn’t seen Seeun after the fight. Brutality isn’t something foreign to him but it’s always a shock to his system somehow when it comes from someone whose bedspace he takes up back in Nuada. And he fears that Seeun knows that about him just as he knows anything about Seeun.

That doesn’t stop his door from opening. The moon must be full from the way it shines behind Seeun even when light casts on him from the room, hair dripping on the skin that’s exposed where the collar of his nightshirt is pulled farther on one side. Hunter’s mouth runs dry as the other takes a few steps in. Once again there’s that thin chain that leads far below the other’s shirt, “Still up?” He gets asked even when Seeun knows the answer. The door closes before Seeun takes a few more steps towards the desk and Hunter gives thanks to his own foresight for flipping the pages over before coming to bed. He can now see that Seeun’s face is free of blood, his nose clear thanks to Yujun but a darkening bruises between the junction of his jaw and neck is visible this close to the light.

Then he blows it out. Hunter’s eyes don’t adjust well in the dark but there’s enough light from the open curtains that he’s not caught entirely off guard when the bed dips beside him. Hunter’s hand searches above the covers and finds its place at the knob of the other’s knee where he’s knelt on the mattress.

“I’m sorry.” Seeun says after a few moments of silence.

“For what?”

A few more pass, until Seeun’s hand finds his, “Bringing back old memories.”

Hunter chews his cheek, “You didn’t. You were underestimated and you acted accordingly. Sunghoon struck first and you responded in kind.” And it’s not the first time that either has happened. Hunter expects that it won’t be the last and resigns himself to letting the chill of the other’s skin ground him, “You’ll fight again. You always do.”

A pinkie wraps around his in the dark, “It’s… the nature of things… between us, now isn’t it?”

‘When have you ever asked something of me that I haven’t been able to do?’

The nature of things. Of course, “Okay.” He doesn’t want this conversation. Instead he pulls his hand away and tucks it beneath the pillow, turning to face where Seeun is in the dark, “So what do you want? Since you won.” He asks lightly and Seeun huffs out a laugh.

“See, well, that’s the fun part.” Hunter eyes him, “I’m not asking it right now.”

Immediately he tenses, “Seeun.”

“Not marriage! It’s not marriage.” Not right now.

“But you are plotting something.” He accuses but Seeun shifts without answering him.

The covers get pulled back and he moves the pillow from under his head even though he knows where Seeun will end up by morning if he stays that long, “Plotting has connotations.” His hair is still wet when he lays down, face away from Hunter, “I have a very simple request.”

“Then ask it.” He demands and Seeun laughs, seeing fit to pull Hunter’s arm over him, tucking it beneath his own. Pulled this close it leaves Hunter very little room to move, Seeun’s back pressed against his chest, legs tangled together and even less space to rest his head.

“Later…” Seeun tells him, pulling him closer and Hunter presses his face against Seeun’s dampened hair, fresh sage when he inhales, “soon, but later.”

Chapter Text

Purple Orchids

- Sumin -

1st of April; 
Sovereign Year 1143

With April comes spring finally choosing to come out in its truest form.

It’s warm with just a bit of a breeze even as the sun starts to run its way across the sky and behind the mountains; a little too hot for jackets, two of them discarded neatly—well, one of them—over the barricade between the training grounds proper and the weapon racks. 

“Your form could use some… refinement.”

“I told you!”

A shared fondness in horses is all that’s really needed in Sumin’s eyes to start… something between him and Jinsik.

Currently that something turns out to be a lot of work—not something that bugs him all that badly when the company’s good, even if a little disinclined. 

He motions and Jinsik gets back into stance, feet fine but keeps the shaft pulled to his body, tip pointed at the sky and Sumin hums again. Jinsik’s brow furrows in response, fingers furling and unfurling around the weapon, “What?”

“Maybe we should go back to trying swords?” He raises a hand placatingly when Jinsik jolts a little too hard, as if stunned by the suggestion. They’ve tried once already—’I don’t think I’d like that. My father favors the sword and…’ he hadn’t explained much further than that. Sumin’s not one to push, “We can still keep trying,” he bargains, catching a hold of the shaft above Jinsik’s hand, “but you have to let the weapon actually hit something. It’ll do no good pressed against you like that.”

He gets a pout, a typical Jinsikism where the other’s chin tips down and shrinks far enough that he’s practically looking up at Sumin through his eyelashes, reminiscent of stray puppies on the street back in Macha, “Sir Christopher said being defensive is important.”

“And Sir Minho nearly threw you in the river because you refused to pick up a weapon.” Barely escaped that, though someone was thrown in that day. He smiles and just barely gets one in return, “We’re making good progress on that.” Better progress than he expected; Jinsik used to seize up when he was told to hold one.

A shame, Sumin thinks, when he’s got the muscle for it. Too much strength and no place to put it. He pulls gently, just till the lance isn’t parallel with Jinsik’s body, “Come at me.” He orders but he’s stared at, “I’m serious.”

“You have no weapon.”

“Well aware of that. I’m also in the presence of one of the best healers in the student body.”

“I’m not!” He catches the lance before Jinsik can pull it fully back to himself, “There are far better healers!”

“Top five then.” Of seven. And Sumin still thinks Jinsik ranks about second place for what he did for that one Liecester noble. Despite the other’s firm defense—wrongly placed when Sumin thinks highly of him—Sumin doesn’t hear his father telling him to ask forgiveness at the back of his mind for not telling his full thoughts, gently tugging the lance down, “Now try to stab me.”

A heap of offended noises leave Jinsik’s mouth, many of them incoherent mumbling.

But he does what he’s told eventually, striking out very wobbly but straight at Sumin’s arm using the momentum of one of his own. A good attempt at minimizing the risk of getting hurt. He actually has to use a bit more force than he’s been using to try and knock it away from him. Jinsik stumbles forward a step before drawing the lance back, sliding into form again. Sumin nods, “Again. More towards the center. Both arms.”

“I’m doing the same thing I did before.” Jinsik, strong as he is, is also stubborn. He lurches forward again and Sumin makes sure to sidestep, but ends up nicked. He thinks he turns in time for it to not be noticed but the sound of his shirt ripping is distinct, only covered by the fact Jinsik stumbles again, ends up caught under the arms. Sumin hears an oof against his chest, the lance clattering behind him.

“That’s why I said both arms–” He chuckles but Jinsik’s not in his arms very long, pushes away with enough force to knock him back a step. That’s okay. Sumin knows frustration. He’s been there plenty of times.

He retrieves the lance from the ground but Jinsik’s arms stay stuck at his side, “I’m sorry.” Jinsik whispers but Sumin doesn’t know what the other’s apologizing for, tells him it’s okay in a breath.

Before he can hand the lance back the door opens, and Jake steps in with a grin, “Oh! I thought I heard Sir Minho’s favorite in here.” He laughs, a good joke to the rest of them but Sumin watches Jinsik’s fingers weave together in front of himself and places a hand on his shoulder, “Working hard?” He directs towards Sumin and the shorter nods despite not being seen as Jake searches for something among the racks.

“Working on forms. Got any advice for Jinsik?”

“Not my weapon, sorry.” Jake nearly sounds genuine about it, “Tell me when he decides to pick up an axe though!” And Jinsik reacts just as well as Sumin expects him too, disgusted horror and all. Sumin gets it; that’s not his weapon either, “Have you guys seen a silver necklace anywhere? Someone lost it earlier but didn’t want to interrupt you two, which I don’t get and neither did Junghoon but we’re losing light, so-” And well, that explains why it’s been so quiet today. Sumin tells him no and Jake smiles brightly and wishes Jinsik luck, bringing back confidence.

“Shall we continue?” He asks.

“Do I have a choice?” 

Sumin hums, “Not unless you prefer the river.”

⚔

When the sun finally disappears but leaves the light the bell chimes loudly. Like usual they separate as soon as they’re through the dining hall door when a tawny haired mage drags Jinsik off and Sumin resigns himself to watching Jungwon and Junmin squabble.

He is, however, happy to see when the menu includes fish, scooping some of it into one of the small metal dishes he’s already emptied out.

Dinner ends and everyone starts to filter out, numbers dwindling and Jinsik catches his eye and he nods. Anyone left doesn't mention anything when they end up returning their trays at the same time or when he seems preternaturally drawn to follow Jinsik out the back entrance holding the small bowl in his hand.

Orange bleeds into purple by the time they make it into the courtyard and Jinsik picks up speed the moment he spots a little grey bundle on one of the wooden boxes left along its edge and of course Sumin breaks into a jog to keep up.

“Bambi~” Jinsik calls to the kitten and it rubs its face against his hand. Sumin sets the little dish down. The scent of fish draws more of them, a few older cats that eye him warily but Jinsik keeps his attention on the runt.

“You favor it.” Sumin says as he leans against the brick, watching as Jinsik picks the little thing up and cradles it close to his chest, “Only named that one?”

“Nope!” He points towards the orange tabby that comes closer, “This is Binna.” His finger moves to a pair of larger black cats lounging near the gate, “And that’s Byul and Beom.”

“All B’s.” Sumin states.

Jinsik gives a look, a slightly confused one he’s become accustomed to, but his attention gets drawn away by a yellow eyed white cat that strolls in behind him, “Fine.” He huffs, 

“That one’s Soom.”

⚔

4th of April; 
Sovereign Year 1143

Three days pass in a blink and no progress happens for trying to help Jinsik’s journey to weapon proficiency. Sumin’s figured out quite easily that, despite hesitant readiness to do what is asked of him, Jinsik will find a way out of things he doesn’t want to do.

Or maybe Sumin just gives in a little too easily to a forlorn pout and sad eyes, a hereditary trait from his grandfather on his mother’s side.

Nah, he tells himself, some fights just aren’t worth fighting. And shoving Jinsik into things too quickly might be one of them.

“-and with that the progression from long handled axes and smaller blades to shorter, broader weapons became a necessity.” Their professor speaks as he walks down the line. Him stopping and tapping his fingers against the wood of Sumin’s desk is what jolts Sumin out of his thoughts, earning snickers that die down by the next sentence, “Our country has long been called brutal for our choices but they cannot deny our efficiency.”

He winces. Efficiency and killing aren’t exactly words he’s ever liked hearing together. Healing is efficient. Hardy steeds are efficient. Sumin’s spent only a little time at his father’s heels during ministry meetings but he can’t blame his sensibilities on his father alone.

The bridge in the Red Canyon was his first real time having to use a sword against something other than a padded dummy and he’d nearly frozen in place when a brigid’s sword had aimed for his neck-

-and had to be saved by their prince, of all people.

‘You do that the first couple times,’ Kai had said to him as he’d emptied the contents of his stomach over the edge of the bridge before they left, ‘but it gets easier.’

He taps his fingers along the edge of his notes. It begs the question of if he ever wants it to get easier.

His father would certainly have words about that—his mother would have just as many, more animated, less restrained. One look around the room and he realizes how out of place he is here, being part of the Ministry of Religion. Oh Seungmin’s family works in their outer negotiations and trade, but is in a tight bind when it comes to more hostile relations. Park Junmin’s works on internal relations and is regularly called upon for infighting alongside Yang Jungwon’s. Nishimura Riki’s territory has never been stable according to his father, and the two commoners show exemplary fighting abilities and will be contracted as knights when they graduate, helping out their families.

Kim Minjae’s family handles their military. Their prince is all but destined to do the same as male heir.

But is he any sort of necessity to it all? Does a religious man have to fight when there are others taking up arms around him, handling issues that he has no part in?

Does the question extend to him when he’s never been at the forefront of the ministry to begin with? When he has no concrete place among them as a second child?

His father’s signet ring spins on his pinkie, eyes stared at the wood of the desk; coming here had been an ordeal, a fight for your own freedom for once and here you are overthinking it?

A lance feels good in his hand, better than it should, and that’s something he leveraged against his father before he realized just how much blood would seep into its handle.

‘It gets easier.’

It shouldn’t.

⚔

6th of April; 
Sovereign Year 1143

A knock, hesitant but quick strikes against the wood, is what wakes him on Saturday. 

Those same knocks sound off about four more times before he scrubs a hand down his face, throwing off the covers and finding the air to be a lot warmer than it’s been, the rug beneath his feet heated from the sunlight streaming in through the window as he pushes himself up. Whether spring is in the air or the fact it’s nearing noon, the sun high in the sky, is debatable.

Another two knocks, the sounds getting progressively more hesitant ring in his ears before he pulls the door open with a sharp tug.

Jinsik jumps at the motion, a step taken away from the door as he turns his body as if to flee. Internally Sumin frowns, makes it a point to try and soften his face as he runs a hand through his hair and smiles.

“Good morning.” He says gently.

That seems to do enough, the tightness in Jinsik’s form falling away just slightly, chin still dipped, “I didn’t… I didn’t know you were still sleeping or I’d have-I’m sor-”

“No need to apologize.” Sumin assures him, still mildly confused about the reason for Jinsik’s sudden visit. Then he gets a good look at what exactly Jinsik’s twisting in his hands, a stack of white folded parchment and a familiar seal of the Park royal line stamped in blue wax on the top one. They seem to be forgotten, Jinsik standing there and Sumin follows his line of sight before shrugging his collar closed. He clears his throat, “Letters?”

The other’s mouth makes an ‘o’, recognition as he fumbles with the stack upon remembering as his ears redden, “Y-Yes! Me and Yujun were at the stables and one of the priests asked for help.” He explains as he flips through them, mumbling out, “Hyunwoo took Yujun’s stack.”

Sumin thinks Hyunwoo’s better suited to the job. Yujun… is a force.

He’s handed a smaller envelope, crisp white, a pansy stamped into purple wax and his father’s handwriting scribbled messily along the back.

“I was also—if you’re free, um, of course—” Jinsik begins as he picks at the wax seal before finding its side peeling open, “wondering if you’d be up for helping me later? Something has, uh, come up and it might be something where I need to use what you’ve taught me.”

“Oh?” He hums and leans against the doorframe; he grows frustrated, rips the top as his eyes glide over the words.

Jinsik doesn’t say anymore and he glances up, that same, familiar agitation drawing his shoulders up. He doesn’t meet Sumin’s eyes when he lowers the letter. Sumin makes a move to ask but is cut off, “I can’t, I’m not allowed. To speak on it just yet. Our prince said not to, until he talks to the house leaders.” Every sentence is clipped, paused and thought out like he’s afraid of saying too much.

Confusion bleeds into amusement, doubled with what he’d seen of his father’s letter, “Not anything too bad I’d hope. Planning to use what you learn against me?” He jokes but the minute the words leave his mouth Jinsik’s eyes snap to him.

“I-of course not, it’s-something in our-I, I’d never -!” He stumbles before clamping a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. It’s in that moment that Sumin thinks of something, that maybe Jinsik has also been told that it gets easier.

That Jinsik didn’t realize that there was a border between them.

Hesitantly he raises a hand, nearly thinks better of it when Jinsik jerks at the motion but soldiers on, firmly pressing a hand against the other’s shoulder, thumb rubbed against the bone below the coarse fabric of Jinsik’s uniform jacket, “I apologize, I was joking.” He soothes, “I know you wouldn’t.” You don’t have the heart for it. Sumin doesn’t mention the Battle of Flowers coming up in a couple months, that it won’t be like the mock battle where they can choose not to join.

Down the line he’ll deal with that. For now he smiles. Jinsik seems to calm down, hand gripped into the letters. He nods and Sumin lets go with some effort, not wanting to. The words of the letter burn into his mind and he bites at his cheek when Jinsik takes another step away, a common action. He tries not to take it to heart, “Of course I’ll help. Third bell after lunch? Does that work?” And Jinsik gives him a short bow, tells him that’s perfect without meeting his eyes.

He watches the other retreat down the hall, on his way to the next letter recipient before pulling back inside his room. He takes another look at the letter before reaching for his pants.

To my beloved youngest,

I pray this makes it to you before the eve of your birth and that its ink stained pages grace your hands alone. I have been made aware that turbulent times have befallen you, and I fear that you are transitioning into a life that I have neglected to prepare you for. It saddens me to know that the babe that I once carried in one arm has been forced to take a life but be assured that the Goddess has forgiven you, especially during these times when the skies are growing darker and the flames begin to flicker against the winds.

In times like this I wish I was there to guide you personally but I understand that I cannot hold you in the roost of our house forever. But I can give you this one gift to help you through the tides that have started to lap at the sands:

Chapter nine, verse three

This is the wisdom I give you this year. Along with the warning that you must seek clarity in the differences.

Your father

Sumin, despite loving his father more dearly, has never been one to fully understand the poetic complexities that the older tends to wind into his words when Sumin’d rather weave it through paints. That doesn’t stop him from feeling that something is off, that something foreboding settles in the ink that his father’s marked.

He decides quickly that he needs a second pair of eyes.

⚔

Where he finds one he’s learned he’s bound to find the other, a fact he’s known of since the first time he’d been allowed into the same room as the Ministry of Military Affairs’ heir.

He feels the tiniest bit bad about interrupting Minjae’s walk and drags him into their empty classroom, shame deepening when Junmin’s dragged with, looking like he’s seen better nights as he sits at the desk behind Minjae’s. But then again, Sumin can’t think of one time he’s seen the older not seem tired.

The thought preoccupies him as Minjae reads through the letter, tries to think back to ministry meetings where the two would often be in orbit of one another like the moon around the earth, eyes following one while pressed against a wall when that wasn’t an option. Shadows when Minjae stopped coming around and it seemed like Junmin’s place there had disappeared. Second sons. All three of them, differences in necessity he’s never thought of outside of his own. Without Minjae, Junmin would… 

He doesn’t dwell on that. Vaguely Sumin remembers that white hair wasn’t always a hallmark of the older’s look and it’s the older’s voice that draws him back as he finds he’s been standing there staring too long.

“Can I ask what in the goddess’s name you did to this first?” Minjae sighs, picking at the envelope before holding it. Junmin’s eyes drift to it as well, “How did you manage to rip the top and split the side? Chewing your way through?”

“I don’t know —the side split when I was ripping it open, I was distracted. ” With what, he doesn’t say.

Minjae gives him a look before shrugging, glancing over the letter again, “What is that verse then? The one mentioned here.”

“‘The flame consumes, and only the worthy survive its trials.’ ” A common verse, one that Adrestria likes a little too well, whole sermons dedicated to its meanings. The fact Minjae doesn’t know it is amusing at best and the older’s lips purse as he thinks.

“That’s just our translation of it though.” It’s the first time Junmin’s spoken, and Sumin’s not surprised when he sounds so tired, “That passage alone is debated considering Faerghus and Leicester have their own versions of it.”

“So what’re the other two?” Minjae questions and his eye is immediately drawn to Sumin, who is son to the leader of their country’s religious ministry.

But he’s never been heir to that title, hasn’t trained in it, “My brother would kn-”

“‘The light never wavers, but those who doubt are blind.’ ” Both of them look back again but it’s Junmin that looks at them like he’s confused, “I was at the Fhirdiad Academy of Reason for over a year. You get to know their teachings very easily considering their views and the source of magic.”

Minjae says ‘devouts’ like it’s a curse before shaking his head, “And what about Leicester?”

Junmin keeps Minjae’s gaze alone, fingers turning the ring on his finger as he breathes out, “‘The light is eternal but the blind cannot see.’ ”

“And you said you don’t study Her word.”

“I’m not one of Her fanatics,” Junmin huffs, eyes looking elsewhere for a reason Sumin doesn’t entirely understand, “but that doesn’t mean I haven’t read any of it.” As talented a mage as Junmin is, he’s done more than read it, Sumin’s sure, “Doesn’t mean anything to know the differences.”

“‘Seek clarity in the differences’ or something like that?” Sumin asks, “That’s what it says? That’s what I don’t understand.” And it’s once more that Minjae looks at the letter before glancing at his fiance who blinks at the sudden attention.

“Look at me like I have all the answers?” He asks and Minjae raises a hand, brushing the other’s fringe away from his face in a way that’s so painfully tender that Sumin braces for whatever is about to come out of Minjae’s mouth.

“You’re as much my brain as you are half my heart.” He says, completely endeared and Sumin wrestles with how much he enjoys the more pleasant side to both of them and the fact that he feels sick to his stomach watching it.

Junmin shares the sentiment, fake gagging despite turning as red as his hair. He stumbles a bit, words started and stopped as Minjae smiles before getting his chair kicked. With a sharp intake he gets his bearings back, “I by no means have the answer but I have an idea?” He tells Sumin and the latter nods for him to continue, “There’s an argument about what all the versions are influenced by. Leicester’s long been touted as the truest, or at least more neutral of the three, closer to the church’s rendition that’s more or less the same.”

“My father spoke of that. Tried to bring it up at a meeting when I was younger but was put out for the idea.” By Minjae’s father. Not the first battle between the two.

One look at Minjae and the gears turn, an understanding when he meets Sumin’s eyes, “That was after the riots at the border. There were more pressing matters than the words of an old, crumbling text in a language only few can read.” And that’s something Sumin can understand, too young at the time to fully comprehend the bloodshed that was happening at the edges of the world he’d known, “Makes me wonder why your father was so keen on that though. As far as I’m aware he was the first in a long line to ever try and assert that.”

It’s like a passing thought but the words make Sumin tense, shoulders drawn up and Junmin looks up at him. He thinks on letting it pass by but if it has anything to do with the warning he feels like the information is in safer hands here with them than anyone else, “My mother’s side is from Leicester.” When Minjae looks up at him he shrugs again, flustered, but there’s something to the gaze that has him swallowing, “Park, to be specific.”

The revelation causes Minjae to laugh, a hand covering his eyes as he sighs out, “Park Jay’s cousin. ”

“Distant cousin. Very distant. I think maybe our great grandfathers were brothers or something of the like but it’s not exactly a commonly known thing.”

“You’re telling me. Junmin?” Minjae asks and the other shakes his head. A well kept secret is what he’s assuming MInjae’s thinking when not even the Ministry of Internal Affairs knew, “Can’t even begin to assume how they managed to pull that off.”

“We’re not some all-seeing entity.”

“And it’s not something that needed to be known.” Sumin argues and Minaje stands up, taking another look at the letter before placing it back in its envelope, “Defectors were common during that part of the war.” 

“How well aware I am of that. ” He says before reaching for Junmin and helping him stand, “I have a few ideas but for now keep that thing out of sight. Meet me by the pond tomorrow afterno-” Junmin tugs sharply at the older’s blazer and Minjae stops. They share a look before the older smiles, nodding, and Sumin’s look of confusion is ignored in full, “Tomorrow evening. Bring it then.”

⚔

That confusion stays with him all the way up until the third bell rings and he pushes through the wooden door of the training grounds.

Jinsik’s head perks up instantly from where he’s sitting near the steps and Sumin isn’t oblivious to the kitten that keeps itself firmly planted in the other’s lap, “Is Bambi joining us?”

“Bambi’s a baby.” He’s told matter-of-factly. Jinsik makes no motion to move the kitten and Sumin decides they’re in no rush, settling down on the step lower than him. Silence settles between them but it’s not unkind , only a bit weighted . His jacket gets folded once it’s pushed off his arms, placed beside him before rolling up his sleeves.

Minutes go on during these little actions and Jinsik does nothing but sit and pet Bambi but there’s something to the quiet that becomes a bit unsettling when matched with the worries he has over whatever ideas Minjae has about the letter. Patience, he thinks, is a good thing to have but he’s got a lot on his mind starting from this morning till now and it seeps out of him without guide, “Did you get a letter?”

It’s the wrong thing to ask—curses himself when Jinsik’s hand pauses and his shoulders curve in the slightest bit. Bambi nibbles at Jinsik’s finger, bids him to move again and only that softens the look on his face, “Mm. One from my sister. She… wishes me well.” But from what Sumin sees he has a bit of doubt on that. If Jinsik doesn’t wish to actually train right now then they won’t. An incredibly simple concept in his mind as he chooses to relax against the stone.

Slowly he reaches out and Bambi shifts in Jinsik’s grip to attack his hand, little but sharp teeth trying to gnaw their way through skin and he hears a little chuckles from above him. His head tilts, able to see Jinsik’s eyes where they try to hide beneath his bangs. There’s a hint of a smile, one that grows when Sumin shoots one back, Bambi deciding that both their fingers make for mighty fine play things.

“She wanted to wish you a happy birthday.” Jinsik murmurs out and for at least three blinks Sumin’s brain stalls out, the lack of response slowly dragging Jinsik’s mouth into a frown.

“Birthday?”

“Tomorrow—it’s tomorrow, but I think your house might be plan-” Suddenly the other’s mouth snaps shut, frown worsened. Panic, brief as it is, starts to wind inside of him before Jinsik makes a noise, “I’ve ruined the surprise. Went through the trouble of asking. Ruined it-”  

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Sumin tries to assure him, “and if you did I’m happier for it.” Junmin’s reaction earlier starts to make a little more sense. His fingers move, brought in by Bambi to curl around Jinsik’s. Reaching for his arm right now seems a little… much in the other’s state, “I’m not fond of surprises.”

“But they-”

“Haven’t heard me say as much.” He shrugs, “And that’s fine, I don’t know everything about them. Couldn’t possibly when most of them I’d just met on the trip here.” A small and needless confession that serves to make Jinsik even more confused, but Sumin tries to run through all the possible places he can be to avoid them in the afternoon before meeting Minjae, “My brother is next in line, I was only brought to meetings after begging my father—used to be terrified of everyone including Prince Kai.”

“And you’re not now?”

Sumin considers that. Sure there are things about Kai that are a little intense but his father told him that being too close to the Adrestrian capital will make anyone a little rough. He wouldn’t think of Kai in that sense, “I think I would have to be at the other end of his axe to find him anything close to terrifying. Your prince on the other hand is…” He searches for the words, “a storm. ” Yeah, that’s adequate.

“He is our prince.” Jinsik simply says. Without warning he gently scoops Bambi into his arms and places her on the stones opposite of Sumin, standing, “He seems terse but there’s a weight on his shoulders that isn’t on the rest of ours.” Succession rights. To a whole country no less. The closest one to that is the leader of the Dahlias and even then he knows the Lees don’t have full control over Leicester, bowing to whatever the rest of the confederacy decides over there. A gentle nudge over a fully guiding hand.

That fully guiding hand being a bit… brutal, from what he’s seen, “A storm, no less.” Sumin repeats but he follows Jinsik down the last couple steps into the small arena, trailing to the middle. Jinsik turns to face him once they reach the middle fidgets as he stands but he stops Sumin who tries to make his way towards the lance racks with a tug to his shirt.

“I… I don’t think I’ll be able to learn much in time. I—in a way—lied to you, and I apologize.”

The weight of that seems to rest a bit more heavily on Jinsik than it does on Sumin who merely nods at the words, “Just wanted to talk then?” He questions, “You could’ve asked, I would’ve made time.”

“Well, um, yes, I suppose I could’ve.” Jinsik frowns, “Feel a bit stupid now, I just-there was a lot on my mind, and it’s easy to get it… mixed up.”

“Is this to do with what the training would’ve been for?”

He almost doesn’t need the answer. Not when Jinsik shifts his weight from foot to foot and his hands are wrung almost painfully together. When he reaches out Jinsik jolts but lets Sumin’s hand wrap around his, “If… I tell you, promise to not tell anyone. Our prince was going to, uh, come to yours and the Dahlia’s leader the day after tomorrow but nothing… to come out before that.”

“I swear.” He promises, still keeping a hold on Jinsik’s hands.

He gets another look, and the worry that creases its way onto Jinsik’s face has him stepping a bit closer, “Something-there’s been an upset, an uprising, in Faerghus.”

“That’s… not common.”

Jinsik shakes his head, “Not at all, mm, at least forty years ago was the last and this one is… going to be bad I can feel it. It’s… I can’t tell you who it is, but, close to us …” the more he talks the more upset he gets and Sumin shushes him, a thumb smoothed over the knuckles of Jinsik’s fingers in his grasp. His free hand comes to grasp around the other’s bicep, soothing, and Jinsik eyes it warily but doesn’t say anything about it. Instead Sumin catches his eyes again and nods, patient when he doesn’t want to leave Jinsik alone like this, “We leave at the end of the week but we’ve been… given the ability to ask for help. That’s what our prince was-what he wanted to talk to yours about.”

Ask for help? What help? Students? Who then?

Wondering if he’s on the list of students Sunghoon will ask for doesn’t even get very far when he remembers he outright refused to fight the other. Minjae probably. Or Riki—perhaps even Jungwon if they’re needing a mage. Thinking on it matters little when it won’t be his say so he chooses to do his part by squeezing Jinsik’s hand a little tighter before letting go, “I can’t teach you how to fully fight with a lance in two days. But I can teach you how to avoid one.”

It’s a flicker of a glance but Jinsik looks up at him, chin still dipped.

But it’s enough, “If you’re up for it?”

He doesn’t waste a moment, “Of course.”

⚔

7th of April; 
Sovereign Year 1143

The goddess, as revered and resourceful as Sumin would like to think of Her, has never fully been on his side.

Or, at least, not in the way that stops most of his house members from turning their heads as he steps through the front entrance of the dining hall. This could—perhaps, probably in another timeline where he hadn’t been told what they were up to—be just his mind playing him.

Kai smiles at him and that’s normal. Jungwon pats the seat next to him and immediately starts bickering with Junmin and that’s unfortunately very normal. Seungmin fetches him a tray of breakfast, arrayed with his favorites-

And that’s about where the normalness stops.

A few of them do well not bringing it up, neutral chatter about assignments, about practice, and letters from home and Sumin’s got his father’s neatly folded in the breast pocket of his uniform despite not needing it till much later. He catches a few stray looks, some a bit more blatant—Riki, surprisingly, and Junghoon, unsurprisingly—and some a bit more gentle when accompanied by a smile. Naturally, Kai falls into the latter category and Sumin chooses not to comment when a glass cup of cream and berries mysteriously migrates from the prince’s tray to his despite his hands being preoccupied keeping Jungwon’s off of Junmin.

Mages, he thinks a little offhandedly, like the use of magic is what makes them anymore like they are and not some other external factor. He thinks of Jinsik, and Beomgyu, and Yujun, and how… mild they can be when they want to. The factors surrounding the two mages in their houses seem to be a common Adrestrian heritage and hand-me-down thick skulls that must be worn thin from the generations those two families have been bashing them against each other. Not that Sumin can say much on that. Were it his father’s choice he’d been given generational bones of his own, bent but not broken, stubbornly splintered and regrown back hard enough to withstand the pressure of new ages and the problems that come with them. Lucky isn’t how he’d describe it, almost describing himself as such when he knows that those were passed to his brother. He’d been given a signet ring, a prayer, and the door to his cage left open after he clawed at the bars for too long.

“A bit thoughtful?” Jungwon whispers and it startles him, eyes darting around the table but none of them seem alarmed, distracted by each other, “Sentimental?” The older continues, “Birthday blues?”

“One of those.” A mouthful of berries, juice dark purple against the cream as he stirs it is what he allows himself, trying to piece the words together, “Succession rights.” He says lowly, gesturing around to the table. A prince, ministry heirs, commoners-soon-to-be-knights, young men —barely, at that—who are the next generation of protection for his country. He takes a glance around and finds the other two houses mingled about as theirs is, whole but divided, simple, silly boundaries drawn and connected together by whoever seems to have more courage than he to hold out a hand. 

Somehow, in the mess of his head and the topics that don’t overlap, Jungwon gives him a bright smile, a hand firm on his shoulder before it crawls its way across his back to the other side and pulls him in, “Big thoughts up there. Things better left untethered perhaps? On this day at least.”

“Perhaps.” He agrees, but it doesn’t ease his stomach any as he moves around his food. He takes care to lower his voice, leaned in a little closer to Jungwon’s ear, “How did you all-”

“Find out your birthday?” He nods, “Easy—in an almost pathetic way, if you ask me. Despite your lack of appearances in the usual court fanfare,” not his fault his father considered the affairs inconsequential, “our prince knew because he’d taken a look into all the applicants for this year. On our side.”

“And a few others.” Despite being impressively engrossed in a conversation over trade routes through the Brionac Plateau, Kai manages to glance over and smile, “Small enrollment pool. Fostering friendships, or at least some baseline camaraderie is one of the goals here and I… well I’d never had much success with that so I thought it’d give me a leg up.” The mild—he hopes it’s mild—horror must read on his face before the prince immediately reddens, “Oh! Nothing too personal, on the goddess’s name, just birthdays… and allergies.”

“Allergies?” Sumin questions, a bit disbelieving but Kai nods very enthusiastically.

“So I could make petitions to the cooks. Allergies were less of a problem. But dietary preferences… I didn’t realize how many picky eaters we had.” The prince chuckles.

“He says that,” Seungmin interjects, “but he personally asked the archbishop if he could make tomatoes illegal across the continent.”

“Because they’re-” A face can say a thousand words. The one Kai makes says about three thousand more.

“It wasn’t just for the prince.” Junmin interjects and despite the good natured smile Jungwon flashes at the other Sumin feels the other’s arm tighten around him, “Minjae and Jake have the strictest diet.”

“I do not!”

“Lord Park!”

With a smile Sumin’s not used to Junmin continues, “Factor in that the prince tried to advocate for the others as well.” A fork full of food is held in front of him, “We’re not the worst.” He says as he takes the bite and Minjae continues where he leaves off.

“Apparently the worst of them are in the Lilies. The ‘goddess approved tomato ban’ would be a boon to them too.”

Sumin knows at least one of those picky eaters. If there’s an overt fondness in the way he says that thought it’s not caught and he coughs to cover it up. The motion however does draw the unfortunate conversation back to him.

And his birthday, “We didn’t… know if you’d appreciate a full party,” Kai says, “but we were planning to at least try,” there’s a lot of emphasis that Sumin reads into that word after the kitchen punishment they had, “to bake you a cake.”

“A hopefully nonlethal one.” He hadn’t even noticed Junghoon sitting to his left, moved from where he was before. Sneaky, “Can’t promise much.” A noise, very different and loud from the persona that he usually puffs out, rips out of Junghoon’s throat when Jungwoon tries to drag him into the hug.

“If you are poisoned it’ll be fine. You have two fairly competent mages-”

“Jungwon.”

“One extremely competent mage to heal you all.” A look gets tossed in Junmin’s general direction and Sumin’s almost glad he’s too squished to see whatever look Junmin sends back. Baby steps. As Seungmin said during the tournament ‘At least they aren’t outright killing each other’ which Sumin can’t really imagine whatever Seungmin would’ve witnessed before Sumin joined but it was clearly enough of an incident that most of the nobles knew of it, in differing levels of details that Sumin pays no attention to.

Barely over a moon together. Just like Kai he wants to be able to get closer to them, make friends, connections, have relationships he never experienced under his father’s roof. The little tidbits he’s given are food for his soul. Over three of them hating tomatoes isn’t something interesting, not fun repeatable facts but it will be something he remembers, taking a look at the plates around him. There’s a glance down the long table, sees Yujun sitting with a few Lilies—sees Seungmin leave to go sit with a few Dahlias at the table behind him.

Intermingling. Good. Just like Kai wants.

Their own section of the table stays mildly full as breakfast progresses but the conversations divide, sectioned into fragments before they die off. It doesn’t take long before the first few stand, finished with their meal. He cautions a look at the upper edges of the table behind to a known head of dark brown hair rising to leave alongside Beomgyu and an idea forms.

A hand rests at his shoulder and startles him, jerking around to find Minjae standing there with his shadow, Jungwon already gone.

The older’s eyes flicker around before they settle on him, ‘later’ mouthed before passing by and Sumin’s eyes follow them out the eastern exit.

Eventually it’s just him and the Kai at the table. Patterns are good sometimes, work well when the person he needs is the person that always stays to make sure everyone eats and in no way would Sumin ever fault him.

A shame, he thinks, not for the first time, that it’s not Kai that would sit on the throne.

The older is still sifting through the remnants of his meal in a farce watching the few meandering at tables when Sumin reaches over and knocks at the wood in front of him. Kai perks up immediately, eyes wide before settling into a soft smile, “Need something?” 

“You said you knew birthdays? For others outside our house?” It’s a stupid question for a stupid idea.

Kai nods quickly anyways, fork abandoned in favor of leaning closer, “Mhm! Why?”

“I was… wondering if you knew-”

⚔

Information in mind he spends the rest of his morning whittling. 

No stable duty or classes means he’s in for a long day of nothing but all encompassing worry unless he chooses to go sit in morning mass for hours. And while there are a few people there that he could waste his time with, there’s more productivity to be had with a knife in one hand and a small block of wood in the other.

By the time the noon bell rings he’s got a neat little pile of shavings near where he sits on the floor and at least two little cats, barely bigger than his thumb, carved out.

And a few prototypes, promptly shoved under the bed.

“Byul’s got a little scar.” He whispers to himself, etching it right in place below the wooden cat’s eye, has a perfect recreation of the stance he’s seen that creature use when chasing the migrating butterflies near the pond. Near perfect. Paint will do most of the legwork but his pigments lay shoved at the back of his desk drawer after a few weeks with no free time. Hunger doesn’t tug at him just yet and so he instead decides to handle the biggest task of the lot:

Bambi.

⚔

Three bells later and he’s been… moderately successful. More or less. At least six—and a half—valiant attempts at the small kitten are made but his larger whittling knives get increasingly harder to handle when the details get so minute. None of them seem worth painting but his mistakes have taught him something at least. A little more care is given to these, not shoved under the bed but placed at the edge of his desk to study later. He’s got a few months to get it correct.

Byul and Beom get carefully set in the small wooden box his mother had him bring to carry his father’s ring in, laid flat before hiding it back in his trunk with a small bit of satisfaction.

The sun still sets a little too high in the sky to be anywhere close to when Minjae would want them to meet but the staleness begins to set it. He fiddles with the little horses that line his windowsill, eyeing the sun before he hears the telltale cacophony of footsteps that marks the return of the lunch and church crowd.

Maybe I can catch Minjae, he thinks and it carries him to the door, pulled open just in time to see a blur of red and purple passing by, the choking of a sob an unpleasant noise to his ears.

Junmin.

Without a doubt he already knows that if he turns to his left Minjae will be there but gets a bonus, seeing quite a few of the others staring forward with varying levels of concern if not shock. Those same eyes drift to Minjae before they look away entirely.

Minjae composes himself quickly enough, mouth closing slowly as Sumin takes a small step closer to the threshold.

“Do… is that something to worry about?” He questions amidst the awkward shuffling and his eyes find Kai’s again who seems to wear his emotions quite clearly on his face.

It’s ignored. Minjae looks at him before waving Jungwon to go forward to pass him, stepping aside to let a few others on their way. It’s no verbal answer, but the way the older leans against the wall and waits means that Sumin is compelled to stand there with his door open and his fingers running along the handle as he summons his patience and stomps on his worries.

The hallway is clear, one last bow to Kai as he passes before Minjae puts a hand to Sumin’s chest and pushes him inside his own room, smoothly passing by into the center as Sumin closes the door.

It’s a particular type of quiet for those first few moments, one that defies the way that Sumin can still hear Kang Taehyun walking around in the room next door and Minjae breathing a little shallower.

“So… Junmin-?” Minjae raises a hand to stop him, a stern look and shaken head that Sumin respects, keeping his eyes distracted with the pile of wood shavings that the older’s eyes eventually get let to.

A few beats of that too soft but somehow too loud quiet pass before Minjae finally sighs, kneeling down to scoop up the shavings, “Personal issues.” He’s finally offered as an explanation, “Junmin’s personal issues, long and complicated. But it’s nothing to worry about; this isn’t the first or last time that we’re going to have a disagreement.”

“You don’t have to-” He begins to say but Minjae’s already got them piled in his hand when he stands, other hand cupped over them and Sumin registers that there’s no place to put them. It doesn’t appear to affect Minjae whatsoever, who keeps them contained, “Will he be alright?” Sumin tries instead, not entirely sure of what to say should the answer be no but he’s not sure how those two operate to begin with.

So when Minjae says, “Maybe.” Sumin breathes a little easier, “We’ve had a difference of opinion on a certain matter.” He shrugs, “I’ll let you in on a secret: if you ever want him to agree with you on something, ask it anywhere but a holy place. Pretty sure if I’d asked for his hand in front of a Saint’s statue like we’re always told he would’ve killed me.”

Sumin disagrees with that, hasn’t spent too much time around them in full but has spent enough that those words feel distinctly like a lie, “Noted. I’ll remember that when I need to copy his notes for tactics class.”

“Looking to fail?” Minjae chuckles and suddenly the air’s lighter, “Better off just asking Seungmin. He broke into General Jung’s office in the third week and looked through his lesson plans for the next month of school. Then laughed when he saw how easy they were. Tradesmen are far craftier than Adrestrians give them credit for.”

“And better with swords.” He gets a look, “Nothing. Joke, dumb personal joke.”

“Probably funnier than you think.” It’s not, the opposite really, he thinks in self pitying fashion. Minjae takes a few steps around his room and Sumin feels less like a guest in his own quarters as Minjae’s posture relaxes, becoming less of a general’s son and more of a student. Sumin’s taller by a good few finger widths but the way the older’s always held himself had made him seem larger, older despite the near perfect year between them. Shuffling through Sumin’s desk drawers—he’s got nothing to hide, amused when Minjae takes out his tin of pigments and shifts it in the light—with a handful of wood shavings serves as a way to make Minjae seem less of a stone trying to fight the currents.

The older doesn’t find what he’s apparently looking for and Sumin doesn’t ask, leaned back against the bed he thankfully made this morning. Eventually Minjae huffs and turns around, “We need to take a little trip.” He gestures to the lamp, “No matches.”

“Groveling to Jungwon does the trick.” Worth the spark sometimes. Interesting that among all the mages only two can wield fire and lamplight isn’t worth traveling down to Yujun’s room in the middle of the night during all the storms they’ve been having. Particularly in the storms. Jungwon’s fine enough even with thunder.

He’s interested if not confused when Minaje picks up the lamp and motions for Sumin to follow, “Word of advice: never grovel to Jungwon. If there’s one house who’s boot you don’t want your neck beneath it’s a Yang’s.”

“Aren’t you friends?”

“Great friends! He’s the only other person I’d trust with my life outside of Junmin.” Out in the hallway his voice lowers, taking a right, “Jungwon just has a habit of remembering too little, saying too much, and finding out what buttons to push that’ll cause someone to throttle him. At which point he’ll try to get you to owe him. ‘Congrats on finding the core root of your problem! Fifty gold for my wounds and the rest of your sanity to keep this quiet.’”

‘Someone had to take an arrow to the knee,’ “Jungwon told me he’d said some strong words at the magic academy.” He’s not curious. He keeps telling himself he’s not but fruit keeps getting dangled in front of him and his father’s warning about avoiding gossip has never included gossip given so willingly .

“Ah.” Minjae nods, passing the lamp as they make their way up the few steps to the last set of rooms on this floor, “I’ve never been entirely privy to exactly what Jungwon said to Junmin. The extent of it could be benign as Junmin claims it to be, for my sake I assume, or it could be as bad as it seems considering I can’t get them to be in the same room without binding their hands.”

They end up at the last room in the row, tucked all the way in the corner and the sun seems to start falling a little faster when orange hues start crawling through the frosted glass.

Minjae raps at the door tentatively, almost too soft for whoever’s inside to hear. For a moment Sumin fears who’ll be behind the wood, not knowing who has what room, only for it to open and reveal Junmin bereft of the shawl that usually rests at his elbows as well as his uniform jacket. Sumin takes care not to let his eyes linger on the other’s face or the red that rims his eyes aggressively.

Instead he’s front row to the way that Minjae’s face morphs into something so soft he feels like he shouldn’t be here at all, like he’s intruding on something so private when Minaje reaches up to the other’s face who doesn’t hesitate to lean into the touch. Sumin swallows, suddenly missing something. He pays no mind to it.

“Can we borrow a match?” The oldest says, barely a whisper and Sumin strains to hear it, having Minjae’s wood filled hand gestured to him, “He doesn’t have any.”

“Of course he doesn’t.” And yes, the thickness of the other’s voice confirms what Sumin thought, “No one ever thinks things through—never prepared.” Is directed perhaps not at Sumin—he hopes—as the voice gets farther away. Minjae takes a step forward, face disappearing behind the door frame and Sumin thinks that’s for the best when Junmin’s complaints get closer before they’re silenced completely by something he chooses not to imagine. Their conversation is whispered but he catches the end of it:

“I’m sorry, I’ll be back.”

“I know.”

And that’s about as much as he needs when Minjae withdraws and the door closes quite aggressively. He’s turned, pushed to lead them somewhere as Minjae laughs, the sound a little wetter than it had been, behind him,

“Come on. We’ve got experiments to do.”

⚔

Experiments, as it turns out, involves one of Junmin’s very explosive matches and the removal of his lamp’s glass chimney. It also involves being sequestered in the corner of the courtyard behind the entrance hall, shaded amidst circular tea tables. The ground’s cool beneath him as he waits for Minjae to replace the glass before he places his out,

“Got your letter?”

“Yes? Why the fire?” He asks as he pulls it out and hands it over, “It’s still light out.”

“‘Seek clarity in the differences,’” Minjae tells him, unfolding the letter and holding it to the glass, “‘The light is eternal but the blind cannot see.’”

“Poignant. Not entirely following.”

“Invisible ink. Or a form of it.” A few worries start gnawing at him again with this type of talk, worse off when he feels the flame is a little too bright against his letter, “Heat activated ink or at least that’s what Junmin thought; the eternal light being flame, and the blind being anyone who was trying to read it, or something like that.”

He scoots closer, watching as Minjae hisses at the warmth of the glass, “Wouldn’t a cipher be… better? If he was specifically trying to hide information?”

“Don’t think many would pick up on the musings of a man heading the Ministry of Religion telling his son to read some religious passages. Specifically if they aren’t clued in on your Leicester heritage. ‘The flame consumes but not all survive its trials’ is a little aggressive. Idiots would probably try to burn the thing. And the northerners are quite literally the blind leading the blind.”

“So why the shavings?”

“Because we might need to burn the thing.” Sumin makes a noise of surprise and Minjae chuckles, “I’m not accustomed to this type of ink. Homebrewed; Junmin only thought about it later when I said there was something wax-like on the back.” Sumin never noticed that, too afraid to touch it after reading through it the second time. Minjae gestures again to the pile of wood shavings at their feet, “ And depending on what we find we may need to burn the thing anyway.”

“You can’t just… burn my letter?” He blinks, “Can you?”

“Depending on what it contains. I told you.” He takes it away from the light long enough to look up at Sumin, “What reason could your father have to encrypt a message if not because it’s something he didn’t want someone to see?”

Tension rides along his back again, pulling taut. Surely his father—the one that said Adrestrian blood was the only thing keeping him running, the one that always argued to stay away from skirmishes that would weaken in the country—wouldn’t write out something that spoke of anything tantamount to the ramblings of the religious dissenters from the western church.

Surely. Right?

The look he gives must be worth pitying because Minjae nudges his shoulder with his own, “It’ll be alright.” Minjae promises him, “I swear you an oath, not on the goddess but on my life, that if it’s anything incriminating but disregardable that I will forget ever having seen it, and we both pretend it never existed.”

“And if it’s not?”

Minjae looks at him again, questioning. Sumin swallows.

“If it’s not disregardable?” He clarifies and Minjae seems to understand.

Regrettably though, in that moment it is not Kim Minjae, student at Garreg Mach and half passable friend that Sumin sees look back at him, but Kim Minjae, son of the head of the Ministry of Military Affairs, who stares back at him.

“Then I will do what I must.” Sumin takes a breath, harsh, as Minjae goes back to work, “It’s what Junmin and I argued about, to a degree.”

“Glad to know your fiance likes me enough to protect me.”

“Oh, no, he’d turn you in-oh!” Numbers. Grey numbers, barely a shade darker than the paper start to appear under the heat, a neat string of them, but ‘he’d turn you in’ sends a shock through him that hurts more than he thinks should be allowed, “Strange.” He hears Minjae say, “That’s not at all what I expected. Make any sense?”

It does. Very, very unfortunate.

The dinner bell will ring soon and the sun’s fading. But Minjae keeps looking to him. He tries very hard, pushing away the fear that is another secret of his family that he’s being forced to let known. He could lie. He could.

But he can’t, not when he’s already dragged Minjae in this far, “It’s… a twenty letter cipher my family uses.” 

He expects a bigger reaction. Something more accusatory but the older takes the information in stride, a small nod as his eyes wander back, “So you can read it?”

“Not… quickly.” 18 1011517 11418115 18138 41 1585251415 is only the first line but it already begins with a misuse of letters, “It’s meant so that even if it’s unencrypted you have to give it some liberty because not all the sounds are available, letters missing intentionally just in case.” He points to the third word, feeling the heat radiate off the glass, “This one, shebers, I’m assuming shepherds because this one down here is sheep spelled out correctly.”

“How long do you need? We don’t have a lot of time before the bell and I’d rather have this mess put away before questions get asked.”

U must arwas wach da shebers for day- “Not long. I’ve got most of it already.” When Minaje asks him what it says he puffs out a small laugh, “Nothing incriminating. But nothing good. I think, at least.” He sighs, “A little confusing.”

“Then say it, two heads are better than one. Three even.” Sumin doesn’t need to ask who the third is. Minjae takes one look at him and the way his hands shake against the cobblestone and sighs, “Junmin won’t turn you in, promise. I’ll keep this all to myself if it makes you feel better.”

“I have a fear of being hanged from the gates of Enbarr is all. Genetic.”

“Every person in this country holds that fear. Probably a few Faerghans as well.” He gestures, a wave of the hand dismissing the argument, “It’s a good fear to have.” He says, “But it’s also one worth dismissing when necessary.”

“Is this when it’s necessary?” He asks and sighs out heavily when Minjae nods, “Right… right, okay.” He says more to himself than then the other, taking another look for strength over anything else, “‘You must always watch the shepherds, for they not only shear their sheep but lead them to slaughter for the highest coin. The lambs are always sold the quickest.’ Or, that's what it reads like, I’m not sure, I might’ve missed something.” He rambles. His tongue darts out, wetting his lips, “It’s…” He trails off when he realizes Minjae’s attention isn’t on him, nearly still where he’s knelt.

For a minute—a full minute, Sumin counts—Minjae sits there, letter pulled gently away from the lamp and Sumin fears that his nice, calm school days and all the relationships he’s built are about to vanish into thin air over his father’s musings.

The bells toll above him and he jolts, nearly shrieking when Minjae moves for the first time and turns to him.

“Actually,” He begins, a smile creeping onto his face and Sumin feels himself paling, “I think Junmin might enjoy this.”

Chapter Text

Yellow Dahlias

- Yechan -

23rd of March; 
Sovereign Year 1143

Yechan’s never been one that believed in ghosts.

Not the ones the church talks about—lost souls of the damned that hadn’t given up their evil ways before death, images of jaws ripped off by a goddess who’d said they’d lost their chance to beg for redemption, forced to walk the rest of eternity without rest, no those aren’t the ghosts he believes in.

But he does believe in hauntings, barely, the idea that a place can have suffered so much pain the walls become soaked with it, the air of the place dense, choking any who reside come through. The treaty that stopped the fighting all those years ago had brought a lot of bloodshed with it, bodies hanging from the rafters in the church, that part of history they all just decided not to talk about.

So when he tries to sleep that night after what Hyunwoo told him and has a nightmare, wakes up to see Hyunsuk’s face staring at him through a crack in the door before disappearing, he thinks that despite his biases this hallowed ground might actually be haunted.

“Or maybe it’s me.” He whispers, catching his breath and clutching his sweat laden covers between a balled fist. Were it not for the rain he’d sneak down to Yujun’s room, maybe even Hyunwoo’s—that thought alone is silly—but the fact there’d be too many questions to answer and not enough comfort to receive has him flopping back against the pillows and staring at the wall till the light begins to yellow.

It happens again the next night. And the next. And were it not for the fact he’s free of specters on the third he’d have half a mind to march his way through the Oghma Mountains for the chance to spit over the bridge where Hyunsuk’s bones might have fallen.

⚔

27th of March; 
Sovereign Year 1143

The tournaments are a distraction—a well timed one, inconsequential, but a distraction nonetheless. 

A show of pointless violence for the sake of it.

And it’s not that Yechan’s against violence—no, that’s never been an issue, coming from Leicester where members of the roundtable will spit at each and strike up conflict over boundary lines of forests just because things have gotten too mundane. Here, he’s been finding it quite comical half the time, especially when most of them have seemingly never had the opportunity to be placed in combat, scared out of their minds while the other part of them are far too eager. The other half twists his stomach in knots when they’re placed in the actual situation itself.

The time that overlaps both of those is delegated to glaring at Sunghoon.

Rightfully so, if he’s asked.

So no, it’s not that he’s against violence. It’s that he hates watching pompous nobles parade around like the fight’s already been won, acting like going against what’s preordained is a waste of time. Prideful pissing matches are only fun if he’s winning them and the hypocrisy isn’t lost on him. Especially when the stress of recent sleepless nights starts to wear his patience thinner than the line between sun and shade.

So when a northern mage with a smile that’s as comforting as it is impish proposes a bet the small amount of gold in his pocket starts to burn a hole through the fabric.

Anything, absolutely anything, to not bet on Sunghoon.

The matter comes to a head though, when it’s Jay that’s standing on the other side of the north’s golden boy.

“He won’t win.” He sighs, feeling his shoulder drag down where Yujun’s head is settled there, “Ice Prince is an asshole, but he’s better with a blade.” Well, Jay’s better than Yechan, but he’s never mentioning that.

Yujun’s hand unfurls in front of him, a set of gold coins already piled high in his palm thanks to that mage relegating the duty to him, and Yechan can’t help but be a little happy—bitterly—that his friend’s being included, “Betting on Sunghoon then?” He can almost hear Yujun smile as he says it, like he expects a laugh.

But no, it serves to worsen his mood, the aggression culminating in his fingers pinched against the skin of Yujun’s arm through his jacket sleeve, and the noise the other lets out pierces his ear and draws attention, “The goddess would have to return, get on one knee, and promise me a reward before I ever bet on him.”

To Jay’s credit he puts up a good fight. Not good enough to win. But good enough that Yechan almost feels bad for him. Almost. Goddess on one knee first and maybe. Deal with the haunting specter at his door and possibly.

“See how good you do then.” Jay huffs as he plants himself on Yechan’s right, pushes Yechan off when the younger tries resorting to physical annoyances, and lowers his voice, “Blunted blades wouldn’t have stopped him from decapitating me. That old myth about northerners being descended from wolves might as well be true with the way he swung at me.”

“No, if anyone is, it’s you.” Yechan picks at the older’s arm, “Getting hairy in your old age; soon we’ll be feeding you raw meat and hearing you raw meat and hearing you howl from your bedroom.”

“Brat.” Jay bites back but the smiles he gives mutes it out, “Respect your elders.”

“Respect your future leader.” He warns but doesn’t push. Doesn’t even feel it. The alliance would be in better hands with Jay but it’s always been a Lee at the helm since they broke off from Faerghus as peacefully as was feasible.

How his ancestors did it, he doesn’t know. Faerghans must have been tamer back then, or engrossed in enough of a blood feud with the Empire they didn’t care than an arid desert half filled with sun bleached corpses from wars with Almyra had gotten away.

Because he feels that compromising anything with Sunghoon in this day and age would be a nightmare bested only by the ones of the student under his care that had recklessly lost his life. He’d made Jay write the letter, signed his signature and pressed a yarrow seal into the wax, knew if he did it himself it’d be poisoned with feelings that rekindle every time he sees that face at his door.

Sorry your son was selfish. I’m glad it was only him. 

And to think they’d pulled back after that. And that Sunghoon had gotten the last word in, threw his lance and landed a kill as those brigands trailed away while Yechan counted fingers on a shaking hand making sure that the rest of them had made it out alive.

His thoughts on that only sour when the northern bastard is paired up with his blood cousin. Yechan doesn’t hesitate to put his money on Yujun’s new friend, mirrors Jay’s stern look when the fight starts right up, not a moment worth sparing to catch a breath because swords have always brought out the worst in people.

He almost smiles, mouth half open in doubt when it looks like Sunghoon will lose, morphs into something more hateful, more frigid when the first punch is thrown out of instinct, hat cool exterior shell broken open to reveal what truly lies beneath:

Spoiled brat. 

Beast. 

Satisfaction only comes when Sunghoon hits the ground and the rest of them are called to action. One look at the victor teetering on his feet beyond the mess and another at the person who always hovers around him and Yechan sends Yujun to go do what he can.

The eight gold he nets from choosing right buy him four new bowstrings, split with Hyunwoo, and a more heavy handed disrespect for the Kingdom’s favored.

⚔

8th of April; 
Sovereign Year 1143

The feelings don’t falter come Monday morning when Yechan walks into the Dahlia’s classroom fresh from the baths and finds said Ice Prince standing at the front of it, haughty and proper shoulders pulled back with pride. 

Goddess above, even the way he stands is annoying, he thinks to himself  as he pulls Yujun who comes along easily when he’s guided.

Sunghoon’s flanked by the mage Yujun’s befriended—Jinsik, very nice, he’d been told—and Kang Taehyun if memory serves him correctly—it does. Jay’s there too, a soft spoken conversation between him and Taehyun that looks to be as amicable as a conversation lead by Jay tends to be. Jinsik’s been staring at them since they entered, and Taehyun’s eyes have flickered over to him every now and again only once Yechan and Yujun are in earshot does Sunghoon deem them worthy of being looked at.

“And to what do I owe this pleasure?” He greets the other proudly, pushing off the exhaustion that comes with the return of faces—one face—in his doorway, “Can’t say I’m not surprised to see you here considering the lack of business we have with each other. On purpose, I might add.”

He hears a warning, Yujun’s soft ‘hey’ right behind him as a hand digs into his back.

And well, he can’t really find it in himself to mind that.

Especially when Sunghoon has the gall to push his hair back in frustration before placing his hands back behind him. A soldier’s parade stance. Great. Pageantry and attitude, it must be Yechan’s lucky day.

“You are in luck it seems, because we do have business here, Lee Yechan.” He forces himself not to cringe at the use of his full name. Sunghoon clears his throat for a moment before continuing, “We’re here because there is a matter that involves the church and the Holy Kingdom, and we Lilies have been tasked with following along with the rear guard to aid a suppression force.”

“Considering the fact that I’m aligned with neither, I'm still not seeing how this involves me. Particularly the part that involves you here, in my classroom.”

The older’s expression falters. Self-admonishment is a good look on Sunghoon, should wear it more often. There’s a little bit of pity when it comes to Jinsik who looks like he’s about to empty the contents of his stomach in the face of confrontation but he’s over the moon and into the stars with the silence he’s inflicted on Sunghoon.

“Well.” The wheels seem to begin turning. Sunghoon’s stance relaxes, feet shifting and Yechan’s frown worsens.

Initially, he’s thrown off kilter internally, caught somewhere amidst confusion and curiosity. This isn’t the same prideful asshole that Yechan watched beat the shit out of his cousin and then still get his ass handed to him.

“In being tasked with this we’ve been given the ability to ask for help from other classes.” Sunghoon finally speaks, some of the pride coming back, “Our group has many strengths but they… also have their weaknesses. We have been given the right to ask for two from both you, Lee Yechan, and Prince Huening Kai to fill in our gaps, should you agree.”

He acts stunned. Would be if the speech didn’t sound so practiced, so perfectly worded. For added flavor he lets the silence hang between them, hoping to watch Sunghoon squirm a little more but the awkwardness from just before isn’t nearly as potent as it was. How sad, “You? Asking for help?” He takes a look at Yujun who chooses to avoid his eyes for the moment, before turning to Jay who shrugs, “Goddess above, that’s nearly human of you.”

Sunghoon frowns, “I am human.”

“Of course, of course.” Yechan wants to spit on him, “How could I believe differently?” Sleepless nights and an anger unquelled keep his tongue loose, “Cheating in a swordfight with your cousin out of arrogance only to be bested by him is very human.”

“Yechan.” Jay warns him, voice just like his fucking father but he cocks his head.

“I was quite sure you were a statue of snow and stone, those northern winters taking your heart, you know, should there have been one to begin with.”

The silence that follows is not pleasant, hurts him more than anything when he turns to see Yujun not even looking at him, the state of shock on either of Sunghoon’s attendants almost taken so far aback that he nearly apologizes.

He doesn’t. Not when Sunghoon nearly turns red. Not when Yechan’s itching for a fight and the prince is the only one who unknowingly paints a large target on his back every morning. Sedition, he hears Hunter say in his head. Good. Let it happen.

“Or are you a beast?” There’s a pull at his jacket, the sound of boots moving on his right he won’t look at.

A hand gets raised, near level with his neck—do it, Yechan begs—before it drops and Sunghoon deflates in as princely a way he can, “Will you offer aid or not?” The prince strains.

Yechan sighs.

“Depends on who you’re wanting. I’m certainly not available. Morale will certainly tank if you take Jay.” He hears another warning, a hand gripped harshly on his shoulder, but by the goddess he is the leader of this house, “Jiseok can’t help you with a fight and Yujun’s got a goddess to pray to in order to keep us sane. Jungsu and Jooyeon might be too busy with axe swinging and I’m not sure what Hyunwoo’s up to but you’re not exactly a favorite face of his.” Yechan himself is barely a favorite face, in good graces by a small margin that comes with shared secrets both of them are too scared to do anything with.

Sunghoon turns an even better shade of red and exhales in a way so threatening that Taehyun pats the prince on the back to comfort him.

Child. Brat.

“You can have Hyunsuk?” Yechan offers, a wonderful compromise if you ask him.

Sunghoon doesn’t ask him, “He’s dead.”

“So I’ve been told.” Would be better if the deceased haunted Sunghoon and not him, “Shame then, seems you’re out of luck-now, now don’t make that face I was kidding.” He wasn’t, but any redder and Sunghoon might explode. Yechan wants a fight, not a war—maybe, “Who do you want?” He concedes, “Not Yujun or Jiseok though, I wasn’t kidding about them.”

That seems to calm the room down, Jinsik looking nearly eager as he glances up at Sunghoon—and ah, there’s the smile Yujun always talks about. Yechan could get used to looking at it, a brighter sight than the prince before him who puffs up again.

“I’ve been told Choi Hyunwoo is second best with a bow after you.” Yechan’d argue Hyunwoo’s better but not in public, “And Kim Jungsu is your best axesman.”

“Sure.” He smiles, “Convince Hyunwoo first.”

An image of Hyunwoo, good old north hating Hyunwoo scowling the minute the prince gets within twenty paces and biting his head off the moment he’s asked to help dances in Yechan’s mind and glee is something he has a hard time keeping off his face.

It gets easier, however, when Jinsik smiles even brighter, hands gestured forward in excitement, “He!” He starts before looking at the prince and getting a nod of approval to continue, making Yechan’s annoyance grow larger, aimed at the prince, “He already said that if his-if you agreed, he said he’d do it.”

Yechan blanches instantly, any air of calm composure he had becoming threadbare, “Is that so?” He tries to keep his voice level. His eyes flicker over to Jay who doesn’t betray any knowledge of that. Yujun squirms to his left however and that is worrisome, his chest already tightening at the thought of having not known something he should’ve.

Sunghoon doesn’t smirk, doesn’t smile, and somehow that’s worse, “Yes. He and another agreed on the basis that their leaders did so first.” He clears his throat, parade stance loosening more and Yechan doesn’t care that Sunghoon wants to play pretend at human right now, “If you… wish that neither come, you are within your rights-”

“No. Hyunwoo agreed. I’m not his keeper, I can’t stop him.” I’m his leader, I could stop him, but it’s a nice lie as he tries to save face, “You have to ask Jungsu then, too. In person.”

“I planned too. We were on our way to find him after this.” Sunghoon doesn’t bow because he doesn’t need to but he dips his chin in respect and Yechan doesn’t return it, “While they’re in my care I promise to keep them safe to the best of my abilities,” liar, “and that they’ve already been planned as back up at best. I would never put an archer on the frontlines.”

But an axeman, Yechan thinks, an axeman is made for the frontlines.

He exhales through his nose, stiffly takes the hand that’s offered to him, “I’ll hold you to that. Make sure you honor your oath.”

“To the best of my abilities.” Sunghoon emphasizes like it’ll save his ass if he ends up bringing those two back in boxes, “We’ll return the favor in kind should something like this come up for you.” He tacks on in necessity.

Yechan nods, hand tightening before letting go.

Jay and Yujun say their pleasant goodbyes to apparent friends they’ve made while Sunghoon walks past, pulling the others like orbit to him begs it of them.

In a show of restraint Yechan waits till they are out the door and their shadows fade from view on the path outside before he turns to Yujun.

“Did you know?” He says right as Jay opens his mouth, knows there’s a reprimand aimed at him for his conduct but this is more important. The three of them are assigned to the stables; Jinsik is grouped up with Yujun and the rest of the healers. It would’ve come up, “Did you know Hyunwoo already agreed?”

“No!” Yujun says quickly, letting go of where he’s had a death grip on Yechan’s elbow to hold up hands in defense, “If I’d heard anything I would’ve told you. You know that.”

“Right.” Breathing is hard, “Right, of course.” He doesn’t believe it, can’t bring himself to look at Yujun so turns his mind back to flinging curses at Sunghoon to distract from the constriction in his throat, “He pisses me off.” He spits, venom bleeding into his tone, “He pisses me off so bad, I want to scream.”  

And he would, right now, if not for Jay’s hand patting at his back in the same way his father used to during his fits, “Yea, well,” whatever scolding the older planned has fallen away, “if it makes you feel better you piss him off too.” It doesn’t.

Because now it feels like he’s signed off on Jungsu and Hyunwoo’s deaths.

And the face that stares at him through his door smiles like it knows it as well.

Chapter Text

White Lilies

- Jinsik -

12th  of April;
Sovereign Year 1143

Miach.

Home.  

For Jinsik it’s weird to pass through the little frost covered town, its citizens coming out of their hibernation in spring much like bears do. It’s quiet still, even at this time when the sun’s starting to set and they’re all sore from a day’s ride from the border. When they pass through the main street and find an older man struggling to light one of the street lanterns they are compelled to stop by Lord Park—he shakes his head, Seeun—who offers to help with the rest of them that dot their way up the boulevard. 

“We could do with stretching out our legs.” He reasons and none of them, not even their prince argue with this fact. Any other time he’d worry about making good time, worry about wasting it as he sits on a little bench outside of a dress shop, huddled between Beomgyu and Hyeongjun for warmth as most of them put forth their best Faerghus spirit.

But this time he can’t find it in himself to want to hurry.

Not when the manor at the top of the hill looms over them like a shadow even when the moon hangs above them. It’s always stained this part of the city, always held in sight, always made him remember that even far from the cobblestone path there was a boot pressing onto his throat. 

It hurts being here. But he has to be.

Beomgyu’s hand wraps around his, a firm grip and he puts forth his best smile, getting a gentle one back.

“Looking forward to a good rest after this.” The older sighs and Hyeongjun’s head falls against Jinsik’s shoulder, “Someone’s beating us to it.”

“I don’t blame him.” Jinsik whispers back and ignores the way that the older’s eyebrows come together in question when it’s hard to find his voice.

The journey so far has taken a full day and then some, traveling faster than usual and pushed forward by the necessity of the event, the church’s knights a full day ahead of them. It’ll take another half day to get where they’re going, up towards Magred Way and west to Gaspard. Suppression. Rearguard to deal with the aftermath of an event he hopes is over by the time they get there, stomach twisting in knots with the thought it might not be. 

“I’d rather we not pass through in one go.” Prince Sunghoon had laid out the map on two desks pushed together, a cut healing on his face, “We should hurry but not push ourselves past limits.” Their teacher had agreed, said they’d arrive tired and hungry and be the first ones to hit the ground. And then what use would they be beyond fodder?

“Death is the product of poor constitution and poorer planning.” Professor Choi had said like it was something he’d heard somewhere else, rinsed and reused wisdom, “Better to make camp for the night somewhere not far.”

And then freeze. They’d have frozen. A spring in Faerghus reaches far towards the southern border but not too far, not this early in the season when the storms are more common than the sun, definitely don’t reach close to Gaspard.

But it did reach some place. Or it would’ve started to by then.

Jinsik knew what his duty was as a citizen of his country. His father would never turn away the prince, not when pride was as much in his blood as there was performative piety and ichor.

It didn't make it any easier to reach forward and place a finger above his hometown, swallow a lot of his own fears before speaking up,

“We pass by Miach.”

It had been such a simple sentence. Or he’d hoped it was, hoped they’d notice that they’d be passing by many places, equally as open to the prince as any other.

But Prince Sunghoon’s face had lit up, such an uncommon expression, like Jinsik had solved all of his problems and then some. The rest had looked at the expression like the sun had finally broken from behind the clouds.

So who was Jinsik to open his mouth again and tell him that they shouldn’t, that he’d wanted to stay away, to have never come back without knowing that he was for certain going to be able to leave.

He’d only asked that the prince write ahead and warn his father. He’d only ask that the prince not mention his name. And he was allowed that, without any undue questions he wouldn’t have the answers for.

His only consolation was that he’d been paired with Moghwa, the stallion huffing in disapproval as they’d passed the iron gates into the snowy hill side and he’d whispered his agreement into a black mane.

And so now they were here, three of them at least, unneeded when there were quantifiably stronger and less fatigued members of their group to help brighten the road. For all his displeasure, Jinsik is happy about it. If not for Beomgyu tethering him to this bench with his hand as much as his warmth Jinsik might be out there too, helping before the chill got too far into his bones, before the forest called him to run.

And he can’t. He can’t run.

A pair of boots scuff against the ice covered cobblestones behind him and he tenses before relaxing, “You Faerghans really are just like wolves.” He’s unsurprised by the voice, looks up and finding Hyunwoo there, staring down at the three of them with an expression that’s little less than friendly, but he’s learned long ago that that might just be how his face is.

“How so?” Jinsik asks, and Hyunwoo’s eyes shift like they’re trying to find him, a shiver passing through him from the cold.

“Pack animals.” 

Beomgyu snorts but the laugh quickly turns into something more good natured, “Trying to say such like your people don’t do that? Help their fellow man? Are you weim bears?” A common creature in the eastern mountains at Fodlan’s edge.

“Wouldn’t know.” Hyunwoo shrugs, “Ecne’s surrounded by more wolves than bears.”

He frowns, “Ecne?” he asks at the same moment Beomgyu goes “Ah~” like it’s all been explained that simply. It hasn’t—not to Jinsik who’s never heard of the place but the older’s reaction makes Hyunwoo glare at him,

“Wolves.” He says one more time before turning on his heel, feet carrying him down the sidewalk towards one of the Orchids that’s tagged along, shivering violently against the wall of a candle shop despite the layers he wears. Jinsik feels pity.

He doesn’t belong here either.

The pressure on his hand gets his attention and he’s met with Beomgyu’s kind eyes, “I wouldn’t mind what he says.” He’s told, the look on his face misread as the older stands, “Small villages tend to narrow their inhabitants’ minds. It’s the price they pay for what bigger towns make them suffer.”

And the words, the way they’re said at least, are so strange to hear come out of Beomgyu’s mouth, “Suffer?” He asks as Beomgyu leans down, taps at Hyeongjun’s cheek softly, tells him it’s time to wake up, it’s time to go.

Beomgyu looks at him. And then that hand moves from Hyeongjun’s rousing face to his, another nice, soft pat that’s meant in comfort and Jinsik doesn’t shy away from it like he knows he should, “Come on, Jinsik.” He says, not answering the question, pulling Jinsik’s hand up towards his own chest, coaxing the younger off the bench, “Let’s go see your father.”

His stomach drops.

⚔

“There were at least two inns we could’ve stayed at in town.” He hears the other Dahlia say, half embarrassed that he can’t remember the man’s name but too caught in the way his breath starts to quicken the more the manor takes up his sight.

They walk the horses up the main road. Somehow Beomgyu’s hand never leaves his and that’s a much needed comfort, squeezing when the guards pull open the main gate and he trudges across freshly cleaned stones, closer and closer.

Cold gray stones and pale colored leadlights illuminated with golden candlelight still gleam even at night, towering over them, shadows in the windows watching them as they gather in the open space before the garden gates.

A door encapsulated in darkness pulls open, the telltale thunk thunk thunk of a cane following shuffled footsteps echoing out into the snow. He can’t see him. He doesn’t need to. He knows he’s there. Jinsik’s grip on the reins in his hands tighten and Moghwa takes a step forward without warning, his large ebony face blocking Jinsik’s view. Or blocking him from view. Either way between him and Beomgyu Jinsik’s not sure that the amount of gratitude he holds could be put into words, or that he could contain himself long enough to speak them, already feeling dread coil around as voices begin.

“Good evening, Lord Ham.” He hears their prince speak, voice firm, “I’d like to tell you once again how grateful we are to you, for opening your home to us on such short notice.”

“Think nothing of it.” Bile crawls up his throat at the voice, his stomach souring, “What man of this kingdom would turn down the chance to be of use to their prince? Especially when there is so much at stake.”

“A man of lacking honor, I’m sure.”

And in the presence of such a man they are. Not that they know. He swallows and feels the older tug his hand, forcing him to face away from where ambient voices talk of their reason for being here, of the church’s crushing hand and the goddess’s will. 

Beomgyu smiles at him, “Have you ever been told,” he whispers, “that your emotions read on your face like ink spilled on paper?”

His eyes widen at that, taking a glance towards the front of them quickly, “I-that’s not… it’s not a good thing. Is it?”

“For most people, no, it’s a bad thing in politics.” Beomgyu’s eyes follow his, head turned towards where a graying head of hair bobs among the shadows, “But for me, it’s been a good compass so far.” 

Suddenly that smile becomes less of a kindness. But the sight of it doesn’t twist his stomach in knots the way it should, not when it’s not aimed at him.

It is worrisome, however, to think of Beomgyu using him as a compass for anything, quickly trying to reel his expression in before it lets in on too much.

By the way that Beomgyu snickers at him when he turns back Jinsik knows he’s failed, his hand dropped so the older can ruffle his hair, “Ah, Jinsik, poker with you would be an easy win.”

“Not the first time I’ve been told that.” He mutters back and Beomgyu laughs again.

“Never lose that.” He’s told, the hair brushed out of his eyes, “It’s better to show too much than to show nothing at all.”

He’s not sure he would agree. The group jolts forward, pressed into motion and he knows that the conversation up front is over. Horses are passed to the stable boys and groom, filing into the small courtyard that’s filled with winter blooming roses and other Helleborus. Jinsik sticks close behind Beomgyu, using the taller like a shield as they and the knights that traveled with them are directed by a voice that makes his skin crawl to different wards of the manor.

“You’ll have to forgive me on the sleeping arrangements, my prince.” His father says, fragile, begging, “It’s a long honored holiday in Miach, so many of the guest rooms are taken. But, we were able to clear out a dining hall on the second floor and make something accommodating.”

His lips curl back in disgust. There is no holiday in Miach alone. But only a man of such high held honor would subject his prince to lodging that is beneath him.

The prince, in his kindness, tells his father that it’s nothing to worry about. And who is he to butt in?

He tries to keep to Beomgyu’s shadow, tries to morph into it when the other moves, head refusing to look up but the farce can only be kept so long when they are getting too close to eyes that are looking for him, hunting him.

“Jinsik.” He hears and stops midstep.

‘Wolves’, Hyunwoo’s voice plays in his head, ‘you’re just like wolves.’

He isn’t surprised that the man doesn’t look all that different.

Graying hair that was once the color of his own is pulled back, matches a sparse beard that hides the severity in the man’s features. A dark green doublet is embroidered with golden roses, unhidden by the fur cloak that serves to keep brittle bones from the hard cold.

Tenuous, sinewy hands lay atop the knob of a silver and birch cane.

The shaking in his shoulders starts before he can stop it.

“Hello. Father.”

“We’ve something to discuss, don’t we?” Before he can answer—before he can run —his father turns to their steward, a hand waved in passing, “Show them to their quarters. They must be tired from the trek; have a long day ahead of them. Allow them to rest and the meal we’ve kept warm in waiting.” He turns to Prince Sunghoon and the pressure building up pulls Jinsik’s shoulders down, oppressing, clawing at him, “Might I borrow my son from you in that time? There’s things of recent that must be said in confidence but I’ll have him back to you before you notice he’s missing.”

Would they notice you missing?

He swallows that thought. His prince turns and looks at him. He must notice it, the way Jinsik’s eyes shake, pleading, must notice something’s off, must see the way the others crowd around him.

But what else is he to do? Beg that his prince save him from his own fate? Is he to cry in front of his own prince when he’s the one that’s brought them here?

So he nods—puts on a smile he hopes is reassuring, I’ll be fine, I promise, but it wilts when the prince bites his cheek in thought.

He watches Prince Sunghoon’s hands flex at his side, gripped and ungripped, before turning back to his father,

“Of course, Lord Ham. I will be expecting him.”

A hand tightens around his. And then it’s gone, leaving him cold. And one by one they’re all gone, a blur of black and gold before his father turns and hobbles his way into the manor leaving Jinsik to follow in tow, head bowed. He need not look for he knows where they’re going, obediently trailing behind as bile rises and the air burns his nose the moment the blue carpet of the first floor bleeds into the violet that marks the upper west wing. There’s not a stain in sight, kept too clean, too clinical and his gaze drifts up the stone wall to peek at paintings that mark their path, Miach lords of decades past.

Across the hall from the door his father stops at is a fine painting of a family of five: father, mother, and three children.

Four of the faces are carved out. A new edition it seems, in the time since he left when there used to be two.

Only his father remains intact now.

He pries his eyes away just in time to catch the door that never stays open, spinning on his heel to close it behind him.

When he turns back he’s struck so fast that the ground catches his fall, his father’s labored breath above him. Another strike hits right between the blades of his shoulders and he grits his teeth to quit from crying out.

“Must,” he hears as he crawls, “you continue to do everything in your power to mock me? Use every opportunity to spit on my name?” The head of his father’s cane hits his hip on the third one and he crumbles, curled in on himself, “Did you not learn from the first time you ran away? What will the others think when they hear that my son is so ill-tempered that he cannot be tamed? That my half-bred abomination is just like the bitch he came from-”

“I didn’t run away!” He yells. A hand fists in his hair and pulls him to his knees, the prickling of pain sharp, stinging when his cheek meets the wall beside him, “I didn’t-!”

“Silence, worthless whelp. Be lucky that the prince seems to have a fondness for you that I cannot find in myself to covet.” He’s released, crumpling to the floor before pressing himself into the wall, watches the man walk away, “And you have the audacity to bring him here! You disrespect me, treat my manor like some common hovel you can fill with the filth of lowborns, and worse off Leicester lowborns! The cowards, all of them!” Set off on his tangent his father loses interest in him, circling the desk in the center of his room, hobbling to bookshelves that he knocks tomes off of in a rage, overlaid with the monster in the tales his mother read to him. 

“I see how they look at me! Those Adrestrians, they’re also low aren’t they-I can smell it on them, they’ll infect everything-” The one that Hyunwoo knows and the other, “The prince used to be so clever but he’s being poisoned by his cousin and that Tethran whore of his!” Jinsik keeps his mouth shut firmly when his father finally comes around and makes his way back over to him, cane knob tipping his chin up, “Speaking of infection–” It presses into the hollow beneath his jaw, just enough that air becomes a bit harder to take in, that his father’s eyes turned coal black are the only think that stay solid in his vision, “where have you been on these little excursions of yours? Putting out for whatever poor soul that treats you nice?”

“Thinking of turning someone into your savior?” His father had asked him the last time he was brought back, “Hoping some noble will see your pretty face and ignore the malevolence in your eyes? Think they’ll whisk you away and you’ll live happily ever after?”

“You think I’m the monster?”

“Just like your mother .”

“No-” He chokes out, trying to swallow but the cane presses in on him further, “No.” He stresses, “Promi-”

“Save your sorry promises for the goddess.” The pressure lets off and he gulps in air, “She’s seen the way you cavort with that Kang lord’s consort, more filth, the only good thing is that nothing can come of their union and muddy the noble blood.” A kick is aimed for his stomach, half hearted when his father stumbles backwards when trying to right himself again, “Pray She doesn’t send you into Kuanjui’s realm for the wickedness you bring into my lands, sinking your teeth into men, She’ll take you for that alone.”

She would never. She’ll take you first.

It’s such a horrifying thought to cross his mind that his eyes widen and his father catches it, “Thinking on all your ills already? Repenting?” He misreads the emotion, and flames begin to play in Jinsik’s mind, laced with the desire to see them engulf his father and he hates it, hates that he could even think it of another, “Let it prepare you then. Hell lasts a while for pestilence like you.” His father spits, hits the floor before Jinsik and taps the ground twice with his cane, “Now stand. Get out of my sight before I tell your prince you attacked your poor, hobbled father and make him do you in for me.”

And he would. Jinsik knows he would—wants to believe that the prince wouldn’t believe such a thing.

But Jinsik is worth nothing in the grand scheme of this kingdom. Nothing goes to him in the event of his father’s death.

So what would be the point of any of it?

Buzzing fills his head, dizzy when he stands but forces himself to straighten up despite the pain it brings his back and reaches for the door, a lie ready on his tongue when he feels blood drip down his cheek.

“Ah. I forgot.” His father stops him and he does not turn, begs the buzzing to continue so as to not think, “Let us hope you truly haven’t sullied yourself.”

He doesn’t ask why.

“I’ve promised you to someone.”

He doesn’t want to care.

“I’ll be rid of you. Maybe a good woman will be able to do something for you.”

He pushes open the door and walks through. When it closes behind him he finally feels the tears as they stream down his face and lets them fall as silently as he can, biting his lip to keep the noise in. It’s only a few moments he hopes, as the candles lit in the hall barely provide any more light than the window at the end of the hall does, determined to go clean himself up before slipping back into the group and pretending nothing’s wrong, that he’ll be free come morning.

So when he turns his head and sees a figure there in his tear blurred sight he scrambles away, nearly losing his footing in the process. The last person he expects to see is there, and it just happens to be Hyunwoo, standing a few feet away with arms crossed over his chest as he tracks Jinsik loosely.

The words scramble in his brain, tries to find some excuse but there’s not many to be had when tears sting the wound on his face.

He clears his throat, “You’re not supposed to be here.” My father would kill you.

Hyunwoo snorts, “No, I’m not.” He says but he doesn’t sound all that disturbed by the accusation. His face is still just as how it usually is, hard and stern as he squints but something softens, “But I don’t think you should be either.”

“I don’t want to be.” He whispers. And Hyunwoo just nods, something inside Jinsik breaking, rushing the other when his arms drop to his side, wrapped around Hyunwoo’s and buries his face into the other’s collar, tears soaking through. A hesitant arm wraps around his middle and holds him there, matched only by a more reluctant one that presses against the nap of his neck but Hyunwoo makes no move to push him away.

They shouldn’t stay here long, he knows. His father won’t confine himself to his study for long and he doesn’t want to be found, not like this, not in the arms of another man, finds little strength to pull back and wipe at his face when Hyunwoo releases him entirely.

“We need to go.”

“We do.” Hyunwoo parrots, making no move to do so, “Calm yourself down first.”

“No, we-quick, before because he’ll-”

“He—the wolf that man apparently is—is drink off his ass; I can smell the fucking from out here.” Jinsik has doubts, doesn’t smell a thing though, “So if he wants to come out and start anything I’m sure the both of us can take him.” Jinsik can’t. And Hyunwoo begins to chew his own lip the moment he says that, “Not that I’d fare well in the aftermath.”

Commoner. Leicester commoner. Attacking a Faerghan noble in his own house.

The prince’s hand would most surely be forced on the matter.

“So calm down a moment.” Hyunwoo says firmly, “Need you to lead me back and you can’t do that when you barely saw me coming.”

“I-you snuck up-I just didn’t hear-” He defends himself but surprisingly the other chuckles, “You’re the one-”

“Was looking for you.” Hyunwoo pats at his arm, gives him a once over before frowning, “Now come on. Some of them already started trying to climb the walls.” It doesn’t take much thought, even in his mind, scattered as it is, to think of who that could be.

He asks what color the carpets were as he’s pulled down the hallway towards the main staircase, coming to a cross section. Hyunwoo slows, “Blue? A weird blue?”” There’s no blue on the second floor; but one of the colors is close to that.

“Green?” Jinsik’s face pulls together, “A teal green?” And maybe as close to a yes as he can get when the other options don’t get anywhere closer to what Hyunwoo’s describing, “Have you seen teal-”

“I know what colors look like,” Hyunwoo snaps, “it’s just dark.” Jinsik doesn’t question it. Continues to not question when the other stumbles on a fold in the carpet, grabs his wrist without thinking to lead him along despite the way his palm stings. He points out where there are dips in the floor from wear and gets a muted noise of acknowledgement till they make their way to the southern hall where all the candlelight is bright enough he can count the boards on the ceiling.

‘It’s just dark.’ Jinsik wishes it was dark. He doesn’t like being in this part of the manor. He knows where they’re going now.

The banquet hall that’s been cleared out rests facing over the back gardens, knows full well what blooms out there and inhales sharp enough that Hyunwoo looks at him but doesn’t question. He pushes open the first set of double doors, polished and plainly carved mahogany between two stone pillars that have been chipped and molded to show impressions of rue flowers, of his father’s crest.

Seeing Beomgyu’s face, wide and alert at the table that’s been left for them, isn’t a shock, brown eyes growing larger when he gets a good look at Jinsik’s face, “Goddess above-” It’s the first true time that the air of warmth and calm drops as he scrambles up from his seat, “Taehyun.” Comes as a sharp whisper from the older’s mouth and a body rises from from one of the cots along the western wall.

“It’s not, that-it doesn’t… hurt.” He feels the need to lie even when he cringes at the featherlight touch of fingers against his cheek. He doesn’t like it, feels the familiar warmth of magic leak out from those same fingertips, rips his face away from Taehyun’s hand only to bump into Hyunwoo behind him, “It doesn’t hurt.” He repeats, a little firmer but most of them are already moving, sitting up from where they lay at the sounds of commotion and he shrinks again.

Because they’re looking at him. Because they’re seeing the one thing he’d wished he’d been able to hide.

Because it’s their prince that steps closer before Beomgyu can, face unreadable as he looks down at him.

“I told you.” Beomgyu hisses, “I told you it would be a bad idea-”

“I didn’t know-”

“I had said-!” Taehyun is the one to stop them, a hand over the older’s mouth, stops them from bickering like Jinsik’s not there, like it’s not Jinsik that they’re arguing about, his hands shaking at his side, his lip caught in his teeth as Taehyun whispers that Sunghoon is their prince.

“It’s fine.” He says, “It’s fine.” He tries to beg, his father’s words stinging into him, “I’m fine-” but his voice cracks and the turn on him, wide eyed as he heaves.

“I’m sorry.” The prince says, and Jinsik gets a breath in before the older turns and faces the rest of the group, “I’m sorry, I’d known how he was but not to this extent;” And does not know the ways in which his father had spoken of them, Jinsik would never repeat it, “To burn this place down would be-”

“No! No, absolutely not!” Heeseung is the first to break off from the rest, fumbled off a bottom bunk and stumbling over as Jinsik tries to process words he wouldn’t dream of hearing, “You cannot just burn down a noble’s home! Especially not one that has opened it’s door to us in a time like this, think rationally- ”

“But…” The prince gets out only to be struck silent, contemplative at his sworn knight’s face, the hand that wraps around his and Jinsik looks away as to not be struck with whatever unkind words his father would have at the display. He’s sure the horror of their words is quite evident on his face though, the rest of them staring, waiting. He’s terrified. Even in his wildest dreams he’d had never believed words like that would be put together, the idea that his childhood home could go up in flames and the blood that’s soaked into the wooden floors would go with it. It might take him with it—

It’s startling. Freeing. But startling. So much so that he cannot contain the way his hands wring themselves together, nails biting into his skin and he wishes, he prays that it does not happen, not now, there are things to be done, it can't be now.

“You can’t do that.” He finally says, even though the thought continues to play over and over in his mind, hears his father in agony the way he’s been, “You can’t.” And a sob rips from his throat. He doesn’t know who gets their arms around him first, only that they hold strong even when he pushes, pressure keeping him stuck before there are more, before he is surrounded by them and he suffocates willingly. They don’t let go even as his legs give out, dropped to the floor and kept still.

In the dying light of the fire he is allowed to weep, able to ache, and he falls into it until there is nowhere else to fall.

He lifts his head and there is his prince, looking down at him once again with that same terse face, brought on by his anguish and it’s that side that he wishes more of them could see.

Jinsik knows beasts. Their prince is not one of them. He is merely a boy, barely a man, with the weight of a country on his shoulders, nails that strike out unknowingly. Pride is a man’s worst enemy, bred into them when they’re young; their prince’s pride is deserved.

Even in this self piteous moment Jinsik just wishes the other would handle it well.

⚔

The moon nearly gives out her last breath by the time he’s let up, time lost in the taste of salt and copper on his tongue and the hands that hold him steady. Copper hair is the first to come from beyond them, fox eyes rimmed red with reasons of their own and Jinsik mourns it, “Let him be for now.” Jeongin reaches for him, helping him to his feet by a warm hand that contrasts with Beomgyu’s cooler one, his hip aching, “He needs his own rest before the sun rises.” 

Their prince looks at him one last time before nodding, “Before we leave in the morning… grab anything you wish to take that you hadn’t. I’ll make sure there’s room for it in the carts.”

He’s startled by this, unnerved by the whispering that begins between Beomgyu and his fiancé, “Why?”

“You’re not coming back here.” A different voice, one that hadn’t spoke up before, Seeun smirking from where he’s sat at the wooden table in the middle of the room. He and the prince share a look, shrugging, “That, at least, we can both concede.”

“Not that burning the place down isn’t still an option.” Hunter sighs, “One of the first times we’ve ever agreed.” And were he more in his right mind Jinsik might be able to discern the look the prince gives the other but there are things that press on his mind when he wishes they wouldn’t tugged towards the bunk cots.

But where will I go? He doesn’t dare ask out loud. Things are being decided for him it seems, not given time to argue as he’s led and he does not miss the way that he nearly stumbles, carefully guided past the others. There’s more whispering, things he’s not to be privy to even when it involves him, a body taking up the spot across from him. Moonlight comes in through the window and hits the floor, illuminating knees and his eyes trail up until it’s Hyunwoo’s face he sees, mirroring the way he’s leaned up against the wall.

“My mother’s out there.” He blurts, staring through the glass. The garden, just outside, the roses in full bloom despite the frost as they always have been. Hyunwoo takes a look out there before looking back at him, undisturbed by the sudden confession, “Buried, beneath the roses.”

They won’t stop whispering. They always whisper.

They whispered before then too.

He moves to point out the window towards the fullest bush and Hyunwoo leans forward to try and follow it but Jinsik’s sure by now that the other can’t fully make out what he’s pointing at. Still he keeps pointing, hears the shuffling as the others break up, as the fire is killed for the night and Beomgyu’s hand lays at his shoulder before making his way to the top bunk, but Jinsik can hear her, every time he’s in this wing he can hear her.

They should sleep. They really should. But tears start anew and Hyunwoo sighs at him before grabbing his hand and moving it from the glass.

“She’s doing her best to keep them blooming. Maybe she’ll get to meet my mother one day.” He’s told and suddenly it’s worse, suddenly he’s made things worse, again, “If your mother’s anything like you, they’ll get along.”

He doesn’t stop crying.

⚔

In the morning he aches, bleary eyes crusted shut and he rubs at them to find Hyeongjun’s face there, leaned over his bed as if to wake him. It startles both of them, mostly him as he flinches back and shakes the hair out of his face as the other sits on the edge of the bed,

“Breakfast.” Hyeongjun smiles, “Biscuits and honey; rice cake soup, and other things from our generous host.” And he surmises that Hyeongjun’s been let in on what happened the night before. He can smell it, hears them before he sees them, crowded together at the table past his feet. Two of father’s servants, young scullery maids, stand there by each of the doors. They eye him before their gazes dart away, planted on the table. Or rather the people at the table.

What they say won’t be in confidence. Father will know everything. Not that he wouldn’t anyway. When he rises and allows himself to be tugged forward by Hyeongjun’s pinched grip at his cuff he’s nearly relieved to hear them talking more of impending doom than any silly talk of him leaving, takes the open seat next to Hunter before Hyeogjun squeezes in beside him.

A plate is presented to him, Beomgyu pushing the ceramic across the table, everything sectioned out by itself and untouching and he is thankful, hands rubbed together before his fingers intertwine. His head dips in prayer, led by Heeseung who thanks the goddess for a filling meal, for the safety they will have, asks that no harm come to Her believers before he is allowed to pick up his fork and eat, hungrier than he’d thought.

Battle strategy talk makes it wane however, Sunghoon briefing them, a recitation of what they’ve already know, plans already set in stone, nothing to fret over if it’s overheard by them, even when the prince spares them a glance over his soldier, “I am reminding you of the purpose of this mission. The church has already sent their detail to engage the conflict but we’re to take up the rear and suppress anything left behind. An easy task but while we had been assured that no fighting is to be done on our part I’m not negating the possibilities that there could be one.”

“Keep your wits about you.” Heeseung says, spoon scraping his bowl, “We don’t know what we’re walking into in full, only that there is a battlefield waiting for us to observe at the very least.”

“There will be a fight, we’re dealing with the stragglers.” Jinsik leans forward, sees Seeun on the opposite side of Hunter, “We’re the clean up crew, don’t mince your words.”

“Cousin-”

“I understand your want to change but now isn’t the time for your forced benevolence.” Seeun gestures around the table with his fork, “I know what happens when things you're unprepared for happen.” He gives the prince a hard look, head cocked, “You’ve learned that recently too. Just because we’re told they’re won’t be a fight doesn’t mean we are to trust that.”

“This isn’t the first time we’ve had infighting. We know what to expect.”

“We do.” Seeun agrees, looks between the prince and Heeseung. A glance is spared for Taehyun a little farther down the table who does not meet their eyes.

A contested area. A land stolen. Things happen in war. Rumors.

“We have lost enough.” Is said and Hunter’s shoulder moves into his, quickly removed with an apology but Jinsik does not mind it. The world that rested outside of Miach and then outside of the capital when he’d escaped had always been something funny. History murmured like fable, not spoken loud enough for anyone to truly here in an effort to keep enemies from knowing their weaknesses. Even now the four that belong to the other countries sit beyond their group, trying to look distracted, trying to not take in too much of things that shouldn’t be said about them, even as chummy as they’ve been so far they try to draw a line between them now.

But with this battle they’re on the same side. And Jinsik’s cheek throbs when he thinks on whether or not there’s something else that has made their prince choose those with no noble ties to come along.

If there were he’d have no way of knowing, doesn’t think there could be.

There’s not much time to dwell on worrying things, their prince sighing, “This isn’t like the border fights. This is within us. We’ll deal with it; no matter what happens.”

And with that all of their eyes finally move, reaching the end of the table where reddened hair and fox-like eyes continue to glare into a plate that’s gone untouched.

Beyond taking Jinsik to bed Jeongin hasn’t said a word since they left. No room for conversation on the trek here when they were moving as fast as they could, no break to fully talk about what was to happen after the state the Jinsik was in when he’d stumbled into the room. Jinsik doesn’t know who the older talks to outside of Heeseung who’s been preoccupied—doesn’t know if he has talked to someone about it all.

But he does now, again, a forlorn face giving way to eyes that burn, that glare at somewhere past them all,

“We’ll do what we must.”

Because it’s Jeongin’s foster father who stands at the epicenter of it all. It’s Jeongin’s savior—Jinsik’s heard him called as much—that has couped with the western church.

It’s Jeongin’s family that will have to be eliminated, should the church decide as much.

‘I have already grieved.’ Jeongin had told them before setting out, the first and only words to be said on the matter, ‘If they decide to kill him it’s out of my hands.’

It’s in the church’s. It’s in the goddess’s.

⚔

Magred Way—during the springtime, when the snow pulls back enough that the flowers can bloom—is a beautiful place. Jinsik has fond memories of watching his brother hunt up in this area, too young to hold a bow, too soft to bring himself to learn.

The Magred Way that they begin to travel thought is not something he’s all that familiar with, snow laden trails, half slush from being melted in the early afternoon as they travel through its more southern bend. It’s rough, their guard of knights and not knights—mercenaries and brigands having turned over a new leaf—take up the space before and behind them. The closer they get the harsher the air becomes, denser and darker and his hands ache with the grip he has on Moghwa’s reins, hurting in different ways when the terrain isn’t smooth.

Lanterns are lit but they cut through the fog in minimal ways, barely giving a wagon’s breath of space in front of them to see, suffocating when he can’t judge the distance between them and whatever bloodshed they’ll walk into as they near the Gaspard border.

“We’re at a disadvantage.” Beomgyu had tried to joke, “Only Jeongin knows the terrain out here.”

He’d agreed. But what good does that do when you can’t see the path to begin with?

“They talk about this.” He hears beside him. Hyunwoo doesn’t face him as he continues, voice dropping to match the murmur of conversation that pops up in bubbles around them, unwilling to fully break the silence, “Fog of war. Some mages can do shit like this.”

“A mage has made the fog?” He whispers back and Hyunwoo turns his head towards their rear. He’s heard of it, those that have made a pact with something otherworldly. Never seen it in action, chalked it up to a myth the way his brother had talked about it when he was young.

Hyunwoo’s head jerks towards the forest beside them, stays there before it slowly turns back to the road, “Is this normal fog to you?” He’s asked as a bow is drawn, an arrow nocked and drawn back. Jinsik’s mouth purses, confused before it’s let loose, “Listen.”

The conversations had already died down, attention drawn by the archer’s motions and Jinsik’s as thankful as he is not, that they are nearly silent, the whirring of arrow splitting through the wind above their horse’s hooves, slowly quieting.

Until it hits something solid. Not wood but metal.

Jinsik freezes. Nearly all of them do. And then they’re spurred into action.

“At arms.” One of the knights says from the front, not a shout but loud enough they all hear it, that the unsheathing of swords and dismounting of horses is heard. Even Hyunwoo right beside him slips to the ground and takes another arrow from his quiver.

Jinsik doesn’t move. Jinsik doesn’t want to move, wears callouses into his hands with the way he rubs at the reins because they’re all moving and they’re all moving too fast.

“Jinsik.” Beomgyu’s voice calls to him. He shakes his head and there is a tug at his reins, a hand above his as Moghwa is moved forward with the rest of them, “It will be alright. Come now, get down, it’s okay.” And stiffly he is forced to swing his leg over, helped to slide down from his perch, an arm around his shoulder as a lantern is passed into his hand and an arrow flies above them, “You remember what you are to do, right?”

The flame shakes with the force of his own trembling, “Stay near the horses. Ears open. Palms out.” He mumbles. It had been simplified for him. You are a healer. That is all you have to your name. You do it well.

“Good.” Beomgyu tells him, and the ground, soggy beneath their shoes gives way to something mossy, and the tree trunks that have pushed them together lessens, giving way to a clearing he knows they’re entering, the shape of it like a stomach, curving, opening to bend around a mountain where prey like them come to graze. The sky opens up above them, their only way of knowing, of seeing beyond the direction that Jeongin had given.

He can hear them now, body pressed against Moghwa where Beomgyu places him near the entrance of the clearing, watching the others pass and pats his head, tells him okay, because what else can it be. A knight comes towards him, fog giving way to plated armor and a lance who’s tip gleams by the lantern light.

Jinsik remembers his face from Zanado. And it seems his face is remembered as well when he’s given a kind smile and a nod, “You have my word.” He says to Beomgyu without being given an oath. Protection. Because Jinsik can do nothing but press his hands to torn skin and pray it mends back together. Jinsik nods. Beomgyu leaves.

And he sees a bit too much when a man clothed in white’s head meets the end of a knight’s axe.

Ears open.

He closes his eyes. He can’t stomach it, pressing his face into Moghwa’s coat. 

The loss of that sense makes everything louder and his hands flail near his chest with the need to cover his ears, to drown it out but this is his one job, feels a mail coated hand tug touch his arm firmly, “Open your eyes.” The knight says and Jinsik wishes he remembered his name, “I know it’s hard but you must look.” Sir Minho’s voice overlays the one he hears, memories of being tossed in the river chilling him.

“You are at a school that teaches you how to fight. You will learn how to survive.”

What choice is there, when is there ever any choice—he opens his eyes as he hears thunder but the sky is bright above the fog, ears ringing as the noises gets closer, and closer.

They’re being rushed, bodies come out of the mist at startling speed, throwing their group into the fray at the smell of fresh blood as the fog moves like wafts of smoke opening up in pockets, disappearing as the area crowds with white cloaked figures and the nights that had already been here to deal with them. 

This is the aftermath they were tasked with observing, suppressing. This is chaos, bodies blending together in the fog, bits of metal jutting out from masses of white and red, knights and his companions looking like they fight beasts of snow, bodies contorted in heaps as they fall to the ground.

It is torture, to stand and watch what little is in his view, cringing at the blood that spills but he does not turn his head for fear of being reprimanded again, his weight shifting. The first of the bodies brought to him is a knight whose armor has been peeled off his lower leg, the skin red and blistering, open sores along the bone, burned by a mage whose hand brings fire as the man’s nails dig into the knee above it. Jinsik grits his teeth as he presses his hands to the skin and prays he does something for it, blocks out the man that screams and yells that they’re own healer, his wife, is dead, split in two and he silently begs that the man stop, that he ceases the tale that makes his hand shake, wet with little blood that he wipes onto the edge of his cloak as the man is carried to rest not far from him, knowing that pile will grow before long. 

He stays kneeling, using it as a way to keep his eyes farther from bloodshed, trained on the melting eyes that wets his knees and uses that discomfort to keep himself present when he wants not to be, wants to escape as he looks up at the sound of shouting.

A bolt, yellow and curved sparks through the air and his mouth shudders. Five bodies, white stained red, drop not far from where he is, close to where the fog turns thick enough to hide them, their bodies convulsing and shuddering, soon to be dead. A head of black hair steps from just beyond that, close enough for Jinsik to see kind eyes turned hard, a busted lip trickling down a scuffed chin.

Taehyun looks at him, sword dangling in his hand by his side as he mouths ‘Come’ before disappearing beyond the fog again and Jinsik rises so fast he stumbles as he reaches for the lantern. He trails behind the other, quick on his feet as footsteps follow behind him and his head aches with the density of the fog, the sounds of screaming and yelling growing greater, a pack of bodies dropping to ground near him in a scuffle but he doesn't know who it entails or what, biting his lip to keep from crying out as his feet move forward.

A spray of blood arcs in the air just within sight and he hastens, nearly trips on the uneven ground beneath the slosh as someone drops to the ground. There is so much of it. So much of all of it, the fog, the blood, the bodies, the stench of copper mixed with salt, tasted on the air when his breathing quickens and he begins to pray as his voice is pulled forward by Taehyun’s shadow that moves quicker than he can before it disappears and Jinsik’s vision fills with the prince and his lance, pushing off a white cloaked man and his sword, pressing the other backwards as he looks down to find blood coating the earth at his feet, flowing from a tear in what sees now is Hyunwoo’s arm, the other flattened on the ground, head cushioned on reddened ice.

The knight that’s been following rushes past him, goes to help the prince but Jinsik’s knees hit the ground as he crawls forward, it’s just an arm, it’s just that, nothing more, but Hyunwoo doesn’t move as he comes up behind him, the lantern nearly knocked over as he places it down and reaches out.

It’s not just an arm.

A large gash breaks the skin at the archer’s temple, the bone beneath giving way when it shouldn’t as his fingers press it and blood pools in his palm as the other’s head and makes him roll so he can get a better look. He wants to vomit .

“‘s fine-” Hyunwoo slurs, a whispers above the commotion and Jinsik does not waste breath in whispering back, doesn’t trust his voice as he holds the other’s head up with one hand, pressing his palm to the wound with the other, “Don’t… worry.”

Stay awake, he pleads when Hyunwoo’s eyes start to fall close, please don’t go to sleep, not yet, please.

“I’ve got you.” He finally gets out, “It’s okay, I’ve got you-” and his cheeks become as slick as his hands, tears hitting Hyunwoo’s face. Bones become firm under his hand, a slow process, taxing, skin knitting together just to staunch the blood but there’s so much, heads always bleed so much, and Hyunwoo’s eyes fully close, body too lax, deadweight in Jinsik’s hands, “No, no, don’t do that-” He rasps. 

Footsteps thunder towards him—the knight, he thinks, hopeful, just the knight, I don’t have time, he can’t help—but a whisper in his mind tells him to glance, to looks up-

His own reflection stares at him from the blade of a sword. It comes swinging to greet him and Hyunwoo’s blood soaks into the ground, screaming growing to a buzz and his breath stops.

Let it hit me and not Hyunwoo. Please. Let it take me.

That is the last thing he thinks as he closes his eyes and waits for the burning strike of metal tearing through his skin and ripping it open but it never comes, instead something wet sprinkling over his face.

Has the rain come?

No. His eyes open to a man’s chest pierced through by a sword, both of them as shocked as the other before the man’s eyes roll back and the iron is ripped out of him, leaving his body to slump to the ground.

What sin had he committed against the goddess he so fully devotes himself to? What punishment is he receiving when Sir Minho stands there above the man’s fallen form, sword flicked to rid itself of the excess blood? A noise rips out of him, warmth still bleeding from his palm into Hyunwoo’s wound when the older man crouches, sword tip dug in the ground, at eye level as he stares harshly at Jinsik and the message is clear through that alone.

But Sir Minho has always prescribed to the way of the islands off the western coast’s way of beating in your lessons, not with fists alone but with words, each one of them clipped, “Do you see why you cannot resign yourself to healing alone?”

Jinsik doesn’t answer him, feels a new batch of tears come down his face as the blood in his hand stops pooling, staunched, and the heartbeat that’s beneath his arm beats steady against his friend’s ribs.

“If I were not here,” Sir Minho’s voice drawls over the sound of weapon against weapon, the sound of mail and fabric shredding, that same lightning sparking in his periphery, “what would have happened?”

He stares, teeth pressing against his lips before he whispers, “I would have died.”

“Why would you have died?”

Everything deafens down to a hum, background noise when he is leveled with a stare that pierces him through, his reflection in the flat surface of the blade that faces him, a face mottled with blood that tears carve their way through, purple skin around the cut on his cheek.

This is why he never looks.

“Because I have no weapon.”

“Because you have no weapon and you have no sense. ” The older growls, his chin jutting towards Jinsik’s face, “Who did that to your face?”

What point is there to lie, right now, death very close but not taking him, “My father.”

“Ah. The most senseless of them all.” Sir Minho spits in the dirt before he spins on his heel and strikes into the closest blob of white he can reach. The finger of his glove is pinched between his teeth when he settles back, pulls it off and drops it to the ground as he once again regards Jinsik, “When we get back you are going to pick up a blade— any of them, a fucking knife if need be—or you will learn the way of reason. Or you will repeat this event and next time I will not be here to save you.” He gestures to Hyunwoo, “Where is the other wound, I’ll help.”

“I’m healing him.” Jinsik croaks, I can do this, this is all I have, I can do this thing.

Sir Minho levels him with another look.

“And you are doing fine at that, look his head doesn’t pour onto the ground.” He doesn’t like when the other’s hand reaches for Hyunwoo’s shoulder and pulls him up, looking where the wound Jinsik saw first is leaking into the thigh of his pants where it’d been pressed, “You’re bracing the other wound with your leg, good, yes you do good healing.” And it should be praise, the way it’s said, softened as Sir Minho moves Hyunwoo’s to the ground, “But now you must share the weight, Jinsik the Senseless, because there will be much more to heal than this.” Hyunwoo’s sleeve is torn open where it’s already sliced, Sir Minho clicking his tongue at the sight,

“When you take more care of yourself, I will let you handle more. Until then you will share your burdens.”

And Jinsik has no choice.

Chapter Text

Purple Orchids

- Junghoon -

5th of April; 
Sovereign Year 1143

Junghoon’s come to find if there’s one good thing about the monastery then it’s been the greenhouse.

With stone walls and steps, grass that’s long dried out in the courtyards outside the bottom the bottom down the place isn’t much in tune with the goddess as he’s known Her. There are flowers placed in shadowed corners—artificial, placed too methodically like the mountain was razed and then built up in this structure only to forget that one of Her tenants had to do with being one with the world.

The flower garden behind the dining hall doesn’t count, he thinks, closed off and towered over by yellowstone windowless buildings rather than lofty trees and it’s a suffocating cage of manicured bushes that swallow up the walls. When they go to the clearing by the river to train he’s not let out of sight, stuck where the grass has been trampled down beneath boots for so many years it’s stubborn in its refusal to grow any higher after years of trauma, rolling hills populated by nothing but boulders and the occasional wildflower he warns the others not to pick—his mother taught him about them, four petals alternating white and red, said to mark where She once walked.

That doesn’t stop him from picking one, “Give a Godswort to someone you care about and their nightmares end. Give it to someone you loathe and they’ll begin.” 

He’d wanted to see if it worked. He always wanted to be proved wrong, given Godswort by his mother before going to Arundel, only for it to–

Unnecessary. That’s over with.

So the greenhouse becomes the closest thing to home he’s got, small as it is. Fogged glass between metal frames half blotting out light, its door kept open during the day but he’s one of the only students he ever sees come in. It’s got no more than three large beds, one across the back and two jutting from the front that make a T shaped walkable space, various herbs grown in batches where they won’t harm others. Some of them he’s only ever seen in his grandfather’s book, native to lands beyond Fodlan as a whole, transplanted here and there’s a wealth of potential in some of them, famed plants known for curing the illest in days if not hours if done right.

It’s interesting then, that right next to some of the most potent healing herbs in the known world should be its distant cousin, nearly identical beyond the color of its buds that are beginning to bloom.

“Ah,” he hears, a small warning noise just above the sound of water running, “make sure not to touch that one.”

And it’s unfortunate that he remembers that the greenhouse isn’t entirely his alone to roam. From where he’s crouched at the edge of the bed nearest the door, hands pressed to his knees he turns, finds the owner of the voice coming around the edge of the other bed with a watering can, black hair cut longer than most here and dressed casually—Junghoon pretends that he’s not a bit jealous of that fact, forced to stay in uniform on weekdays even when class doesn’t start until late today.

But Junghoon’s also always just a bit thrown off whenever he sees Yeosang out of anything that isn’t bulky armor twice his size; you get to learn a lot about a man when he carries you, Junghoon thinks, talks to you to keep the shell shock from taking hold.

He’s thankful. He won’t admit it but he is. Weeks have passed and all he’s got to remember is a twinge in his calf when he moves wrong.

“I won’t.” Junghoon eventually murmurs back, his eyes dragging back over where pink petals are sprouting next to red, “Morci inferfus. Kuanjui’s Root.”

“Oh!” Comes out surprised and it echoes on the glass as Yeosang steps a bit closer, “How interesting. Didn’t expect one of you to know what it is, been batting away hands since the first day.”

He’s not at all shocked by that fact. The plants are more siblings than cousins, but still he nods and picks at the dirt in front of a bed of silkweed next to it, “It’s famous.”

Being talkative somehow becomes an invitation for Yeosang to couch beside him, water sloshing in its can as he places it down, “Famous in that it’s never been seen all that much. Let me guess,” he hums, “‘Fodlan’s Guide to the Mystical’ by Choi Soobin? Or perhaps ‘Your Grandmother’s Guidebook’ by Kim Jaejoong?”

“‘Herba Incensus’ by Kim Jonghyun.”

“Ah, that’s a name you don’t hear a lot; a much, much older text. A shame though—if it had been the first our librarian would’ve loved to hear it.”

He flushes, deja vu from a nearly identical conversation with said librarian, “It’s my mother’s.”

“How interesting.” The older muses. From the corner of his eye he watches as Yeosang’s face shifts, “What was your family’s house again?”

“I’ve no noble blood.” He says quickly.

“Does that deny your family their name?” Yeosang chuckles, standing to his full height and Junghoon shifts away when the water splashes out of the can and hits the stone at his feet. He doesn’t tell Yeosang what the other should know—that a family having a name doesn’t mean they have a house they belong to. That being here with his name printed under the Orchids is the closest he’s gotten and as close as he wants to get to being communed to and belonging to an entity. 

Must work differently in Leicester, he supposes, conceding “Kim.” partially to get the conversation over and done with. 

Yeosang hums in acknowledgement. Junghoon doesn’t need to look up at him to hear the wheels turning in his head.

“Adrestrian Kim?”

“No relation.” He says dully, trying to not make it obvious when he won’t look up, glances out the glass door towards the dorms instead. He doesn’t like that Yeosang doesn’t say anything in return, doesn’t like that suddenly his skin itches beneath his shirt, dirt stuck under his fingernails when he digs them into the soil.

“Interesting.” Yeosang says again. It shouldn’t be. A mundane coincidence, nothing more nothing less, nothing worth dwelling on. Picking up the pink and swallowing it would fix the half hearted pin prick of panic that makes his jaw tighten when the older hums again but the problems that would come along with it would be more than burdensome.

He hears a door open, looks up again around the door to see the room by the stairs opening, and the other reason for hanging out around the herbs appears, a bundle of clothes in crossed arms and barely brushed hair. Junghoon doesn’t say a word when he stands and walks—wants to run—the little way it takes to catch up with Hyunwoo in the dry grass, feet quiet enough that the older doesn’t seem to notice him till their shoulders bump together.

An elbow catches in his stomach and he laughs when the impact’s not as harsh as it has been, paired with another fist coming towards his arm that he dodges. Face scrunched up and lip snarled, Hyunwoo would almost be menacing.

If it was anyone but Hyunwoo. And if Junghoon were anyone but Junghoon.

To Junghoon, Hyunwoo barely looks like he’s got a fight to him, particularly when his hand is too easy to catch, the bump on his lip where he chews it more pronounced, fascinating to watch when he’s easy to rile up.

“Do you enjoy giving me a heart attack?”

“A little.” He says, honestly, because as easy as Hyunwoo’s riled he’s pacified, a sigh let out as the older lets their hands drop. Hyunwoo mutters something, ‘so bored he’s hunting me’ and that’s an interesting interpretation, for sure, when back in Igna the sentiment would be synonymous with courting and he has to shake the thought from his head manually. Hyunwoo starts to walk again and stubborn refusal to let go of a warm wrist means Junghoon’s pulled along too, immune to the grumbling complaints he gets along the way, “Going to the baths?”

“Why? Going to follow me there too?”

“Might.” The sun must be harsh today because it pinkens Hyunwoo’s tanner skin before the other turns from him. He quickens his step, easy to get a bit ahead of Hyunwoo to look at him, “You’ll miss breakfast.”

“I do that sometimes.”  He’s told and frowns, “What’s that look for?”

“You shouldn’t.”

Hyunwoo huffs out his nose, “Go get breakfast then.” Firm, no room for argument. Too bad Junghoon likes being difficult, grip a little tighter when the older tries to shake him off, “Junghoon.” He’s warned and doesn’t listen. Hyunwoo’s easy to wear down, sighs at him again like Junghoon’s just some common pest before shoving his shoulder into Junghoon’s lightly, “Like a cat.”

“I’m not a cat.” Junghoon argues but Hyunwoo’s lips curve up, breaking into a smile as he turns his face away but Junghoon’s seen it, Junghoon’s won.

By the time they’re at the foot of the steps to the bath house and Junghoon’s almost fully convinced that Hyunwoo won’t run off he lets go, “Library. After class.”

He gets a confused look, a raised eyebrow as Hyunwoo’s arms wrap around his bundle of clothes, and the gentle breeze brings jasmine from the soap Junghoon knows he uses.

“Your first lesson.” He shrugs.

Hyunwoo chuckles, “You’re really convinced, aren’t you?”

“No.” He says, because that’s the more realistic answer and the one that makes Hyunwoo’s eyes widen with surprise, “But like I said, neither of us have anything better to do.” 

⚔

Despite liking to not stick out, to not be noticed—a bad habit according to his father—Junghoon unfortunately gains a bit of a reputation with a few of the workers at the monastery.

Mostly the librarian.

A head of blonde hair pops up immediately when he steps over the threshold, a close lipped smile thrown his way that he nods to before he’s beckoned over to the table the man has commandeered for his research, things that he knows Junghoon’s got some kind of interest in. There’s at least six books left open around him, different plant diagrams and maps, some full bodies of text, and a ceramic dish with a handful of soil on it under a cloche, not far from where Soobin’s scribbling half thought observations. When he gets closer he can see that there is a plant pushing through the dirt, a leaf barely of a pinhead, so green he nearly swears it illuminates the soil around it.

It’s got a hole in the middle of it, something strange and unnatural, so perfectly circular that it makes him frown. His silence is regarded thoughtfully by Soobin who can sense the questions that begin brewing, “Not something you see everyday, is it?”

“It’s got a hole.” He says plainly, “Leaves don’t have holes unless they’re bitten through.”

“Persopho umbra. Ilko.” A name that doesn’t ring any bells, “An oddity.” Soobin gestures to one of the open books, “It should be as common as it isn’t; a Brigidian variety of yumo.”

Turning his head sharply, his eyes widen, “Yumo?” That’s a more familiar name, played in myths written from the goddess’s time, the herb that fell from the stars and gave Her–

“The Gift of Immortals.” Soobin sighs, “It’s such an underdeveloped area of study.”

“Because it doesn’t exist.”  

“But this does.” Soobin states softly, doesn’t even mean it as an argument but Junghoon’s brow pinches nonetheless and the older laughs at him, “Curious. Of all the students I’d thought you’d find this the most interesting.” The problem isn’t that he doesn’t find it interesting, no he is.

It’s that it’s nothing more than a fairy tale to be chased, “Yumo doesn’t exist.”

“But ilko does.” He’s once again told kindly, but there will always be a limit. His arms hang by his sides lamely up until Soobin reaches for the cloche and lifts it, releasing into the air a peppery scent. His nose itches instantly, a hand lift to scratch at it as Soobin turns with dish in hand, “Allergic?” How would he know when he’s never even thought that it existed? When he says that Soobin pulls the dish back and hums, “Caution then. Looks like you won’t be gaining immortality anytime soon.”

“Not with a plant that doesn’t exist.”

“This does-”

“What does ilko even do?” He scoffs, “Yumo gives immortality.” HE points to the now contained bud, the smell still pungent, “What can that thing do then, hm?”

And perhaps it comes out a little too harsh—perhaps his nonchalance about things from this morning wasn’t as much a buffer as he thought—because Soobin’s expression changes to something more taken aback and Junghoon immediately—internally—regrets it. But he isn’t given a chance to apologize, even if he felt inclined to, as Soobin’s face smoothes back out to something more placid.

“Rebirth. Life after death.”

He takes a step back.

“That’s-” stupid. So stupid, he thinks. Nothing like that can exist, people don’t come back but footsteps draw his attention away and he hears Soobin turn in his chair as well.

Hyunwoo stands in the open doorway, regarding Soobin carefully, or so Junghoon surely thinks when Hyunwoo won’t take his eyes off the older man until his feet are planted closer to Junghoon’s. And even then he refuses to turn his back to Soobin, harmless church librarian and herbalist Choi Soobin and Junghoon files that away as something else he finds intriguing about the archer.

He feels a tug at the cuff of his jacket, “Am I early? Or late?” Hyunwoo asks, squinting at the arrangement on the table.

“On time.” He tugs his hand back and Hyunwoo’s follows, not releasing him until it’s fully out of reach, “We’re stealing the back corner.” He tells Soobin who nods enthusiastically and waves them off.

“You have my prayers.” The older tells them, a little loud for a library but there’s no one else here, voice following them across the room, “He’ll make a fine healer.”

He doesn’t miss the way that Hyunwoo cringes at both statements.

They’re once again in that same corner where Junghoon had offered his help, sat under the map because having some semblance of nostalgia for Igna does wonders for his moods, dropping down to the floor and Hyunwoo stares at him.

“Sit.”

“Am I a dog?” He’s asked even as Hyunwoo carefully lowers himself too, quick to strike out when Junghoon tells him if you like, less doglike and more just… good with orders, something that would’ve been good at Arundel–

He shakes his head. That’s over and done with. He’s not there, he’s got to remember he’s not there.

“So how do we…” Hyunwoo trails off once Junghoon grabs his hand and pulls it towards his lap, making the other’s hand flatten out so he can get a good look at it. Hyunwoo’s silent as he searches, lets him take the other and investigate it as well, thumb trailing over callouses that have built up from pulling bowstrings taut, skin smoother in some places than others, “What are you looking for?”

“A cut of some king.” He says, “You always have one.”

“I’m not clumsy-”

“Clumsy, no. You’re… something else.” Intensely acute to details but unable to see broader things. The forest through the trees. He finds what he’s looking for, a little notch in the older’s ring finger on his second knuckle that’s already scabbed over but hasn’t healed underneath. Hyunwoo—rightfully, Junghoon will give him that—starts to pull away when he starts picking at it, noises of aggravation flying at him as he works hard to keep hold of the other’s hand, “I can fix it.”

“It would’ve fixed itself!” The other argues back and Junghoon shushes him, puts a finger to his own lips.

“We’re in a library.” He’s got deja vu, too aware that Hyunwoo deflates almost instantly after swatting at his shoulder one last time. No blood comes from the wound, too small and thin, would’ve healed within the week but the layers he’s uncovered are bright red and useful. He presses a thumb to it, holding Hyunwoo’s hand in his own firmly, “Your professor had the right idea but wrong execution. You don’t learn under duress though, you learn from being healed.”

“Sounds like the same thing to me.”

“It’s not.” And he expects some kind of retort but he’s only met with a flat stare, eyes that dart down to their hands, “Close your eyes.” He says and waits til Hyunwoo does, watching the other’s eyes flutter close. Slowly Junghoon does the same, “You’re gonna focus on what it feels like to be healed. How wounds close on you.”

“You’re pulling this explanation out of your ass.” Junghoon presses down on the wound more firmly earning a sharp intake of breath, a hiss at the pressure. Technically the explanation had been his father’s.

“Focus. He says one last time, breathing in deeply, feel your ribs expanding, good, the goddess will dwell in you, sounding more like his father’s voice, words he never understood much of. The goddess never dwelled in people. She existed above them, outside of them, if She existed at all—another point of contention, another argument.

Junghoon’s powers, meager as they are, are his.

He’s just a little rusty with them, beginning to exhale as he concentrates. 

Through his thumb he feels a part of himself bleed into the other, the pad of it growing so warm that Hyunwoo’s usually tepid skin feels almost frigid in comparison. He pictures the way Hyunwoo’s blood would clot, the way skin would grow back in the small space, layering upon themselves until there would be nothing there, no scar with such a shallow slice.

He chokes, breathes out the last of his breath and hiccups as he quickly breathes in again. Hyunwoo’s staring at him more wide eyed than usual when he opens his own, with mouth slightly agape and his eyes are drawn to the bump that’s ever present when Hyunwoo chews his lip more than his own food.

“Did you feel it?” He asks, straight to the point. He gets a huff, a head cocked to the side before Hyunwoo sighs and drops his head, “No?”

“I thought you were suffocating-” gets snapped him, “-almost told you to stop-”

“Wouldn’t have had to.” Slowly he lifts his thumb off the wound, smoothes it up the other’s finger as he leans closer to inspect, “I would’ve stopped before then.”

“No one else nearly dies when they heal.”

This close Junghoon lets impulse drive him as he opens his mouth and makes a move to clamp onto the other’s hand before his head’s shoved away, takes soap clawing at salt on his teeth, “They do.” He argues, “Different methods.” There’s a Lily he’s seen nearly drop when trying to staunch a chest wound. Park Junmin tries to hide it but Junghoon’s seen the sweat that beads on the older’s head and the clench of his hand after a while, “You put yourself into the other person. Or you bring them in.”

He lets Hyunwoo sit with that, rearranges so he can stretch his legs out and rest against the books. He is rusty, still feels where his thumb burns from the concentration of magic there. It keeps his attention, prods a finger into his knee under the bone to take his mind off it until it goes away. As he does Hyunwoo traces over where the cut was, gentle strokes of his finger against his own skin before bringing it closer to his face,

“You put yourself into the other person?”

Junghoon nods, “Life for life. Cut for cut.” He says, mildly confused by the reverence that Hyunwoo seems to give the area, so much attention for a little spot.

Hyunwoo looks at him, “There’s no scar.”

“Small cut.”

“Sure you didn’t put too much of yourself into it?” Junghoon straightens up, eyes dodging the way Hyunwoo’s crinkle, smiling as he chuckles, “Teasing you.” Junghoon’s ears are red, burning him, but it thankfully isn’t commented on, “I know that smaller things require less. Yujun’s scars are almost unnoticeable now. I think? Tell that one mage he did a good job. If he likes compliments.”

“Not sure he likes anything.” Junghoon mumbles, because it's Junmin, before he moves to stand, “Stay.” falling out of his mouth before he thinks as he walks the line of books, trying to find… something, he’ll think of something but for moment he just needs up and away. 

Looking over he finds that Soobin’s disappeared, soundlessly somehow, until there are shadows in the hall and he turns back to his search. He finds what he’s definitely been searching for since standing, a simple book on anatomy plucked from its spot before he walks back and drops to his knees, “How much do you know about anatomy?”

“I know how to skin bears and gut deer.” Hyunwoo says with a click of his tongue, “Humans…” he gestures with his hands, shrugs, and Junghoon’s expected as much, flipping open to the chapter on skin, finds diagrams finely drawn and labeled, layers and layers on display.

He pushes the book towards Hyunwoo who’s drawn his knees up, “Homework. For right now the surface ones. Later we might get to the others.” He shrugs, “Unless we get desperate for a healer.” Even if desperation would have them picking him first.

Pointing, he makes sure Hyunwoo sees what he means, but he’s mildly surprised to find that the other keeps his arms wrapped around his legs, eyes flitting around the page and unable to settle on anything there. He hums, trying to get the older’s attention and succeeds in getting a sheepish expression as Hyunwoo unfurls himself and places a hand on the page close to his own.

“I…” Hyunwoo clears his throat, “Yea, I can… I can do that. That’s simple-” Junghoon decides that he doesn’t like this version of the older, nervous and hesitant, dimmed in a way that unsettles him.

Junghoon also decides—poorly—that now is the time that he should ask about something he’s been wondering for a while, when the evidence of it is right here in his face.

“Do you know what it says?” The wrong choice of words when Hyunwoo’s head snaps up and his lip curls back, and Junghoon decides he likes this version only moderately more.

“I know how to read! I know what words are!” It’s loud enough that his ears almost ring, misstepped severely in the words and jolts slightly. When Hyunwoo notices that he seems to simmer down, mouth pursed as he looks away, “I-”

“Hyunwoo, can you see?” He rewords, and that doesn’t appear to make Hyunwoo any less jittery, watches nails scrape at the wooden floor for something to grasp, “I’m not… making fun of you.” He says slowly, “Just want to know.” Just want to help.

Reluctantly, Hyunwoo’s eyes move to his, shaking as they do, uneasy, “Somewhat.” The older whispers, “Some things are… clearer than others, some blurrier. I know what you… mhm.” He looks away again, Junghoon’s shoulders sagging with the loss of it before he makes up his mind and stands again doesn’t bother telling Hyunwoo to stay as he makes his way up the aisle towards Soobin’s table, only halting when he quickly runs over the ramifications of taking a stray piece of parchment and the older’s quill and ink pot, a glance over to the doorway where shadows have now disappeared completely serving to bolster his already strong resolve as he swipes them.

“Who knows?” He asks as he sits back on the floor and flips the book to face him, redrawing the diagram as much as he can but it’s already coming out crudely, lines a bit shaky when there’s notches in the floor that are uneven.

“Just you.” Hyunwoo tells him. He looks up and their eyes meet again, something less fiery, more passive, a secret shared between them. His hand stops.

He’s never really had a friend to have secrets with.

He flips the paper over, tugging at Hyunwoo’s jacket, “I’m going to write A over and over. Tell me when it’s readable.”

“You don’t have to-” At the sharpness of Junghoon’s expression Hyunwoo halts, nods for Junghoon to continue, who does, A over and over, bigger and bigger until Hyunwoo stops him when it’s the size of his thumb’s tip to its first knuckle.

He lets out a puff of laughter, “And you’re an archer?” It’s meant as a joke, something small and off-handed to clear the air but it’s not taken as such. His words have an unearned bite to them, cause Hyunwoo to laugh disingenuously, disheartened, and his chest tightens at the sound, flipping over the paper to start copying the text, blood vessels and glands, dermis–

“Ironic, hm? I’m just good at… judging where things are.” The other explains and Junghoon frowns where the picture’s smeared, “Hearing’s… unfortunately better.”

The mock battle. Hyunwoo turning on a dime after Junghoon had snapped a branch far enough away to be more muted in relation to the chaos on the field, caught too quickly, “Oh?”

“Sleeping next to the stairs is a nightmare.” Hyunwoo laughs, tension trying to dissipate, but the sound is still tight, “It’s got some boons but…” the older clicks his tongue again, “not my first choice.”

Junghoon pauses, “Boons?” He questions.

The silence that follows stretches on long enough that he looks up and finds Hyunwoo once again looking at him with lips parted, slowly closing once he’s caught, “So I’m to study… skin?” Junghoon’s question’s ignored—quite blatantly to the point that even he raises an eyebrow, watching Hyunwoo swallow as he straightens up, “Skin?” Hyunwoo repeats, soft, but firmly refusing to answer the question even when Junghoon’s not sure he could conjure up his own boons to sleeping too close to the stairs—shares a wall with Jake who doesn’t make a sound on one side and a Lily that’s never in their own room on the other, wouldn’t move for anything except to be closer to the greenhouse-

He blinks. No. He shakes himself free of the thought even when Hyunwoo gives him a confused look. Surely not.

“Yes.” He says, clipped. Holding the paper where he thinks Hyunwoo might see it he points, “The more you know about how the layers interact the better. Healing works best-”

“When you close the skin first. Then deal with what’s below.” He looks but Hyunwoo only shrugs, “I got that much from Professor Seunghun’s lectures.” The paper’s taken, placed closer to his face as he scans over it before beginning to fold it, “How long til you want me-ah-” Hyunwoo wrenches his hand back from paper and Junghoon sees the thin line that begins to turn bright red in the light, just along the webbing where Hyunwoo’s thumb meets his forefinger. Without a second thought he reaches for it, thumb slipping against the skin there and closing his eyes. Not nearly as much breath is taken for something less than surface level, eyes opening halfway through breathing out. Hyunwoo’s had fallen closed too, opening as Junghoon pulls away, “I still don’t get it.” The older admits, flexing his hand, “Just feels warm.”

“There’s something beneath the warmth. You have to feel for it.” And it’s just as cryptic as his father had told him but it works, it’s something someone has to figure out for themselves. Hyunwoo’s brow furrows, ready to speak only for another voice to call out over the room.

“Hyunwoo?” It’s said in a loud whisper, in a library even though they’re being looked for, hidden behind the tables. Hyunwoo calls out here! and footsteps draw closer and closer until Junghoon is met with the face of the Lily that nearly dropped dead not long ago, the one he knows is always at the stables with Hyunwoo, nervous, hands tugging at the ends of his jacket, “Oh! I didn’t-am I interrupting something?” He speaks quickly.

Hyunwoo shakes his head, “He was teaching me-”

“-where most of the major arteries are. To aim at.” He stares up at the newcomer, ignoring the look he knows he’s getting from Hyunwoo. Something he’s said has soured this person’s expression, distaste reading over his features as he fidgets.

But Junghoon’s used to that type of reaction.

“Ignore him, Jinsik.” Comes from Hyunwoo and his shoulders tighten as he bristles in response.

“Ah. I see, um-” Jinsik clears his throat, “You wouldn’t happen-are you Kim Junghoon, by chance?”

“You need something from me?”

Jinsik nods, gesturing to Hyunwoo as well, “Both of you actually, ah, there’s something…” He pauses, eyes flicking around the room, “Something that the Lilies would like to request of you.”

He and Hyunwoo share a look, both confused when neither of them are from the same house, probably odd that he and Hyunwoo are together at any rate. Hyunwoo spares him by speaking first, “Request? Us?”

When Jinsik nods again Junghoon’s aware that there’s something grim about the other, more so than he’s seen before in spare glances, “Yes, there’s… been some trouble in Faerghus and we… have been allowed to ask for aid, uh-”

He and Hyunwoo of all people. Asked to accompany the Lilies to help in an act of suppression. Hyunwoo says it’s Yechan’s choice and that makes Junghoon feel inclined to do the same with the prince’s name. When Jinsik leaves as quickly and nervously as he came he knows that even Hyunwoo can feel that their choice has been taken away in the matter.

“Dress warmly.” Hyunwoo tells him, standing to his feet with an air of agitation that wasn’t there before, something that stabs more than prickles as the older holds a hand out to him, “Cats don’t do well in the cold.” Even as a joke it comes out tersely.

Junghoon doesn’t laugh.

Chapter Text

White Lilies

- Seeun -

13th of April; 
Sovereign Year 1143

The body that he’s pieced through slides off his blade with little resistance.

A muted thud reaches his ears when it hits the ground. There is no time to mourn on the battlefield however, not when the man that dies will be spoken of like he deserved it, not when Seeun feels a line of blood follow the curves of his neck where his lobe’s been sliced through. It stings, strangely warm when he’s freezing but training’s taught him to blot it out, to grip his sword tighter and move on, single-minded win, win, survive, clearing out the rest of his thoughts.

The fog is a pain, dulling his senses, but he hears them, he hears all of them, shouts and cries coming from beyond where his field of view begins to die out, dark shadows dancing beyond the force obscuring it. He’s lost sight of most of them—stomach drops with the realization that he’s lost sight of Hunter, feet moving without thought, set on finding the next one to be run through, speed picking up til he’s running with steps light against the snow.

A ball of white enters his periphery, a hand jutted out towards him that’s flanked by flickers of gold that spin sigils in the air and his own hand moves on instinct, the sword attached to it arching from below in one fluid motion. 

Blood spurts from a wrist. A screeching cry is let out.

He deafens it.

Exhaling a sharp breath, his eyes scan around the area and still find that there is nothing, there is no one, none of his, and he moves again because in battle you do not stop moving. If your body stops, then your mind must move.

When it comes to bloodshed, Seeun’s not fond of his mind being the thing that runs. Dwelling too long makes him grow restless. Strike out, do not stop, only strike, and he does, his sword slashing upwards the moment he sees the white robes of his enemies, his blade not stopping its motion as he keeps going, determined, the need to go, go, go even when he feels he’s jogged the entire edge of the valley.

The moment he stops, he’ll fall. He’s gone on too long.

Even in the moment he thinks as much it’s as if his body renews, the ache in his lungs dissipating, the fatigue in his bones lessening. The Park boy the goddess loves so much, they used to say, the one who is Her favorite.

He halts so suddenly he tilts, legs locked to keep himself from tipping over. Her favorite?

He spits into the snow.

It comes up red and he laughs at the sight of it, something brief, amused, until he feels like he’s choking, coughing, and it comes up and up until it’s sat at the edge of his mouth but he does not falter, makes a move to go forward.

Something touches him and he swings around. When his sword stops it’s leveled with Heeseung’s throat. In the other’s eyes there is but a brief flash of fear that dies to something else as Seeun’s sword drops, something sympathetic and he hates it, “Peace, Seeun.” He’s told firmly, and the chill begins to cling to him, “You must listen, we are advancing-”

“Where is-” Seeun breathes out but Heeseung raises a hand to stop him.

“He is fine. Focus.” The other stresses when he is, he is focused, he’s been doing what they were here for, “Advance inward. If you lay eyes on a mage do as you please with them as long as they are done away with. This,” Heeseung gestures, “has caused us enough trouble.” 

Heeseung makes to walk away, to disappear beyond the veil but stops and turns, not shocked to find that Seeun has not moved, that his legs have refused to let him uproot from the spot. If there is pity in Heeseung’s glance he does well to hide it, a hand pulling at his own collar just enough for Seeun to get a small glance at the chain that rests there along the other’s neck.

“Do for yours  as I will do for mine.”

Seeun does not do well to hide his pity. The sight of a kindred spirit pushes him into action.

Tales of the north being wild beasts have all stemmed from stories of the Park royal family.

It’s terrifying sometimes, at night, how many times Seeun has to remind himself that there are people at the edge of his blade. It’s appalling how the white that the ones they fight against wear can convince him they’re already ghosts, that they are already dead by the time his sword slips through their flesh and their blood pours into the snow, that the death he gives them is a mercy in comparison to what the goddess calls to be done to those who’ve betrayed their brethren.

He passes by knights of the church, gleaming silver armor tinged red, axes arching overhead and somewhere deep in his mind he cringes, watches bodies carved through like pigs, smells smoke when he knows there isn’t any, metal flickering to furs and back again when he blinks. Keep moving, his mind chants but his lips pull tight and he knows it’s been spoken aloud, do not stop moving.

Sharply he inhales and it’s cold. Burns him. The mission handed to him guides his hand as embers of flames drive past his face, blade slashing through a chest, “Beasts.” A man suffers as he falls, “Beasts wearing men’s skin, we must rid-”

Seeun moves on before he can hear much more of that. It’s not the worst thing he’s heard, doesn’t bother him; there are much worse things spoken about others he cannot fight against, forced to hold his tongue on silly childhood promises and his heart quickens.

“Where are you?” He hisses as he advances. The mage or another? his mind taunts but why ask when it’s both. Every step into the fog draws him deeper, ever shadow dancing sharper, ever breath in somehow sucking more of his own away. His steps do not crunch into the snow as much as the bound, his eyes untrusted. For a brief moment he stops his march just to assure himself of what he’s been thinking the entire time.

It’s become denser. Harsher. If he extends his own arm too far in front of him he can just barely see it beyond the opaqueness of the air, so thick he can almost grab, frost numb knuckles aching when he closes his fist.

It is like smoke. It smells like smoke. And where there is smoke, there is a fire, and where there is a fire there he is buried beneath the collapsed roof of an old farmhouse as the embers dance around him and a language different from his native one begs him to stay calm.

You are not there.

He is not.

You must keep moving.

He does.

He keeps moving, weaving through sightless fog as much as his legs will let him, his grip tightening as his ears lead him more than his eyes, head twisting at the slightest sound, echoes of footsteps around him, a stampede that tries to crash into him, the sound twisting and molting as both he and the fog do not stop, do not hesitate.

It engulfs him; the fog, the need, the rush. Metal flares above his head and he meets it, the sharp sound of blades crashing before it disappears beyond and he stills, he waits, his heart beating so steadily. It comes again and he lets it pass by him, his own hand extending to grab hold of what swings it, feels fabric rough against his numb palm as he keeps it pinned, his sword stabbing forward until meets resistance, until it pushes through freely, neatly slipping forward til the hilt meets its resting place.

The wrist he holds tenses, pulled taught before it begins to slacken. And as it does something akin to a miracle in his mind begins—the fog dissipating, spilling away like water rushing over the edge, slipping away in such a speed he almost becomes awestruck, eyes glanced up at the sky that is now fully clearing, birds flying overhead with no care of what’s going on below them.

And when he looks down he is met with a woman’s face that sneers up at him, her knees giving out as his sword pushes through her stomach, her wrist still held in his hand as she breathes raggedly.

“Long live the church.” Her voice slurs.

It does not phase him, “You’re not a mage.” He says simply.

“No.”

Looking around he finds carnage, snow turned red with blood, spotted with bodies cloaked in white so pure they almost blend in. He finds Taehyun’s eyes first, barely more than ten paces away and letting a body that’s been pieced through with ice fall, the older giving him but a glance before moving on because this isn’t over yet, no they were just ridding themselves of the inconvenience.

They all still fight, dotted around him and clustered together but he doesn’t see him just yet, finds his bloodsoaked cousin fending off a swordsman with his gleaming lance, sees Jinsik scrambling towards one of their own that’s fallen, sees the sharp, cutting gale that rips from Beomgyu’s hand. His teeth bite together, desperate before he turns and–

–nearly shatters.

Hunter’s eyes grow wide when he meets them, mouth parted and Seeun’s sword slides from the woman and lets her drop to the ground without ceremony. 

Then he runs, a dizzying pace before he collides with a strong body that catches and moves with his weight. His breath finally catches up with him, an inconsistent thing that burns as he claws into the other’s back, pulls him, I found you, I’m sorry, I lost sight of you but I found you, his face buried in a sweat tacked neck, cheek pressed into warm skin.

“You’re freezing.” he hears above the sound of his own choking, a hesitant arm wrapped around him, words whispered that he wouldn’t be privy to if he wasn’t so close, “You’re hurt.”

Were the Parks truly beasts, Seeun would sink his teeth into the flesh he breathes against and keep them still, and that horrifies him, “I’m sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for?” The arm leaves him, a hand pushing against his stomach, gentle but firm enough that even frazzled Seeun knows to fall away, arms dropping to his side and sword heavy in his hand, “You’ve done well.” Hunter praises him, but the look he gets is wrong, it hurts, the same look he’d been given not even weeks before, something fearful, “There is still more fight to be had though, isn’t there?”

He does not trust his voice to let him speak without breaking, his first mistake, something in Hunter’s eyes changing when he simply nods, simply resolves himself to turn back to the battle behind them and soak his sword in more blood because that’s what’s being asked of him.

But before he can a hand touches his face, so warm against his skin it nearly boils, “Seeun.” Hunter says calmly, “Are you okay?”

Seeun looks the other over, darting eyes finding a scrape at his lip, blood that’s dried at his chin but fine beyond that, nothing to worry over. Knowing that he shouldn't, he makes his second mistake, leans into that touch, makes it hold him there before it propels him to do what must be done.

Heeseung’s chain flashes in his mind.

“As long as you are, I am.” He promises. Hunter doesn’t look like he trusts that, a thumb brushed just below his eye, the skin that touches him rough but it holds him, oh it holds him.

It’s too tender for them. It’s unlike them. Seeun steps back before he can lose himself to it and forget why they’re there, forget that there’s a fresh corpse not two steps from them and that there’s an axe in Hunter’s hand and a sword in his own.

Hunter’s hand still hangs in the air when he backs up. And then he walks away.

⚔

It’s not by any of their hands that Yang Jongse perishes. There is already too much blood on their hands; the fruits of their labor are not reaped by the country in which rebellion began, who’s earned it, but by the church whose blade cuts cleanly through the neck of a man who’s gone withered and gray with age. A man who on his knees shakes in pain even as his face stays proud, eyes scanning over the group that has gathered around the stones jutting out in the western part of the valley. A highpoint, an outcropping where he looks out over them.

Yang Jongse is to kneel there, his hands grabbing the edge, flanked by his country’s dutiful prince on one side and his country’s borrowed butcher on the other.

Seeun’s hands tremble without a sword to grip, left to hang limp at his sides, made to stand tall and proud. A hand presses against the small of his back but whose it is he’s unsure of when Hunter stands away from him in the crowd. 

He will not look away. Not when Lord Yang looks to his cousin and says something he cannot hear but the words that come must be pointed, sharp as any blade when Sunghoon’s eyes flee. 

He will not look away when Lee Minho presents the old man at his feet like a devil to be cleansed, telling him to bow his head like any common dog.

He will not look away when that same man looks to his cousin with a question that Seeun knows well, do you, prince, agree to preside over the execution of your kin, of one of your own in the name of your church and country, and he will not look away when Sunghoon holds his head high and nods proudly even as the lance in his hand quivers.

He will not look away when their butcher raises an axe. He will not look away when he hears Beomgyu tell him—or maybe it’s not him, maybe it’s Jeongin the older speaks to—to close his eyes.

Because he does not look away as the blade comes down and Yang Jongse’s head rolls to his feet.

What right does he have to look away at one death when he’s caused tens more in the snow fields behind him?

“For the church!” A crowd made of voices that are not his friends screams, “For Faerghus!” The chant after, lower.

“For Faerghus.” He repeats just above a whisper, the sound echoed by Beomgyu’s bitter tone and Jeongin’s strangled cry. The hand at his back crawls to his waist, forcing him to turn away, to start marching east where they will mount horses and ride back home—no, not home, home is Nuada, where there is fresh bread and his mother’s gentle hand cleaning the dirt from his face and he shares a balcony with someone who owns half his soul—and be celebrated for they’ve done here.

The field he’s forced to walk through is dyed pink where it is not red. The field he’s forced through is bumpy with white robes that masquerade as snow mounds, silver mail that pretends to be ice. Something more like bone than frost crunches beneath his foot when he doesn’t look where he’s going and the shuddering breath he takes in makes the hand that’s dug into him pull, encouragement that it’s okay, it’s over, they’re just dead, but Beomgyu’s never been  good at saying those particular words in a way that’s more comforting than accusing.

He’d been twelve the first time he’d seen the other, a thin limbed sixteen year old commoner smuggled into a council meeting by Heeseung of all people, when border skirmishes for boundaries of lands had begun and the king had been under deserved scrutiny, negligent about the cost of lives when their northern neighbor had done enough to damage his pride more than his heart.

“You nobles always start wars, but it’s always the commoners that spill their blood first!” Beomgyu had yelled at the proposal for infighting to be allowed, carted out by guards that came back with scratches and wind burnt faces. He’d returned the next year, no longer snuck in but on the arm of Kang Taehyun, with words that had then cut with a blade sharpened on both sides. It was the first inkling he’d had of marriage out of love rather than status. It had emboldened him.

And then the skirmishes began in full. And blood had soaked farther into his hands that were once soft with youth, now hardened with callouses, the goddess’s favored one, too lucky for his own good.

He still has those same hands, that same youth, no more than a boy still. But now there is snow dyed in such a heartachingly beautiful gradient and it ages him the closer they get to the treeline and it sings to him, it praises him.

Congratulations, monster.

⚔

They make camp as the sun runs from them, some few hours off the trail. Seeun groans as soon as his feet hit the ground, nearly crumples when adrenaline has finally run its course and he’s the only thing trying to keep himself going, far, far too cold. Heeseung, pitying him—an act Seeun loathes—slings the fur lined cloak he’s been wearing around Seeun’s shoulders and pats him with a blood streaked smile before attending the knights. Heeseung doesn’t need to. They’re Garreg Mach property currently. Heeseung’s not Sunghoon’s right hand knight here. 

But the familiarity of routine is good in times like these.

He watches Jeongin dismount, helped down from his horse by Beomgyu. Tears have long dried but the other’s cheerful smile had been ripped away long before they reached the clearing. Taking a step forward with the want to say something pleasant he stops himself before he can get too far from his horse. There is no good that comes from an apology spoken from the mouth of your family’s murderers. 

Seeun knows that much, inhales sharply when the air’s too cold and burns his nose. Even if it isn’t you that made the call.

So he redirects when the other is better left in Beomgyu’s hands, spins on his heels to go do something, to be useful, to not stand here and be forced to contend with his shaking hands and the wobble in his knees. But what is there to do when the water’s too cold to gather with his hands and the snow would further chill him. The goddess’s beloved but she froze him, she made him ice. Useless without a blade in your hand, now aren’t you?

He is. All he’s good for is swinging a sword. Sometimes makes a good target. Hunter’s surely told him that enough. Looking around he finds that the other is gone from his view again and his hand crawls up to his neck, finger looping around a chain as he stands there, feeling dumb and useless, soaked in blood-

A hand claps against his back and he swings around, face to—well not face, his head having to tip down—with the blonde hair and bright smile of one of the Orchids that came with them, “You look like you’re wanting something to do.” He’s told, the words accented, “Come help me with firewood, hm?” And that’s a simple enough job, barely gets to no before his arm is taken through two layers of fur and wool as he’s pulled along, “Jake.” The other introduces, pointing at himself, “You broke my blade in the tournament. You’re… hm, again?”

He blinks, doesn’t think he’d be forgotten so fast when he’d taken out misplaced frustration in that fight, “Park Seeun.”

Jake nods, letting go to pick up a few sticks off the ground and laying them on the shelf that Seeun makes of his arms through his cloaks, “Park? Like… Prince Park?”

“Cousin.” He clarifies, “Father’s side.”

When Jake winces he doesn’t take offense, but it’s wiped off the other’s face instantly, “Oh! I mean, that’s uh, great? Yes, yes great.” He picks up another one, a larger fallen piece that he rips the twig like branches from, “Forgive me if I don’t bow. Kai’s not a fan of it and I don’t want to fall back into habit.”

“Can’t say I’m a fan of it either.” Seeun responds, and they fall into a small silence, backdropped by the chorus of voices at the camp, “Can I ask-” Jake turns around in an instant, “-where you’re from; your accent…”

“Adrestria?” Jake says, confusion feigned as he hand pulls at a blood soaked sleeve before bending back down again to dig at the snow. Seeun stares at him, brow furrowed when he knows it’s not just Adrestrian. 

There’s a new weight to the silence. The other sighs heavily, “Brigid.”

Seeun’s mouth makes a perfect O in surprise before closing it, “Sorry.”

“Nothing that you have to apologize for.” Jake laughs, “What gave it away?” He goes to open his mouth before Jake stop him, “Actually don’t answer that. But also stop looking at me like that.” The other turns where he’s knelt, faces Seeun head on, “I’m a bit farther removed from the whole…” He rubs a hand at his pants, “unification thing. Lived in Ochs territory my whole life, so it’s not like–”

“Don’t make excuses for them.” Seeun interrupts, “Never excuse a king.” The government is to serve its people; if it wishes to see expansion it should see fit to make the changes necessary to afford that new territory its comfort too.

Not let them rot. Not cast them aside once the land is reaped.

His arms are heavy with the weight of what Jake lays in them, “Isn’t it a queen in this case.” He states more than asks. But Seeun’s never excused a queen either. Arms full Jake motions for them to start walking back, laughs, “Speaking of–Hunter?” Seeun’s glance is a little too quick, “You wanna talk about accents. Where’s he from?”

“Tethra.” It takes a lot not to whisper, “Full north.”

Jake’s smile falters for a moment, “Recaptured territory only to be recaptured back.” The other says before whistling. Seeun almost laughs—land from Sreng stolen years before he was even a concept to his mother, the boundary line moved only to be pushed right back where it was.

What a neat and clean way to describe a massacre.

“Burned it right to the ground.” Eight years of snow would’ve covered up the ash but the land doesn’t grow anymore. A wasteland. It was only taken back because a king never likes when his chessboard shrinks.

And then left it to decay, cast aside.

“Also,” Jake says before they break through the treeline, beginning to change the subject, “you haven’t happened to see a guy? Uh, about as tall as me? Hair a little lighter than yours, has a face that looks-” His soft and kind face hardens and Seeun thinks that other would almost be terrifying in a battle where Seeun wasn’t blinded by aggravations that had wound so deeply into his nerves, “-like this?”

Seeun knows exactly who he’s talking about, “not since before.” He tells him and Jake lets out an irritated noise, head thrown back.

“Great.” He lengthens the vowels, “They wanted me to watch him—understandably ‘cause he’s like a ghost—but he fucked his leg and disappeared from the injured cart–” Even as he says it Seeun catches chocolate hair out of the corner of his eye and turns towards the hobbling figure, Jake’s gaze following, “Ah! Kim Junghoon, get back here!” He yells before running and Seeun’s left to stand at the edge of the clearing as the darkness starts to fully fall upon them, left with a whirlwind of emotions he’s too tired to deal with, chooses to shove them away.

He takes a breath. In and out, just like he’s been taught, clearing his mind. A knight comes by and offers to unburden him from the wood and he’s left now to stand, breathing and freezing and clearing until Hyeongjun skips up to him with one that’s starting to darken more than the other.

“Oh, saints.” The older curses at the sight of him, “I thought they were all exaggerating about how you were.”

Seeun snorts, an ignoble noise, “No, the rumors of the Park family icicle are true.” He jokes halfheartedly as Hyeongjun begins to unpin his own cloak, goes to wrap it around Seeun’s already growing stack of them, “Stop, you’ll freeze-”

“Not as fast as you will.” He’s chided.

“I bid you, by royal decree, to stop.” He tries but Hyeongjun looks up at him with half a smile before laughing.

The cloak is pinned in place anyway, the fabric thin but Seeun doesn’t think unkindly of it, “Good thing then, that on this mission you aren’t royalty but a servant of the goddess.” If the other sees the way Seeun’s smile drops he doesn’t mention it, “I can hold out til they get the fire started. Until then go… stand by the horses maybe. Your lips are turning blue and magic can’t do much for that.”

And, well, in the need for warmth, who is he to turn away free advice. Even if his church-borrowed steed isn’t all too happy to see him.

⚔

By the time the fire’s built he’s spent, frozen to the bone despite the layers he’s already wrapped himself in. But the light in the corner of his eyes hasn’t ever been a pleasant sight and it certainly isn’t now. 

Instead he strides around the exterior of the circle of people that’s surrounded it in the small patch they’ve found between the trees, snow that’ll melt in the coming months crunching under his boots. He marks them, takes inventory of who’s worse off and who’s fine when he’s practically shadowing Sunghoon who’s doing the same damn thing but he convinces himself that his purpose is different.

Seeun has a way with calling out complaints. Sunghoon does too but it’s said with a face that’s much harsher, puts people off. By the goddess, it puts him off but Seeun’s at least had years to get used to it, to fight against it.

“Smile,” Seeun used to tell him when they were younger, “people like a prince who smiles.”

And Sunghoon used to—before he was poisoned with the rhetoric of a bloodline so pure it soured he used to; Seeun was convinced the goddess used to make flowers blood in the older’s presence and the birds would sing because they could tell he used to be good, he could still be good, they both could. 

But the queen had died. And the border was attacked. And Sunghoon always thought Seeun too fond of a person who was deemed beneath him, someone uncouth and unbecoming solely because of where they were born. He takes a look over towards where the path back to the trail starts, a lump wrapped in two cloaks sitting farther from the fire than the rest, and he’s instantly caught by their eyes. 

A soft smile is what he’s given, something tired, and his chest burns before he turns away.

He’s caught in a different sense when he does, finds that his cousin has spun to face Seeun with a look that’s as judgemental as it is questioning, harsh but curious, “What?” Seeun asks and Sunghoon stares at him, a chill running its course through him again, shivering.

“I can do this myself.” Sunghoon says quietly.

“I’m just helping.” Because he can’t sit, can’t stand still. If he does he’s not sure he’ll get back up.

“You’re about to turn into ice. Mother always said her brother’s line was weak to the elements but she hoped your mother would’ve burned him through.”

“Fear I’ve got grandfather’s blood instead.” And it spills from him, almost easy, reminiscent of the way they were, the way they’ll never get back. Not, probably, without a few more hits of sense beat into either of them. But enough had been beaten into both of them that their bones would probably crack if more pressure was applied.

The fact Sunghoon does not glare directly into his own soul when he looks at him, for now, is enough—more than enough, when the softer part of Sunghoon’s heart is revealed, removes his own blanket from his shoulders to place it over Hyeongjun when he’s never seen his cousin spare the other more than a passing glance.

It’s progress. One day it’ll be Sunghoon on the throne and they can fix this kingdom, they can make it be what it used to be. Today, despite the bloodshed, has been a step towards that.

Part of him hates it—hates that it’s by the church’s hand that one of their own has fallen, that it was a byproduct of the church’s relentless guiding hand that caused all this mess, “But what progress comes without lives?” His father had asked him once. 

What point is progress if conflict happens in the higher class but it’s always civilians that get placed out to fight? What point is serving your country if you’re only going to serve those you deem worthy of it? Beomgyu influences that line of thought, he’s sure of it, has heard the older be too prevalent in meetings even if either of them was or wasn’t allowed to attend depending on how righteously they were viewed at the time.

He gets so caught up in the conflict of right and wrong that Sunghoon has to shake his shoulder even if he removes his hand just as fast, “Go. Get warm. You’re useless to us as an icicle.”

“And you’re just as bad without sleep.” He scolds in the same tone that he’d been given, “Go. Get sleep.” He huffs. Because I know you, because I know you haven’t slept since before the manor. He tries to seem as intimidating as possible when all he’s got is height, shivering far too much to keep it out of his teeth, not enough meat on him to keep him warm.

And so he’s doesn’t cow the other, because of course he can’t, send on his way, nearly shoved in a direction that is anything that’ll lead him farther from Sunghoon who growls like the wolves he was bred from, told to stop thinking like Seeun’s not good at that already. 

His feet lead him to the warmest place he knows, stopped just shy of where a pair of knees are drawn up, eyes sparking in the fire light before they regard him, still alight. Sometimes that look brings up memories of them wide with terror. Sometimes they just feel like home.

Hunter doesn’t say much at first; he’ll tell anyone that he’s become immune to Seeun, that a pout and watery eyes don’t work anymore, that he can so easily be firm against the taller’s whims.

But he’s always been a horrid liar, “Leech.” He sighs even when he’s already leaning back against the tree and opening the cloaks that’d been tightly wrapped around him. Seeun wastes no time as he drops to the space that’s always availed to him, settling between the other’s legs before he’s enveloped, pulled into a chest that bleeds out warmth so easily Seeun thinks that this might be the divine paradise the goddess has for one after the long, perilous walk through the afterlife. He soaks it in, eyes falling closed the minute he melts against Hunter’s chest.

A chin rests against his head, hears a hum from the other’s throat as he shivers, “Like ice.” Hunter whispers, “Going to get sick again at this rate.”

“Good then, that I have my own personal fireplace.” He pulls his legs up, doesn’t have to ask as the cloak is maneuvered around them, keeps him from getting chilled again, “How’s the shoulder?”

“Ah, asking about it when you’re leaning on it, how thoughtful–”

“I heard it was the left one, not you’re right.” He opens an eye to look up and Hunter shifts his head to look down. They’re so close—he nearly strikes out, lips wanting to press to the underneath of the other’s chin—that when Hunter breathes out Seeun breathes it in, tastes it tinged with copper from where the other’s lip is split. He manages to wiggle a hand out from where it’s buried and Hunter regards him with confusion til he brushes against the cut with his finger, pressing into the wound until he feels the other inhale, “Need to clean that. Or heal it.”

“Not everything needs to be healed with magic.” His hand is grabbed, pushed back under the cloak where it’s held and Seeun frowns at him, “And it did get cleaned. By Beomgyu-”

“Doubtful.”

“And Taehyun.” Alright, less doubtful. He huffs and pouts and Hunter sighs down at him before moving out of his sight, given the view of the other’s chin nearly pressing into his eye, shifted til he’s once again tucked under it, “Don’t worry about it.”

“Frostbite.” 

He’s pinched at, “You are the last person that I was to hear warn about frostbite.” And Seeun laughs, something high enough that it gains attention from a passing Jinsik who glances at them for a moment, hands fretted together before he averts his eyes and hurries past.

Seeun frowns, “That was… interesting. He’s not usually like that.” Skittish, yes, but not avoidant; Seeun’s used to at least a general glance and a smile too kind. He’s not too fond of how the older looked in general, close to dropping if he doesn’t rest.

“Maybe because you’re so far into my space he’s worried we’ll fuse.” Hunter offers, “Not sure his goddess is equipped to undo that.”

“I’m warm!” He argues, even as his teeth chatter, “Toasty!” Hunter raises an eyebrow at him, a look too pointed, and Seeun knows he’s about to get his pride hurt in some way. Again, “I will be warm.” He asserts, “Once you stop moving.”

And Hunter grunts, considerate enough to not point out Seeun’s doing much of the moving, keeps trying to get him to settle down in space below the other’s jaw, which he finds perfectly acceptable when he can sink farther out of sight. Tall’s got its perks until it comes to times like this where he wishes he could curl farther into the other but he makes do the best he can. He knows all too well how exhausted the other is, doesn’t think twice about using it to his advantage if it means Hunter doesn’t put up much of a fight when Seeun pulls the other’s arms around him as his eyes start to fall.

“Are you sure you two shouldn’t move closer?” He hears Beomgyu whisper, not too far away, “It’s going to be a long night and the fire’s better over here.”

Hunter tenses beneath him. The only thing that keeps Seeun from following along is that he’s the one keeping Hunter pinned in place, “We’ll be fine.” He assures the older with a yawn, “if we were over there we’d boil.” Hunter would, considering the heat the other gives off is already melting into him blessedly. Beomgyu says no more of it, gives up quite easily when he decides they’re fine and nothing worse is to come to them.

“Go to sleep.” Hunter whispers above him, like Seeun isn’t already halfway there against his own will, “I’ll keep watch.” Which is all the push he needs to pull the other’s arms tighter, mumbles to wake him up and gains himself a small laugh that he feels more than hears, “Of course.” Hunter breathes, “Whatever you say.”

⚔

He awakes to a soft touch, something delicate across his cheek and stirs slightly—been having a quite wonderful dream, all the blood and gore one could ask for, his body set ablaze like a candle. The touch comes again and he hums out his dear friend’s name and leans his face into it only to hear a laugh that does not come from Hunter. Blinking his eyes open he’s met with Taehyun’s face, the older’s hand trying to get between his face and Hunter’s chest as he reaches for the cut that splits Seeun’s ear.

“Just me.” Taehyun says in response to Seeun’s confusion, “Jinsik’s worn himself out but I’ve a little left in me.”

Still dazed from being woken he makes a noise, pulling away from the hand but he’s trapped. It’ll heal. Despite his want to voice that his mouth fails him, only able to turn and keep his ear pressed against Hunter’s chest to keep the other’s hand away.

Hunter must be awake—should be considering what he told Seeun—because Taehyun’s eyes move above him, a gesture in his direction that he’s all too familiar with. Deal with him, Seeun’s used to hearing, he listens to you. He thinks it quite clever to try and find Hunter’s hand but he’s too slow, feels a warm palm at his neck from behind, “I asked him to do it.” whispered as the hand moves forward, fingers tipping his chin. As he expects his cheeks flare, almost thinks of praying that the darkness is enough to keep it from being noticeable.

He stays pliant however, letting Taehyun slip a hand beneath him, palm pressed firmly against his head. It tingles. Magic has always tingled, pricked at the nerves below his skin and pinched at him. The warmth everyone had talked about had never been a comfort to him. As it bleeds into his skin he finally swallows hard enough that he can find his voice, “It would’ve been fine.” He croaks. Even if Hunter worries it would’ve been fine, wrapped up, would’ve healed itself in time.

“It would’ve.” Taehyun agrees, slipping his hand away, “Or it could’ve gotten infected, considering we have little supplies to offer it in the face of our casualties.” 

“You didn’t tell Hunter to heal his lip.” Seeun argues, “Frostbite.” He says and Hunter sighs heavily enough that Seeun feels him physically sag.

“Our walking ice block has no room to talk about the effects of frostbite.” The older laughs, standing, “Between the two of you, who was it that got sick on the way here again?”

“Talking to the trees would be more efficient.” Hunter rebukes him, and he makes sure to buck his head upwards into the other’s chin. The warm hand leaves his face in punishment, hurts himself more than the other on multiple fronts. If he resorts to biting he’ll break his own teeth before doing any real damage, scornfully simmers down as below the blanket as he can possibly hide.

Taehyun simply watches them, amusement causing his lips to curl up, “What’s done is done. I’ll have Beomgyu bring a tincture over for your throat.”

“I’m not getting sick again.” Even as he says something starts to scrape and claw at the base of his neck.

“Precautions.” He’s told, “We have enough to bring back. If you’ll excuse me.” Taehyun bows politely, a deep enough angle that Seeun’s embarrassed to admit that he’d forgotten how much higher he ranks, curled up under a blanket in the arms of his childhood friend.

He looks over and across the camp to see Sunghoon—the look he gets not nearly as scathing as it could be, impossibly passive before it drifts away from him, no room to talk when Heeseung’s head rests in the older’s lap. Changes aren’t made in a day.

Changes aren’t made in years either. If they were I’d have convinced him by now, he thinks as the hand replaces itself at his neck, fingers brushing against raised skin. When one along the edge of the chain at his neck he stiffens, elbow nudging into Hunter’s stomach as a warning.

“I’m going back to sleep.” He announces and the other hums, keeps that gentle pressure against his neck before it moves to his hair.

And as he falls asleep a ring pinches against his sternum.

⚔

“We have a problem.” 

Honestly, he should expect that by now. Still his eyes widen, mildly dumbfounded when Sunghoon catches him by the elbow as they begin to untie their horses. His throat burns with whatever concoction Beomgyu had made of the nearby foliage, hands aching. Hunter spares them a glance, also watched by Heeseung who faithfully trails behind Sunghoon’s every step.

“What kind of problem?” What kind of problem outside of an incapacitated Dahlia and several other injured? What kind of problem outside of their main healers having to take turns building up strength? What kind of problem doesn't involve the three day trek they have in front of them to get anywhere worth settling that isn’t Miach.

Sunghoon glances over Seeun’s shoulder at Hunter and stays mute, locks eyes with him again, “What does it matter if-” he begins before he discovers he’s too exhausted to find any fight in him to argue. He sighs, turning on his heel, “Can you go make sure the knights are careful with Hyunwoo. Yujun won’t be happy if something happens.” He offers as an excuse to send him away.

“You want me to what-” Hunter begins but Seeun knows he’s not dumb, takes one look back at Sunghoon and closes his mouth before his feet begin moving, “Fine.” is all he says and Seeun doesn’t look at his cousin when he turns back, busies himself with the reins.

“I’m telling him.” He warns, “You know I’ll tell him.” Sunghoon doesn’t answer, “Unless is something truly major; is this any worse than one of our own colluding with the Western Church to start a rebellion in our lands?”

“Perhaps.” Heeseung says. And that’s enough.

With a huff, he faces his cousin again and gestures, “Get on with it then. What manner of national security is being threatened now?”

As if from a trance, Sunghoon startles and Seeun’s brow furrows. The other only barely meets Seeun’s eyes before straightening up, puts on the air of a prince, “I didn’t mean to-” He nods in the direction of Hunter’s fleeting form.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Seeun uses what little height he has over the other to his advantage, “What’s done is done. Out with it.” He rushes them, worried with the way the older acts. Instead of speaking, Sunghoon pulls out a letter, the northern Yang’s symbol embossed on red wax, already torn across. Seeun takes it, unfolds the paper and scans the words, gives them little attention until:

         ‘To put our plan into its fullest effect there is one last hurdle. The Adrestrian prince’s head must be ours in order to secure a future that’s brighter for us, a unified front at last-’

It goes on. A lengthy piece about liberation and unity between Faerghus and Adrestria when the two have been separate for so long. A unity brought about by-

“They wish to kill Huening Kai?”

It’s not often that Sunghoon looks so full of dread and Seeun can’t even relish in the sight of it when it revolves around a matter like this. Heeseung is once again the one who speaks in the prince’s stead, “There was a second letter. An actual thought out plan of his assassination to come during the Rebirth Celebration in the next couple of weeks.” He details as Sunghoon’s facade starts to crumble.

He’s scared—fearful in the face of an oncoming death of a childhood friend. So you would understand, he thinks bitterly, if I put it in terms as simple as such, you would understand why I care so much, when Sunghoon has Kai, has Heeseung, and Sunghoon has Hunter. 

But it’s never been simple in that way. He’s been told as much.

“Do you think it’s true?” He folds the letter and hands it back, doesn’t comment on the shake in Sunghoon’s hand, “Would whoever’s behind this be as bold as to do something on hallowed ground?” Faerghan lords have always been devout, fought in the name of the goddess. The Western Church has used their time trying to build a country more in Her likeness, came and petitioned the Park royal family to follow her laws, deal with outsiders.

The last time the crown gave them any sort of halfhearted appeasement it had ended in bloodshed. It had ended with a scar that crawled up his body. It had ended up with lives so dear to him lost if not uprooted from the soil they came from and were misplaced. And that was the beginning.

Even as he asks it, he already knows the answer but it’s made solid with the weight of Heeseung’s words.

“They’ve done it before.”

They’d do it again.

“We’ll get an order for a protection detail.” Sunghoon speaks, swallowing to hide the way his voice quivers, “Guards—trusted ones, ours—all hours-”

Seeun snorts, “Are you two going to camp out in his room? I’m sure he’d love to have that sort of sleepover. But if you’ve somehow convinced yourself you’re going to keep this from him until it’s dealt with then I think you find him stupider than you admit.”

“I don’t find Kai stupid at all.” Sunghoon bites back.

“Then tell him. Let him make the call on what happens.” There’s a pained twitch to Sunghoon’s face, close to snarling and Seeun knows what they both do; that if it were up to Kai he’d simply let it pass. Almost swears by the goddess that the older wouldn’t tell the rest of his class made up of people sworn to the crown on his head if he were in danger, “Did you let the knights know?” He asks as he turns back to fix his saddles, “We sleep in their rooms and eat their food.” They watch us, “They’re going to notice wolves roaming.”

He expects it. If there’s one person appeases the goddess more than anyone it’s the crown, and by extension Sunghoon, who’d nearly jumped at the offer to attend Garreg Mach until he found out who else was coming. It makes a split along his head, pain long deep, an aching that reaches to his chest. I’ll make you come around, he’s always though, I’ll force you to understand.

But when he’s met with Sunghoon and Heeseung’s silence he turns his head back, met with sheepish eyes that do their best to avoid his. 

Shocked into near silence, his hands drop lamely to his sides, pinpricks of pain where they’ve begun to go numb from the cold.

“You didn’t.” It’s not a question, no accusation, pure disbelief of the knowledge he’s been handed, “You didn’t turn it into the knights.” He’s stunned.

Because it’s far too unbelievable.

Sunghoon is the first to speak, clearing his throat, “There are things happening within Faerghus that are becoming out of control.” Out of my control, Seeun hears, “And with what has cropped up here in the past weeks til yesterday, I am…” The older pauses, the noise that comes from his throat crackling, “ill at ease. Sir Minho is a knight of renown, glorious even-”

Seeun is used to the praise of one of their best knights, understood the starstruck nature of his cousin and the hatred that coiled in the other’s belly when they’d failed that first in front of a man that was so idolized.

However, “He’s Albinean.” Seeun fills in. Sought refuge during the War of Wolves and Doves some twenty years ago and joined ranks the moment he could hold a sword. Risen ranks with ease.

An outsider had made themselves comfy in their den much to the displeasure of those most holy and pure, who had their hands busy transferring power to Seeun’s uncle.

Sunghoon jerks as if struck, “I have nothing against Albineans, less than nothing against Sir Minho’s roots.”

“But you didn’t trust him with this.” Seeun pauses, “You didn’t trust Hunter with it either-”

“Do not bring Tethra into this.” It is a strong, firm warning that he’s grown all too used to, his cousin’s bared teeth no longer as much a threat as they were, “I have told no one else but you and Heeseung and you’ve already made it quite clear it would’ve made it to him anyway, because in your head the nature of this news is not nearly as important as it would be if it involved him!”

Seeun balks at him, a brief moment before his mouth tugs upwards and his fist curls. It lands in the joint of Sunghoon’s shoulder where he knows it’s unhealed, hard, “I never said that!” He snaps as the older stumbles, “I’m trying to make you see reason when you continue to bring everything onto yourself.” Heeseung’s moving, “Roofs only hold so much snow until they crack, you fucking-”

A fist finds its place in his stomach, not painful but enough pressure that his words are knocked from him, “That’s enough!” Heeseung barks. He grabs a hold of Seeun’s cloak with one hand and Sunghoon’s arm with the other, dragging them together, “If you don’t keep your voices down they’ll hear clear down to the Adrestrian border. We-” he turns to Sunghoon, “-are going to bring this up to Prince Huening. He deserves to have a say in whatever mandatory exile you’d put him in without thinking. And we-” he turns back to Seeun, “-are going to make sure that this stays within the confines of who needs to know when we want them to. Understood?”

He looks between them, waiting for their assents. Seeun feels particularly spiteful when Sunghoon does so without question, face pinkening from the cold or whatever. Heeseung’s eyes narrow at him and Seeun wants to laugh.

“Fine.” He grits out, “I won’t tell him.” He promises and is let go.

“I will lift your vow of silence once we reach the monastery.” Heeseung says, “Until then, play dumb.” He lets go of Sunghoon to point up at him, “You’re good at that.” Seeun’s fist comes from under his cloak and aims for the other’s face only to be caught, hurts himself more when his skin feels like it’ll rip, “I meant that as a compliment, milord. You’re nowhere near as stupid as you play yourself to be, you have that in common with the others here.” The older says cryptically but it’s ignored in favor of the pain that drives up through his arm.

There is a whistle, a single order to mount so they may move out.

Heeseung drops his hand, flexing the one Seeun made contact with, “Let us go and be quiet for now. Get you to the monastery before you turn blue.” He laughs but Seeun doesn’t, pulling his cloak back in around himself. Sunghoon sneezes beside them and they both turn to it, “That’s new.”

“It’s nothing.” His cousin states, shaking his head. Seeun and Heeseung share a look, both questioning and Sunghoon grows visibly annoyed, “Now is not the time.” He spits before walking and Heeseung trails dutifully behind.

In no time at all there is a body that knocks into his gently, a look over his shoulder to find Hunter standing there with a raised brow, “Was it a fun talk?”

Seeun turns, leans into the warmth that nearly radiates off the other as nonchalantly as he can, “Think it rivaled most plays put on in the capitol.”

“Morning mass rivals the plays. Mostly because mass doesn’t involve your father’s niece.” It gets a chuckle out of Seeun, watching Hunter turn so he can go mount his horse but Seeun stands still. It’s noticed of course, the other turning back to give him a once over, checking for things too far out of the ordinary. Seeun blames the red he knows dust his face and neck on the chill more than the other’s eyes, “What?”

He opens his mouth, closes it. Heeseung’s binding of his words cause him to have less to say that’s important and more that comes out selfish, “Cold.” being what he settles on.

Hunter scoffs, but he takes a step back towards Seeun, “You’re always cold. What do you want?”

“A hug?” At the other’s reaction—a roll of Hunter’s eyes, nearly turning away again—Seeun teeters on his feet, hopping in a less than lord-like manner as he whines, “Please! Just one, I’m freezing-” He doesn't hear the other move, Hunter’s arm wrapped around his waist and bringing him in.

It’s nothing soft. It’s nothing heart-warming, simply pulled by one arm to press against the other in search of some way to keep his fingers from breaking off when they’re trapped between both of their chests. Hunter smells like salt and copper, the slightest bit like turmeric from where it radiates from under bandages. Even if it’s purely transactional he relishes in it, lets his head fall to the other’s shoulder, cheek against a neck that burns at the contact. He breathes in. He takes—small bits and pieces, whatever’s allotted to him. Whatever Hunter will give him.

It’s not that long. They have to go, to move, and horses are already wetly clopping against melting snow but he pushes forward until they are fused.

“Things are happening.” He whispers against the other’s neck, lips brushing skin with every move of his mouth. He may not be able to say everything right now but he can do this much.

A hand comes up, not gentle, not kind, a firm placement at the back of his head, keeping him bowed. In books where they weren’t covered in nearly a week’s worth of sweat and blood it would be like a lover’s embrace, something that the reader is rewarded with after following a princess and her knight across the land.

But it’s not. And his heart has always ached because of it.

Hunter speaks and he feels it against his ear, “When are they not?”

It’s said so mockingly Seeun doesn’t have to work hard to imagine the way the other’s face twists into a grim smile. And then he’s released, watches the other turn without looking at him as he mounts his horse.

As he mounts his own and begins to ride forward, he begins to feel as if he’s only grown colder.

Chapter Text

Purple Orchids

- Junmin -

7th of April; 
Sovereign Year 1143

He sees Her. He’s gotten used to not seeing Her, had finally had feet on stable ground with Her. But he should’ve known he wouldn’t be long without Her coming back.

This place, he’s always known, felt its looming presence all the way to Boramas, is a cancer.  

And it’s where She rests. He should’ve known. He should’ve known. I should’ve known, and he did, he did know, the moment he’d finally gotten a piece of him back, his lodestone keeping him tethered here, that She’d come back and undo him. 

The goddess has always done as She wished without penance. Tall tales of double edged swords aiding only to suffer the fool that asked for it. Unbelievers, those too wise to give weight to something so perfectly cruel, would know better than anyone about that. Who else to subject to your whims than those who’d find it better that you didn’t truly exist?

And Junmin has come to know better than all of them.

⚔

He’s awake before he’s aware of it, the blackness behind his eyes bleeding out once they’re open, nothing but the dark of the room to give him company.

Even the moon knows that something vile sits in the air, hiding behind her own shadow and does not let her light shine upon them now. It’s within those shadows that he kicks off covers soaked through with sweat—makes himself busy undoing the ties of his pillowcases before the lack of light and the trembling of his hands begins to frustrate him. His hip cracks into his desk when he reaches it, a drawer pulled open to fumble through its contents, fingers searching until they find a tin container and a small glass bottle.

Sulfuric acid. Phosphorus matches. Had the goddess blessed him with fire in the way she’d blessed others he wouldn’t need them but perhaps that coldness was engrained in him from the start, a thought not uncommon when he dips the head of one into liquid, the sound of whispering in the hall growing louder. His eyes adjust in the spark of and the nearly melted candle illuminates the rest of the room. And himself. 

His stomach twists.

When, he wonders as a knock meets his door, did all this blood get on my hands?

He blinks and now he’s in the baths.

It’s too quick, a flicker of time passed that startles him, frozen despite the near boiling temperature of the water. It’s not the first time he’s done this, but the idea’s not comforting when his breathing begins to calm and his knees draw up. The ring on his finger spins, close to slipping off in the water but he presses it down till it pinches his skin. When he blinks again the room doesn’t disappear and he doesn’t move and he does not hear anything that shouldn’t be there. But he’s not at ease.

Grabbing at either side of the porcelain tub he makes to pull himself up and out and away as the curtain draws back, a delayed shriek of surprise when he slumps back into the water. It does not help, in the slightest, that it happens to be Minjae standing there.

And it does not help—at all, literally in any form—that his fiance happens to stand there with his shirt open, hair wet against his forehead. And above all else it does not help that Junmin’s never been good at hiding the way his face burns, even worse when it’s him there. 

But it’s Junmin’s handiwork exposed that has his attention, a flat scar running down the length of the other’s sternum, a good five inches going straight down the bone.

Just bigger than the width and length of the axe blade that carved through it. When Junmin takes a glance back at the water beneath the bubbles he pretends it doesn’t run red.

Minjae is much easier to focus on.

“How hot did you make your bath?” The other smirks and the curtain falls shut behind when he takes a few steps forward. Junmin keeps himself where he is. He fights the urge to sink beneath the bubbles and his prize is a hand that cups below his chin, pushing it close from where he’s sat slack jawed this whole time, distracted.

“Catching flies, my love?” Minjae teases him and his face is red enough as it is, caught up to the hue of his hair already by the way he’s looked at so fondly. 

Peaceful, almost, “This is a bit… unexpected.” He whispers, his face still cupped and gets a chuckle in return.

“I know.” The hand slips from under his chin, fingers trailing his neck before catching in the hairs at his nape where it’s wet, “I was… nevermind.” Junmin opens his mouth to ask but Minjae’s other hand curls around his bare shoulder, nails delicate at his collarbone as he’s beckoned back, “Let me wash your hair.”

“I’m very capable of doing that myself.” He argues but his back meets the porcelain without much contest.

His head meets Minjae’s thigh when the other sits on the edge behind him, “My silly, stubborn Junmin.” said with far more ardor than it should have and Junmin starts to remember just often he’d enjoyed looking up at his beloved, hand moving up, aimed for that piece of marred skin he did so well to try and fix—

But realization sets in a bit quicker, past memories and current feelings giving way, forcing him to shrink when he remembers the state he’s in, that he and Minjae aren’t–

“It’s okay.” Minjae soothes, fingers tracing his jaw, his other hand catches Junmin’s when it tries to retract, “Can’t see anything, promise.” The older tries to assure him when his knees draw up, peeking through the water, syllables caught in his throat when he tries to find some excuse.

Minjae notices, eyes drawn to the skin of his knees before they quickly come back to him, “It’s too much? Right now?” Too much usually, he wants to say when there are multitudes wrapped up and complicating which parts feel like too much. There is a boon, when the whispers have not followed him and he does not see what he has been. He feels his jaw stuck open with the words he can’t verbalize but Minjae cradles his face, leans down to press a kiss against his head, “You can tell me no, I’ve always told you that.” And Junmin knows that, knows fully well when his fiance moves off the rim of the tub and cups the back of his head that can say no to the gentle fingers that guide his head close to the water.

But he doesn’t want to. Not when it’s Minjae. Not when he’s safe. 

Such delicate care is taken when Minjae pours water over his head, careful in the need to not get any on his face, fingers combing through locks that have always ran red since before he casted his first spell, catching on small tangles Minjae works through. 

There are small and few comforts he has from home, the scent of his soap a little too reminiscent of seaside herbs when it’s massaged through his hair, rinsed clean before he’s guided back up. A towel’s rough against his skin even when the other takes his time and is tender with him, undeterred when Junmin’s arms cross over his chest to cover himself, almost thinks of plunging back beneath the water and not coming back up.

He’s done that before. It’s a lame, limp thought that he hates himself for when it comes in the presence of the only person that matters to him—that he’s done that, walked right into the waters that had stolen the blood of Minjae’s most favored friends and dipped below the waterline.

They’d found him—his parents—ripped him up from the waters and shook life back into him on the sands.

If he was going to die, he was told, it would be by his mother’s hands, already clasped around his throat.

Or it would be somewhere far away, where his illness couldn’t infect his older brother’s livelihood, couldn’t sully his family’s name anymore than he already had when he’d renounced a marriage to a military commander’s second son.

A tear runs down his cheek and it’s caught, smeared across his skin before Minjae wraps the towel around his shoulders and holds him close despite the barrier between their bodies, lips pressed to his temple he doesn’t deserve.

He looks at Minjae, leans their foreheads together and for once it’s the other that’s so cold, not him, feels his skin become a flame beneath water that’s gone lukewarm.

“You’d tell me?” Minjae breathes, their noses brushing, “You’d tell me if something was wrong, right? Communication,” the older begs, “talking, we’re doing that now, right?”

Junmin pauses, just briefly, the pain in his only beloved’s eyes catching him off guard before he presses his lips to Minjae’s and hopes that his fiance doesn’t hear the flimsy lie that bleeds out when he says he’s fine.

⚔

Minjae doesn’t scold him the way he used to when he finally remembers what day it is. A handpicked sprig of forget-me-not’s tucked behind the older’s ear when they secret themselves away to a forgotten corner of the monastery do well to earn Junmin some forgiveness.

“I’m sorry.” He chuckles, humorless, against his fiance’s neck, the bridge to the cathedral quiet and unoccupied behind them, caught in the shadows, “I must not be sleeping well.” And it’s no lie.

Minjae’s hands tighten where they’re gripped around the back of his arms, moving to encircle him, bring him impossibly closer as his own splay open against the fabric across the other’s uniform where it fits perfectly across his shoulders.

“I’m fine, though.” He swears, pressing a kiss there to the hollow of Minjae’s throat, refusing to look when he can already feel the worry that winds its way through the other, “I’m fine.” He repeats, even when he can hear the whispers around the corner of the door. 

When he knows there’s no knights nor priests in that hall.

“Happy birthday.” He tries not to ruin it again.

⚔

He will be fine. Little worse could happen for him to be any less fine, eyes drawing closed while he sits at the front of class while General Jung talks about the advantages of border skirmishes in war.

It’s an interesting bit of discussion, something lax and loose their professor drolls on about while sitting on his desk, trying to fend off the class’s boredom when combat training’s put off until the northerners come back.

Unfortunately contradictory, he thinks as his chin rests on his palm, when the purpose of Garreg Mach is to spread a message of unity to this continent. A goddess wants all Her people under Her name, one nation gloriously coinhabited even when Her children continue to soak the land with the blood of their peers.

A noble cause, if it came about peacefully—if it was decided naturally, if intentions were good.

But good intentions are the justification for things so stomach churning half the time, now aren’t they?

Morfis will say they had good intentions when they pulled up war ships masquerading as merchants and slaughtered two battalions worth of ‘good and kind men’ whose one purpose in life was to raise an axe and swing it down. 

A string of pearls and golden light dances in the corner of his eye when he thinks that and he lets them fall closed.

She had good intentions when She placed Her hands over his. She’d had good intentions when She let Minjae live another day. A growing pressure rests on his shoulders and he begs it to stop, another touch grazing his hand and a spark jolts through him, more real .

Jungwon has already leaned into his line of sight by the time he’s opened his eyes, a bright smile resting solely on the lower half of the other’s face when Junmin turns his head.

“Sleeping’s good when it’s in bed, you know.” He’s teased, a childish snicker accompanying it and he wishes to snarl, to bite, “One would’ve thought a mage so gifted would know a classroom is for learning not napping.” 

He glances over to the front of the room and sees their teacher missing, a look over at the desk across the aisle to find Oh Seungmin gone as well, a foreboding in his gut that time has misplaced itself when he comes back and Jungwon looks far too proud of himself.

If there was one thing he wishes his father would’ve tossed in the fireplace of his study, Yang Jungwon’s invitation to his hallowed ceremony would be one of them.

It’s a curse that anything with Minjae’s name attached to it went instead.

“I think I’ve had enough of border skirmishes, now haven’t I?” He whispers and the smile on the other’s face dips, a fact too pointed it seems when Jungwon has no intention of arguing, drawing back to his own desk to arrange a line of inks that were already in order.

“The bell has already rung.” Jungwon tells him simply and as worn as he seems to be his body allows him to move, slowly, pushing up from his desk, “Make sure to eat something today and get some rest for once.” The younger tacks on.

His hand stops just short of a small paperweight holding down some loose notes. Jungwon showing care with kind words instead of half bitten chunks of snark isn’t all too common and it unsettles him. Taking another look at Jungwon there’s a sag to the younger’s shoulders, something heavy when he refuses to meet Junmin’s eyes. He takes a breath, retracting his hand.

“Minjae’s been waiting for you.” He doesn’t look behind to confirm but he knows Jungwon’s not lying, “By the goddess, I think the only thing that kept him from carrying you was the knowledge of how you’d react.”

Violently, he guesses. No single time has the older tried to be sweet had Junmin not awoken abruptly with the sense of falling, giving thin skin frostbite when lashing out only to claw himself back into those same arms when he realized it was safe.

Learned experiences have a way of doing that to a person he supposes. Minjae had never scorned him for it, “Thank you.” He says as sincerely as he can before turning on his heel. 

Minjae is there, at the back of the room on the opposite side, engrossed in a conversation with their prince that seems to end the moment he’s noticed. He does his best to keep his steps steady when he moves into the aisle. White lace springs to life at the edge of his vision and he pretends it does not matter when his sight begins to cloud if Minjae is there to guide him, a hand that burns when it touches his the moment he reaches the back row, another hand grazing the small of his back before it trails up higher.

The happy couple, he hears sung in a voice that doesn’t belong to any of them, my destined true, spoken so loud he’s surprised Minjae and the prince don’t hear it, bells tolling not in ceremony but in warning when he greets them, his beloved’s hand heavy in his when his spine goes rigid.

“I heard the Lilies come back today.” Kai says, leaning forward on his arms, the smile that plays on his face nothing happy, commiserating instead when there’s something about the loss of life that can be empathized with, a soul too good, “A hawk came yesterday afternoon.”

But Junmin counts the days, “Today?” He asks, “They’ve been gone barely a night-” And he shouldn’t speak out loud, knows he’s wrong when the prince’s smile falters and Minjae’s hand tightens around his.

“It’s been a good six.” He’s corrected, gingerly, like it’s a simple mistake as his fiance’s hand moves to rest at his shoulder, “They were slowed down by injured; they have more healers to rotate around thankfully but they wanted to take care and not to make anything worse than it is.”

Junmin’s eyes shift to the empty desk beside Minjae’s, knows another lays behind him in the aisle across from their prince, “One of ours?” He asks, lukewarm concern when neither of them seem burdened by worry.

But Kai gives a small nod, “Junghoon’s leg is pretty torn up. But Jake is fine. Sunghoon let him write the report himself about the two of them and he was very detailed.” The older’s mouth goes from something more neutral to a full frown, uncommon, “One of the Dahlias however,” Junmin swallows, “Is in and out of consciousness. Head wound.” He’s told and that’s all he needs to hear.

Brains are complex. Delicate. If bone is stuck in places it doesn’t belong when you try to close a wound you’re almost guaranteeing something going wrong down the line.

If they don’t know what they’re doing they’ll kill him. And not many people do know.

He does though, lace gathering around the pillar behind Kai and his eyes focus on it, sees a hand start to curl around the edge of it, “I’ll take a look at him.” an offhand promise made more of pity for a certain Dahlia he’s fond of than any real want.

One that’s not going to be kept when Minjae shifts beside him, “No, you’re not.” He’s told firmly, almost and order when it’s that tone and he turns his head to see the other become more like the young military captain of granite and limestone that Kai knows and less the fiance of flesh, blood, and a beating heart that Junmin knows his love to be.

How good it is then, that Junmin has never been one to bow to rock when he knows flesh gives so easily, “Don’t tell me what to do.” He warns lowly, won’t start a fight in front of their prince when it’s improper for him to talk back in the first place, can feel his mother’s nails at his throat, “If I want to do it, I will.”

Minjae takes a glance at their prince, rubs a thumb into the bone of Junmin’s shoulder like it’ll soothe him when there’s a scar not far from it, “I’m not telling you what to do.” You are. The next words come out a whisper, “I just don’t wish for you to hurt yourself more. The tax-”

“Would you rather he die?” It comes too loudly.

“I’d rather you not.” Comes too softly.

There is no way to move back when he’s pinned so he stills himself, bows his head. You always do this, he chides himself, pride giving easily to shame when his shoulder curl in, you always start the fights, you always dig-

“Okay.” He whispers, giving in, tired, he’s so tired and the fire that started up inside him burns out.

In that same instance rock gives way to pulse again, his beloved back the moment a kiss is pressed against his head, pressure gone just as fast and Minjae’s hand moves to the back of his neck, “You can take a look.” the other concedes, “But don’t push yourself.” is almost begged of him. Minjae’s never been above begging, not like Junmin has, pride having kept his back rigid and his shoulders taut until there was too much blood on his hands-

“Okay.” He says strongly this time and lifts his head. Minaje smiles at him, happy, joyous in another conflict resolved without either of them snapping in half and that’s so little a victory, pulling him out of the classroom with little effort and a farewell to their prince.

Out in the open courtyard he looks up and spies a blighted stain looking down from the balcony of the third story of the main building. Junmin keeps his eyes there, even when his feet are kept on the move, told they’re going to get something to eat, that Minjae isn’t going to take no for an answer. And Minjae never has taken that, Junmin finding memories of another letter hadn’t been turned to ash.

Something spiteful takes hold of him when that man so holy stands there above them, vitriol pouring through him even if he can’t be certain that one of the goddess’ chosen is looking at them. He cups the other side of Minjae’s face with his hand, cutting off his fiance’s words when he brings him close and presses a chaste kiss to the older’s cheek, another just at his jaw. 

Minjae stares at him when he pulls back, a well placed and hefty weight of skepticism in the look he gives him before red colors the tips of his ears.

Junmin feels awful, using scant amounts of affection to bring some sense of displeasure to a pious man whose balcony he wishes would crumble and crash to the ground.

But he feels vindicated, adored when Minjae brings a hand to his cheek, and fingers curl in the ends of his hair, looks at him in a way that rivals the way he’s seen worshippers stare at Her statue in the cathedral.

“I love you.” He whispers out, in the center of the monastery and doesn’t burst into flames the way he’s been told he would. Those three words are everything he’s ever wanted to say. And he won’t stop.

⚔

17th of April; 
Sovereign Year 1143

The light’s waning by the time the portcullis is drawn up, the groan and creak of iron echoing in the quiet. Junmin watches them from the second story of the main building, a priestess cloaked in white and red lighting candle sconces one by one along the wall behind him. The moon’ll be only a sliver tonight and they’ll need them, a chill settling in.

They look like ants from here, well organized ants at first but the straight line of their march is gone the moment they pass under the archway, order lost as they’re impeded by knights and healers of the church, clustering and guided away before he loses sight of the ones that scatter. His hand tightens around the stone sill.

Adrestria’s force would never let that happen. The only way you’d fall out of line is if you were on the ground. And even then you were to keep yourself proud as you bled out. Minjae’s father had praised the way his son still clung to an axe when they found him, braced against it while he knelt in bloodsoaked sand. 

Minjae’s mother had spit in Junmin’s face when she found out he was the first to touch her precious son with hands that were grieving instead of mending when the older’s eyes had already rolled back.

“And where were you?” He’d whispered in the hall just outside his beloved’s room, sleeves soaked in blood, sweat, and seawater, fingers numb. He’d been banned from the Kim estate within the hour—kind enough to keep that between the two families to save his reputation.

And that was a mistake, he thinks. If they’d all let it slip Minjae wouldn’t have been able to crawl back to him without damning them both. In a way he’d prefer that.

In another way the sight of a limp body carried through the courtyard and towards the reception hall below brings with it too many thoughts, begins to wonder if the older’s informed either of their parents of their reinstated engagement, the ring he’d been given turning loosely on his finger when steps come close behind him. He’s sure he knows who’s there; Minjae would’ve talked about it like it was set in stone before even consulting him. But he turns to find not white hair and onyx eyes but white robes, trimmed in the finest gold.

His eyes, as well as his stomach, drop.

“Our lost flock has returned from the woods.” The archbishop speaks, Park Jinyoung in his immanence and cloaked in the goddess’s grace standing there with hands clasped just above his stomach. A golden band, he notices, is on each finger, “Victory against the wolves.”

“They took the wolves with them.” He comments, quiet but snide, and the shifting of cotton lined silk on the wooden floor tells him that the man faces him now. He does not know what face he’s being given. He does not care, “May I help you, your Grace?” comes more pleasantly, high toned and inviting like his mother’d taught him, would be doe eyed and innocent he could bring himself to raise his eyes. 

“Do not trouble yourself so, Lord Park. ” One hand still clings to the sill, the other keeps itself clutching his shawl, thumbing his ring, “I’ve merely come to calm my conscience, to assure that my lambs have come back unharmed.” A step is taken toward him. Junmin does well when he doesn’t take one back, “How heartbroken the goddess would be if one of those fiends had taken one of Hers. I wouldn’t be able to bear it if She were to suffer so.”

“One of them does suffer.” It spills out of him, that correction, one of them won’t wake up but you don’t care about that one much, do you?

He lifts his eyes just enough to see when the bottom half of the man’s face morphs, the sides of his mouth pulled down, lines cut deep when he thinks no one can see, “Mm,” he hums, “that poor Leicester boy,” a commoner, “from the border.” A land that’s so bereft of resources that the two countries have never fought over it.  

He’d burned Sumin’s letter in the fire of his lamp and crushed the ashes of it under his heel and into his rug but the words had still imprinted themselves onto the skin of eyelids. Unlike the rest of them that’s not what’d make him hate the church. His anger had started earlier. The man in front of him existing after his name had been penned in disapproval had been enough for Junmin to disavow it all–

Pressure—fingers, horrifyingly distinct—cups around the edges of his ribs, pushing inward til he’s sure the bones bend into his lungs, curled under and into the meat of him. Lace edges towards him in his periphery. That light that’s too bright to be candlelight seeps into view like tendrils and why, why do you take it out on me when he’s right there–

“We should have a talk.” The other’s voice calls over his punishment, “The two of us, milord; my, I’ve tried to make time for an audience with all of you, but some of you are so slippery, like water through fingers.” A laugh, gentle and light leaves the archbishop, ”There’s many things I’d like to discuss with you most of all.”

“Classes, Your Grace. We are busy learning.” He stands proud even when he refuses to look, when breathing becomes effort.

A hand touches his chin, too familiar an action. It is defiance that keeps him from giving the man the reaction he wants, stays pliant instead of afraid when his head is tilted up, a good and pretty little lamb.

Park Jinyoung looks down at him, blesses him with a smile so full of pride.

“Is there anything left for you to learn, little miracle worker?” The touch beneath his chin burns. A goddess’s holy man could do that he thinks, the accusation burning him alive when it’s said: “Not many people can bring a soul back.”

His hand takes the brunt of his tensing, nail dug into the stone, muscle pulled taut all the way to his shoulder.

“He wasn’t dead yet.” Comes as firmly as he can make it.

“His heart had stopped.” The archbishop nods, a hum, “I’ve seen the records.” And Junmin shakes his head.

“Park Seonghwa had been distraught-”

“Shouldn’t you have been as well?”

“-and marked both Kim’s dead when one wasn’t-“

The hand forces his chin higher, doesn’t allow his gaze to drop. The movement’s fast enough that his tongue catches between his teeth, “Insinuating a refuged Morfian to be a liar?”

“Please do not twist my words.” He clips out, calm as he can when blood taints his mouth, “A distressed, grieving man made a mistake. I’d have done the same.”  

“Would you have?” The archbishop smiles and Junmin doesn’t say that in the other’s place he’d have died right alongside Minjae when there was nothing left, “I suppose men who become too fair tend to do that though, don’t they?”

Fair. It’s said so mockingly in a pious man’s voice. Two second sons who could’ve kept a bloodline going instead–

There is a shimmering of gold that begins to build around his hand, can feel it, a soft breeze rustling the other’s robes at the same time the echoing clamber of steps on the stairs comes down the hall and shadows begin to play against the closed door of the audience chamber.

“If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace.” He rips his chin away before the first knight rounds the corner, hand still threading with gold when he clasps it tightly at the edge of his uniform and steps away.

“We should have that chat.” The man calls after him and his pace picks up, “I fear there’s been a misunderstanding between us!” said loud enough that the knights and all the accompanying party can hear it, eyes darting to him when they meet at the infirmary door.

Junmin holds it open from the inside, pretends that those eyes do not start to cave in on him when they pass by. Not when Yujun’s friend lays on the sheet they hold, pallid and stained red. Not when Junghoon is carried in after, under one’s arm like some wayward animal but he sees where the skin of the other’s leg is torn open and the bone twists beneath it. The Lilies have three decent healers on top of whoever the church gave them. It doesn’t make sense for the word to be barely bandaged until he watches the younger lash out like a feral cat when it’s barely prodded by Professor Seunghun.

He takes a breath, tainted with copper and sage. Then he gets to work.

⚔

Or so he would.

He has to turn Jinsik away, barely able to drop his jacket and mother’s shawl on the desk before a knock had settled against the wood moments after things settled.

“Look at yourself.” He says through the crack he lets open, “You can barely stand.” And that’s the kindest way he can put it, watching the brunette sway on his feet, hands gathered together and worried at his chest, fingers being pulled and twisted.

“Please.” The younger begs, a broken noise warbling in the back of the other’s throat, “Let me help–”

“No.” He stays firm.

“Then let me–I want to watch, I want, what did I do wrong, can I do better–” And he feels horrible, seeing those fingers get wrung and bent, frustrations let out when they divorce of each other and flap limply, “I could’ve done better, I could’ve-just let me–”

“No.” He says again, softer, shutting the door and pressing his back to it to keep from giving in when the scratching begins. If Junmin has to do things… unbecoming of him then he’d rather not have an audience.

The Dahlias’ professor gives him a look of pity when he walks past, a glance at the curtains where Yujun’s friend rests before it comes back to him, “That one doesn’t understand when it’s time to stop.” His tone low when Jinsik can hear from beyond the door, “Never seen a Faerghan with a bleeding heart before.” He sighs, “A bleeding hearted anyone nowadays.”

“You haven’t looked very hard.” And for someone reason his mind drifts to Yujun, less a heart that bleeds and more one that’s just unsullied and pure. His memories of Fhirdiad are splotchy, come in parts, but most of them involve the younger in some capacity, glued to his side when no one else would look at him. Both of them were out at sea there. It’s not often that Fhirdiad takes in students from its neighbors. Less often do they enjoy it when the letter that recommends them is accompanied by a far too official seal for that person’s status. 

Where Junmin lied beyond whispers and rumors he didn’t know.

Jinsik gives up, not too easily but quickly enough that Junmin has time to finish his thoughts as the noises dull to silence. When he pushes off the door, Seunghun merely shrugs, “Perhaps.” He watches the other beginning to rummage through a small wooden cabinet hooked to the wall, “The real issue is where that girl is again.” The door to it is shut harshly, a hand full of small glass jars, caps left unopened so long that the wax is unbroken but weathered.

“Girl?”

“Herb girl.” Junmin’s motioned to where the curtains are already billowing without a breeze, pulled back by the older, “Errand girl.” Junghoon lays there, the billowing explained when the younger’s hand is holding the part closest to him, other hand pulled somewhere over the side of the bed.

Junghoon snorts, keeping his eyes planted on Junmin while Seunghin fusses and works to get his fingers off of it, “Wait til you see who he’s calling ‘herb girl.’”

“She wanted to earn her keep.” The older shrugs, swatting at the hand that tries to reach again, “She’s earning it.” Junmin moves forward without a word and pulls the blanket higher up on the younger’s body, redirecting Jungoon’s hand to an edge of it that isn’t tattered, weave buckling under the force of his grasp.

Then he notices where Junghoon’s other arm leads, a piece of ripped fabric tied around a wrist, the tail leading off the edge and connected to the wooden slats under the bed when he squats down to find it.

“You restrained him.” He says neutrally, touching it, glimmering gold threads sparse between the weave. Something fancy, cut in a way that it won’t shred.

“I bite.” Junghoon explains, tugging at it lamely, and the words are echoed from Seunghun’s mouth as he reaches for the blanket, and Junghoon seems well enough to try and prove that fact.

Junmin stands, dusting off his pants, numb to the way their voices raise.

“Do you want an infection?”

“I want you to heal Hyunwoo first.” And ah, that’s his name, coming as he rounds the bottom edge of the bed.

“Use your words then. This is civilization not some back alley. You’re not a wild animal.”

The volume of it hits Junmin’s ear wrong when he passes by, “He’s from Igna.”

“Igna?” Leather scraps the wooden floor, fabric rustling behind him when Seunghun turns, “Close enough then.” and Junmin’s reminded that border villages will get a reputation no matter what country they hail from and he pushes past the curtain.

Hyunwoo looks little different from when Junmin had seen him carried in. Blue still tints the younger’s lip, not quite frost bite but not warm enough either. Blood coats his temple but there’s no wound, the skin perfectly smooth but below it the bone has give when he presses, just the slight bit of movement and he frowns.

Hyunwoo still breathes, rhythmic. Hyunwoo’s heart still beats, steady under his palm once he’s whispered an apology and undone the top three buttons of the other’s shirt, finds skin clammy. He shakes out his own hands and orbs of white start to dance in view but he ignores them, “I won’t need you.” He whispers. I can’t do that again, “Just let me heal him.”

It disappears. Without them the room begins to dim significantly and his head bows under the weight of it so quickly he almost drops.

“Lord Park?” He hears Seunghun question when he braces his hand against the bed to stop his fall, “Are you sure you aren’t taxed right now? You know very well-”

“I’m fine.” The confidence in his tone wanes, “Junghoon, do you know if he had any other injuries?” There’s a too long period of quiet that rends itself between them after he asks and he turns slow enough that his head doesn’t swim. 

The younger doesn’t look at him, face towards the ceiling now that he’s settled back against the pillow beneath his head. Junmin can’t see where the other’s hand are when Seunghun stands just between them. But he can see the way that blood begins to stain through the blanket where it lays close to his leg.

“They didn’t let me check.” Junghoon finally says. Junmin doesn’t question him anymore on that.

“Will you let the professor heal your leg?” He asks instead and the younger faces him the same moment Seunghun huffs.

“No mere professor!” He boasts, “A most dedicated and decorated healer, one of the best hands here.” And Junmin keeps his mouth decidedly shut, feeling the bed hit the back of his legs when he steps back.

Junghoon looks at him now, face so torturously neutral that he looks away, “I want him to heal Hyunwoo first.” 

He can accept that, for now—turns on his heel and peels the blanket away from the other’s chest and finds no blood still, bones that are rigid, muscles firm and strong when he presses at the other’s abdomen.

“A singer too.” Seunghun mumbles as he comes close, pulling the blanket up from Hyunwoo’s feet and starting his search there.

Junmin hears Junghoon chuckle behind him, “I know. I’ve watched one of your shows in Ochs.”

The statement gets the older of them to turn but he stays focused, another apology whispered out when he undoes more buttons and finds skin blemished by scars long healed but nothing recent.

“We of Igna aren’t barbarians.”

⚔

Junmin finds himself to be the hypocrite when he lets Minjae through the door of the infirmary without argument long after Seunghun leaves, a hand at his waist when the older passes by, a squeeze at the flesh there.

Minjae knows how to stay out of the way though. That’s what he tells himself when the door falls closed with a push, a not so soft sound echoing when it meets the frame. He glances over at Junghoon’s bed and finds no movement from the lump under the covers. There hasn’t been any for hours. The best Junmin can say is that the bone was easy to place and skin was plain to pull back together, cotton bandages and Seunghun’s ointment now being left to do some of the work.

The worst he can say is that Junghoon can tell he’s lying when he says he’s done all he can for Hyunwoo, that it’s up to the goddess now to decide whether or not the other wakes when there’s more he can do, he just can’t . 

Junghoon hadn’t looked him in the eye when he spoke. 

“If it were up to Her, he wouldn’t.”

He shivers and Minjae comes closer, hand brushing the hair off his head, “Working yourself to death again.” A kiss is pressed to his cheek, lingering, “You’re not supposed to do that anymore.”

He frowns, uneasy at the thought of Minjae knowing what he can or can’t be doing. It’s wiped from his mind the instant it comes up, arms around the other’s shoulders as he brings him closer.

“Doing nothing of the sort.” The older scoffs, disbelieving, “Barely healed Junghoon’s leg. Promise.” Minjae pulls back and looks at him, “I wouldn’t break a promise.” He smiles, “Would I?”

The grip at his waist gets tighter. Minaje stares at him long, eyes roaming over his features and Junmin think the other will find all his half truths laid simple and bare but Minjae merely closes his eyes and sighs.

“You wouldn’t. No.” His heart blooms at that. A hand cups his face before it moves back, threaded in the ends of his hair. When he’s pulled close his own slide down, one palm flattened against a scar he knows rests too fully and neatly under an academy uniform, eyes falling closed in the other’s embrace, “What about Hyunwoo?” Junmin’s lashes flutter against his fiance’s neck when he opens his eyes again, “I’ve been trying to keep a war between Leicester and Faerghus from starting for the better part of the evening. Societal politics.”

He laughs at the mockery in the other’s tone, “You’re not exactly good with that.”

“I’m good at it.” Minjae rocks them side to side, “Just not great. Keeping Lee Yechan’s hands off Prince Park’s neck has been an ordeal, it’d be much easier if you froze his feet to the ground.”

His hand tingles at the mention of it, the chill of his fingers making the older hum when he slides one hand up and trails along the base of Minjae’s throat, “That’s never worked before.” He whispers. He’s tried, “Melts too fast.” They still reach you before you can run.

Minjae doesn’t know that but sometimes he likes to pretend his beloved might when a kiss is planted at his collarbone, just above a scar that both of them know is there. He sighs, something soft and feels Minjae smile against his shirt.

“Hyunwoo’s alive.” He admits.

“That’s very… bland,” the sound comes muffled, “from you at least.”

“Junghoon’s leg is better. I don’t know how he tore it open that badly. There was char on the edges of his skin.” He swallows, “The bone was already set, so that wasn’t any trouble, you know how I hate having to-”

“But Hyunwoo’s just alive?”

He pulls away, arms around him unyielding but he still pushes against Minjae’s shoulders to get space, unable to get a full arm’s length away when the older is persistent.

The look he gets is pleading, hands catching his wrists when they leave his waist.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with him.” He finally says and Minjae’s brow furrows, “I think he’s… he’s fine.” But it doesn’t feel fine, not when the other doesn’t look convinced. A glance over his shoulder assures him that Junghoon still sleeps, or if he doesn’t he’s good at feigning so Junmin lowers his voice, “I don’t think this is something I can heal–” You can. You can, you just won’t, because Hyunwoo’s not as important.

This time when he swallows it’s dry, carves nails down his throat when the skin of his wrist is pinched in Minjae’s grip. I can’t do anymore. He begs himself to voice it but it doesn’t come, instead his mouth opens only to shut again.

Junmin is no goddess. Not a god, not even a saint. Minjae’s mouth curves around those same facts when he steps closer, “Junmin, love, you’re not a miracle worker.” His beloved voices, “I know you did what you can. It’s up to him now.” 

“I should’ve let Jinsik help.” It comes from nowhere, blame misplaced and the flame flickers in the lamp on the desk.

But Minjae shakes his head, “No,” it comes with a laugh that’s half sighed, “he was going to collapse if he did anymore. I sent him someone who’ll take care of him.” When Junmin’s eyes widen he’s pulled closer again, “Don’t worry. It’s good for both of them.”

“That’s cryptic.” He whispers, “What happened to no secrets?”

“I never said no secrets, not when you keep many of those. I said communication. We’re doing that right now, when I’m telling you that Jinsik’s in good hands. Probably the best hands he could be in right now.” Minjae kisses the mole on his nose, chaste and quick.

Junmin takes his chin and makes them meet proper the second time, just as quick and just as chaste, his fiance giving him a wide smile when he pulls away.

It dims though. It always dims.

“When was the last time you ate?” He opens his mouth, “It wasn’t dinner.” It closes and Minjae snorts, patting his cheek, “Go sit down.” Minjae points at Seunghun’s desk, currently unoccupied, “I’ll fetch you something.”

“I’m-”

“Junmin.” The argument dies before it begins, “Rest.” A kiss lands on his knuckles when Minjae brings his hand up, forced to cup the older’s face when he leans into it, “Please. For me."

And that does him in. For Minjae, do it for Minjae.

When has Junmin ever done something for himself?

It’s not a thought he dwells on when he’s guided back to the desk. He finds his beloved awfully affectionate tonight, hands around his face and lips pressed to his brow before the other disappears and warmth blooms itself across his skin even when there’s no one left to witness it. It sets a fire against his heart like it should but he douses it, turns and plants his arms on the desk.

He’ll rest—for Minjae, he’ll do it—laying his head on his arms and letting his eyes drift close.

For Minjae.

Everything for Minjae.

⚔

Exhaustion takes its toll on him. So does Her voice.

It’s the sound of it that calls to him again, Her breath at his neck, quick and sharp as his eyes flutter open and he’s met with the darkness that has crept in the room without the lamplight there to chase it. He keeps hold of himself, hands stiff where they grasp his arms. And then slowly, torturously so, he lets himself sit up, indents impressed on his skin where Seunghun’s abandoned quill had been.

Minjae’s jacket is what falls from his shoulders once he’s upright, pooling behind his back and the weight that rests on his thigh isn’t uncommon. In the darkness he gently runs his hand through the older’s hair, finds him sleeping there and smiles.

“Sometimes I don’t deserve you.” He whispers and the other shifts under his hand but doesn’t wake and he’s pleased at that, keeps Minjae close a while longer. When he looks out the window he finds the sky darker than usual, leans towards the closed window and sees that clouds have come during the night and blotted that sliver of moon from their sight.

It’ll rain again. He can smell it, tires of it, when it’s done nothing but that since they’ve arrived.

And just like usual in the dark he hears Her. She won’t let him understand the words but She’s there in the corner, Her glorious light stunted by the shadows that engulf Her form. 

He looks away from Her before She can come out. He deserves one night here where he’s rid of Her when his fiance is right there, whole and healthy.

The chair scrapes when he pushes it back, Minjae’s head cradled in his hands as he holds it up before kneeling. There’s a pang of jealousy that the older can sleep so soundly in a place that makes Junmin’s skin peel back but his name is whispered from the other’s mouth, a pleading noise and he is bright again. It’s worth the pain that is maneuvering while keeping Minjae upright til he’s sat beside the older, until Minjae’s jacket is draped over his lap and he can guide him gently down, rapt with affection when his beloved’s hand curls around his knee even in sleep.

He’ll wake him before anyone comes. Minjae will be nothing but strong in others’ eyes. Junmin’ll make sure of it.

⚔

18th of April; 
Sovereign Year 1143

Hyunwoo doesn’t wake up the next morning. Junmin doesn’t expect him to.

When he changes Junghoon’s bandage and presses a hand threaded in gold to the skin there he’s met with a silence that he’s getting used to.

But there’s a weight to it, heavy and suffocating, when Junghoon refuses to look at him.

She’s abandoned him today. His own heart beats just as steadily as Hyunwoo’s. He’s at peace when he smiles at Junghoon and receives nothing.

⚔

That night he sleeps in his own room instead of the infirmary, waiting for Her to come back. She doesn’t come by the time a fuller moon’s high in the sky. And the calm that had clung to him all day begins to wane, fisting the front of his shirt so tight that his fingers sting. The chill of them presses against his chest and fights the warmth that threatens to beset him. He will be fine, he has to tell himself he’ll be fine, hand flattened against his breastbone to calm his heart.

Closing his eyes he sleeps, worryless, he tells himself, for the first time in months.

⚔

It’s not dreamless. That would be too much for him to wish for. 

There is only reprieve when the memories of that dream do not cling to him as his eyes spring open, the side of his hand aching from where it’s hit against the wooden wall. His sheets are tangled around his bare legs, cool bordering on cold where his sweat has seeped into them and evaporated, his chest, rising and falling rapidly, his breath fleeing him when he hears his heart in his ears.

She’s still not there, in the corner of his room where he expects Her to be, when he knows She was there in his mind, terror digging its claws beneath his ribs and rending them upwards. A gasp escapes him when no air has entered his lungs since he’s woke, pulling himself upright but his breath does not catch itself as he sits up, choking when he begins to unravel himself, used to the routine of unwrapping wet sheets where they stick to him. It comes back in waves, clawing down his throat but there’s air, nerves tingling when he stands and begins stripping his bed even as he sways.

A knock on his door causes him to freeze, the noise sudden but soft, just loud enough to get above the pressure in his ears, his shuddered breaths. Three of his own heartbeats thrum loudly beneath his chest before another joins it. He swipes at his face, finds it wet and composes himself with shaking hands, readying a lie on his tongue as the lock on his door comes undone.

The lie lays itself to rest when it’s not Minjae that stands there even when he wishes it to be. There’s still a pillow in his hand when he cracks the door open wider just to prove that his own eyes don’t deceive him but it drops from his hand as he blinks at his visitor.

Because it’s not often that a prince of a country not his stands only a step away from his door.

“I heard you hit your wall from two doors down.” Sunghoon explains himself, leaning up against the wall. Ragged, Junmin muses internally, bits and pieces of information gleamed when he looks the prince up and down only to find his shoulder tense the moment he’s given the same treatment. A prickle of anger comes up, always seems that it’ll hold him steady, “You did this before we left too.” And that prickle becomes a barb. The other peels himself from the wall, a hand once hidden now offering a stack of linen but looking away from him.

But when he goes to take it the hand retracts just out of reach and he furrows his brow.

There was a time, earlier in his life, where once Junmin wouldn’t care much about the words that could fall from his mouth as long as his mother didn’t witness it. There are things that he’d gotten away with, unseen and unheard, a face that he knows he has too much in kind with saintly statues. A second son with a pretty face’s thoughts mean nothing, just silly words when they’re aimed at someone who would grin and bear it and all would be brushed off.

A second son with a pretty face who’s been softly outcasted from the world he barely had a hold in to begin with is a different story; slamming the door in the face of someone far above his status would not reflect poorly on only him.

So—for Minjae’s sake, and to keep this quiet—he steps back, the door opening farther and offering a view of his now disarrayed room that’s piles of drying sheets and half covered pillows, “Come in.” But it’s barely an invitation when the prince steps through before Junmin can rasp out the words, picking up the discarded pillow on the way. The door closes with a noise far more jarring than he thinks it should and he presses his head against the wood.

When he turns, Sunghoon is proffering the sheets willingly this time, arm straight out towards Junmin with his head bowed. It’s fully distinct from the other times he’s seen the prince. Another facet, one that doesn’t temper his anxiety as he wordlessly takes all but one bit that Sunghoon keeps to himself and skirts around towards his desk.

The prince doesn’t say more. Not for a bit. Junmin’s complacent with the silence, picking up one of his pillows and undoing the ties. He watches the other mirror the action, taking a seat on Junmin’s bed as he fumbles with knots that are always too secure and notices there’s a finger that’s splinted, kept straight and wrapped tightly.

“Guess we’re all having bad nights?” Sunghoon finally says once he gets one undone and it’s painfully awkward in the way that afternoon tear in Enbarr is, held hostage in his own room. He hums, polite, quickly undoing what he can before reaching for the linens on his desk, “I’m sorry for…” Invading, Junmin fills automatically when the prince pauses, occupying a territory not your own, but that’s such a humorous thought when it’s his country that has that history.

It doesn’t stop him from jittering, fingers unable to part the linens at first and his muttered curse causes the other to look up.

“I guess I should apologize to Kai instead.”

He looks over but Sunghoon’s eyes dart away when he does, “Is it about Kim Junghoon?” The prince still stares out the window as he nods and Junmin scoffs, “Apologize to Junghoon if you really want forgiveness. He doesn’t belong to Kai.” Nothing belongs to Kai. If anything it’s the Empress they all belong to. But even then Junmin’s never had much of a place.

“You’re right.” The other says before another pause, “There is something I need to talk to him about though. Will he be in your classroom before the bell?”

Junmin ties his last knot too tautly and watches a thread pull out, “He likes to stay by the pond after breakfast.” He whispers, retying it more gently, spaces them evenly.

“Tell him to come to his classroom.” The pillow is left to sit in his desk chair, “Have your fiance be there too.” Sunghoon doesn’t notice when Junmin’s nails scrape across the wood, “Kai trusts him right? The Military Affairs-”

His hand hits the desk harshly, a hollow thud that causes the ink near his quill to ripple.

“I-” He interrupts and the pounding in his head comes back, throbbing, his breath short, “Prince Sunghoon I am not a messenger.” He strains and and Sunghoon’s eyes meet his for more than just a brief glance, eyes widened in a way Junmin hasn’t been privy to. His chest aches in his anger, the mention of his beloved from the other as worrying a thing as they come.

It’s not long that Sunghon can stand to look though, head dropping and the hand with its busted finger runs through his hair, “I didn’t mean it as an order.” He says before raising up, “I’m actually begging.” Comes with a laugh, low and humorless, and the desk digs into Junmin’s hip, “It’s important… just… Lord Park-” He swallows the spit that sours in his mouth when he’s addressed like that, “-know that it’s important.”

And what isn’t important, he thinks, in times like these and in a place like this? All of them thoughts that sting and rip and his hand curls around the edge of the wood to keep from striking forward. Mulling it over there’s no way for him to get out of it. Sunghoon will find the both of them whether Junmin aids it or not. And if it’s important, and Minjae finds that Junmin’s kept it from him–

“I’ll go.” The prince says as he stands and Junmin’s head snaps up, “I’ve overstayed my welcome and it-it wouldn’t do well for a prince to, to be seen with a man who’s spoken for.” is stuttered out much the way Jinsik does, a glance that looks him from his eyes down to his feet and back up again. He must be seeing  things when there’s a dusting of red that colors the prince’s ears in the pale light, “Especially one, who is in such a state of dress as this.”

Part of him thinks that the Dahlias’ leader might be on the right track when the idea of spitting is one that he gives too much weight to. He almost doubts himself, looking down and sees that his shift reaches past his thighs but lands above his knees. Nothing scandalous, annoyed and his free hand grips the hem and tugs it down. The motion makes Sunghoon’s gaze move to the wall behind him and he rolls his eyes.

Leave it to Faerghans and their goddess anointed prudeness. Cathedral dwelling sycophants, comes coldy to him and he sighs.

“Wouldn’t want your reputation ruined.” He grabs his pillow and tosses it in the place the prince vacates as he moves towards the door, “Couldn’t have that.”

“Fear there’s not much left of that to ruin.” He hears when he crosses the space and begins fixing his bed again, “Trying to build it back up now.” A sigh, “Please do think about what I said, it’s-”

“Important.” One knee lands on the bed when he begins to fit one of the sheets in place along the wall and he hears the rustling that comes with Sunghoon turning away from him. He bites his lip, waiting for the sound of his door opening. It doesn’t come fast enough and he pulls his other knee up, knelt on the bed as he turns his head and finds Sunghoon facing his door, “I’ll tell him you want to see him.” He pauses, “Both of them, and-” he deflates, exhaustion finding it easy to take hold of him now, “-thank you. For the linens.”

“You’re welcome.” The prince says more to the door than him, “And thank you as well, I mean it, I-”

“Please.” He begs, exasperated, “Prince Park, go.” And a soundless nod and whispered good night is what he’s given before Sunghoon finally disappears from his sight. 

He’s alone then, in more ways than one. His head hits the wall and he breathes in, thinking about what could possibly be happening now, what it involves if Minjae’s wanted there.

“It can’t be good.” He says out loud into the silence, flopping onto the bed with less grace than his mother’d like from him; only when he resolves himself that he’ll be there too—that he’s allowed that by right, when Minjae’s his betrothed, when Minjae will be his husband —does he fall into a truly dreamless sleep.

⚔

Kai doesn’t say anything while he reads what Sunghoon’s given him. But his face gives away his thoughts, a genial smile that dims bit by paltry bit, imperceivable if Junmin wasn’t watching it happen from where he stands a bit from them, his eyes drifting over to the rest that have gathered.

Sunghoon didn’t mention there’d be a crowd he’d bring—flanked by his knight and what Junmin remembers for once is Park Seeun, the former pressed right up to Sunghoon’s side and the prince’s cousin steps away, all three of them watching with differing levels of interest. The prince, he finds, is the only one that chews his cheek and shifts in a way he finds unnatural when—barring the previous night—the older’s done nothing but be proud and keep his tongue loose with benign opinions that are common with men of his status.

On their side is Kai, of course, sitting at Minjae’s desk when it’s closest to the aisle and the door, the owner of it an arm’s reach away and scanning over the paper as well.

Jungwon is also there— nosey, Junmin thinks meanly, biting—because Junmin couldn’t find a way to separate their prince from cheery prattle without the other following. Junmin suffers a shock through his clothed shoulder every time Jungwoon moves and knocks into him, humming a tune that’s common to the coast the two of them share.

His mother used to sing it. 

Refusing to dwell on that he tightens his arms where they cross his chest and digs his nails into her shawl, watches his fiance’s face for anything and finds the lack of expression makes him more worrisome. What trouble did Faerghans bring to them now, what is the next ill that’ll befall them for being dragged in with—

“I think it’s nothing to worry about.” Kai says suddenly, dropping the letter to the desk beside him. It seems none of them were expecting that; Jungwon’s humming clips off suddenly and even Sunghoon’s knight seems to raise a brow. Minjae leans against the desk and says nothing. Junmin finds that’s enough of an answer, now isn’t it?

Sunghoon doesn’t, “Kai.” The name is stressed. Eyes flicker to where he and Jungwon are and he’s reminded that technically they’re outsiders here, outclassed even if it’s slight.

Jungwon is, he corrects, you’re not.

The passing glance is all the time the prince uses to decide whether they’re worth speaking in front of, “It’s an assassination plot.” spelled out so simply and Sunghoon must think that would stir them.

A gasp comes from beside him but it’s mock. Even Junmin’s mouth twitches in an attempt to keep a smile down. None of the Lilies seem to share the levity.

Perhaps threats to the royal family aren’t all that common in Faerghus. In-fighting between nobles is a continent-wide venture but nothing so high as the untouchable King.

But Kai laughs as well, fingers gliding across the edge of the paper and crossing his legs. Blonde hair falls into his eyes, a loose wave hiding them, “Oh. Of course.” A chuckle is let out low, dying quickly, “Sunghoon, I’ve dealt with many of those.” There’s a crinkle in the skin around his eyes when he looks back up, smiling broadly, “This isn’t all that uncommon.”

“You find detailed accounts of your beheading and dismemberment so routine you laugh about them?” The northern prince scoffs and runs a hand through his hair, “Hyuka-”

“The dismembering is new.” Minjae offers and Sunghoon takes a full step forward as if he’ll lunge like any common wolf before stopping himself. Minjae cocks his head to the side at that, “Junmin.” he’s beckoned forward with a wave of a hand and moves easily, already at the other’s side and dismissing glimmering threads before Minjae has time to pick up the letter. The warmth of his beloved’s palm on his arm is a good weight as he’s handed weathered parchment, eyes not straying far from the dogs in front of them, “What do you think?”

“Is that not a security risk?” Sunghoon barks.

“It’s now an Internal Affairs problem.” His prince answers cooly in his defense and yet another argument starts as he reads.

Detailed is a stretch. There’s a general time and place and an emphasis on beheading, imagery so vivid the ink might as well run red with it. Unification. It’s always unification. An entire section of this holy order prays on a united Fodlan and Yujun’s spoken of a map with no borders in the archbishop’s office. 

He swallows when he remembers that. It pairs well but horrific with the message Choi Sumin’s father had left. But those are things that wouldn’t do well to mention in front of people who’d kiss the archbishop’s boot if asked of them. Its western faction was denounced by the church but not eradicated the way other dissenters would have been. This recent uprising has been the only one met with a significant show of force, the whispers of knights of how it would show what happens when you turn your blade on the church.

A show of force. The knowledge that a hand that guides can be a hand that crushes.

That your own countrymen will turn on you if you stray out of the Light.

But skimming the letter there’s a problem he notices, keeps coming back to it even when the others’ voices rise and a hand finds its place at his waist.

“I think-” He begins in a whisper but they all stop, the air taken out of the room along with the sound. It’s so sudden, the attention that’s put on him, that Minjae squeezing his side is the only thing that makes him speak again, “If this is something that’s going to… possibly happen that maybe we should talk to the Dahlias’ house leader too.” Sunghoon’s eyes harden and he turns away, facing Minjae instead, “The Rebirth Rite is a large ceremony, we’d have more eyes–”

“I’m not letting them know about this.” The northern prince cuts in, “It’s already bad enough that you’re here when I’m trying to keep this away from common eyes-”

“Watch it.”

Junmin’s head turns towards the new voice, Seeun sitting at his desk now and leaning on his table. It’s the first time he’d spoken since they arrived, terse now where’d he’d been almost ambivalent.

Sunghoon’s shoulders draw up when he spins on his heel, “I didn’t mean it like that, I meant-” an eyebrow is raised in his direction, the other’s mouth flat, “I meant… I-” The can all see what he means. Junmin may not remember everyone’s name but he’s seen them.

Kai, blessedly, saves them all, “You mean well.” He tempers Sunghoon’s flared emotions, “But I think Junmin has a point.” Blonde hair falls from his face when he tilts it back to catch Junmin’s gaze and smiles, “Plus!” Excitement colors his tone when he returns his attention to the one before him, “Lee Yechan has to be a good strategist to have pulled off a victory against you!” He praises one of the youngest of them to mixed reactions.

Minjae’s chuckle is hidden in the slope of his shoulder, and even the prince’s cousin seems delighted at the remark. Junmin’s reservations keep him from being too joyous when he thinks that Lee Yechan was just incredibly lucky and just as rightfully angry.

And those two things are enough to keep you alive on a battlefield full of children.

Chapter Text

Purple Orchids

- Sumin -

17th of April; 
Sovereign Year 1143

Sumin will find him wandering.

It won’t be by happenstance—not when he starts out the evening all but pacing the stones by the stairs near the entrance, watching the Lilies bring in their wounded. Most of them had, a small group wandering out by the pond after dinner to stand watch for friends they’d made when they could do little more.

Useless, Kai had gingerly put it.

“In that particular way at least.” the older had said, the crowd of them beginning to still where they stood just beyond the corner, “Junmin’s already waiting on the second floor.” Sumin had seen red hair from the window as the light began to wane, destined for little moonlight to help, “And we’ve got Jungwon as back up.”

“And me.” Yujun had said, quietly, a sniffle accompanying it and the evening sun could do little to hide the red of the younger’s eyes. They’d all watched their peers step past the big doors of the entrance hall, disappearing into the building where the echoes of orders he could barely hear were being carried out.

A funerary procession, he thinks now, just a bit grim, reminded of the ones held in Macha; nobles and commoners alike would make the pilgrimage to the second largest cathedral in all of Fodlan, asking for their recently or not recently deceased loved ones to be granted passageway to the afterlife with a blessing from his father’s holy hand. Good military men had gotten higher honor by their laws, but not in the eyes of his father. The more blood that soaked into them, he’d been told, the farther they–

He shakes his head of the thought, this isn’t that, continuing to watch, searching for a familiar head of brown hair in a sea of similar tones. The one thing that keeps his stomach from curdling is the memory of Minjae’s calm voice saying only two were grievously injured, several others in dim spirits but walking condition at least. Jinsik hadn’t been part of the tally on the back of the letter the older held in his hand. 

Little else does well to quiet his fears when he knows who was on that tally. 

His hands itch when he thinks of Hyunwoo, enfeebled, can’t believe out of all of them it was that one when the archer is who helped carry the Dahlias to victory. They begin to burn, skin on the back of one scratched raw, when he knows that Junghoon also lays amongst the wounded.

“Did they say how?” He whispers, and Kai’s eyes land on him first before the prince turns in full, “Junghoon.” The name tight in his throat, “Did they say why he couldn’t be healed?”

“Ah.” By some miracle that Sumin can’t begin to understand Kai almost laughs, a huff of air before the sound is cut off and a mouth shuts firm, “It seems disappearing isn’t his only speciality.” When he raises a brow the smile begins to creep back onto the prince’s face, “Nothing—he just seems quite fond of us.” Which is no more enlightening than anything else he’s been given until the other speaks again,

“Only us.” Kai crosses his arms, still simpering, “He wouldn’t let them touch him.”

“He didn’t let anyone heal him?” He chooses to squeeze his hand instead of scratch when he’s close to drawing blood, “His injury was marked as-”

“Yes, and–”

“He nearly bit through one of their mage’s hands.” Turning on his heel he finds Minjae there, a nearly identical smile growing on the other’s face, “Prince Park made a particular note about having to dislodge Kim Junghoon’s teeth from one of his own.”

The remark makes Sumin turn back to the tail end of the procession, the sight of doors closing slowly on the last of the knights producing sound when wood slams against each other, “Did…” He pictures Jinsik, poor timid Jinsik, reeling back from one of their more stubborn classmates, “Did they say who he bit?”

A hand claps on his shoulder and his shoulders hike up at the contact. Minjae’s smile becomes more teeth, amused and too all knowing before pulling his hand away, “Don’t worry.” Sumin begins to worry, “It was just Kang Taehyun.” As if just Kang Taehyun is the better option. It’s not—he’ll be surprised if Junghoon has any teeth left. He thinks there might be a good chance of that until eyes from more than just their fellow countrymen turn at the mention of the noble’s name, only a handful of them discreet and he’s disheartened. Junghoon’s got a few quirks that are hard to work with but he’s theirs, protective over the younger the way he is Riki when they are two opposite ends of a spectrum.

But without the view there’s nothing holding them to the spot they keep, dispersing when dinner’s already passed but there will be an aftermath to watch when the Lilies eat, questions to be asked when a lot of them are friendly with one another and distraught. Sumin thinks about what his father wrote, about lambs led to slaughter and wonders which side of the slaughter the lambs are to be on if so many of them made it back.

Minjae is the last of them to leave besides him where he cannot find it in him to calm, Kai even begins to trail towards the edge of the pond not from them, just in reach but still far enough. 

“He’s probably bugging Junmin.” The older speaks first. He barely opens his mouth before he’s cut off, “Don’t play dumb. Go.” Minjae motions to the path behind him, “Find him, wait for him or what have you. Use the back way around the stables.”

Unlucky he is, if Kim Minjae has already made connections to things better left at rest, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Not for him. Nor his heart, but good would neither come from not finding the other and prayer is all too easy a thing he’s always fallen into. He plays dumb though, even as he’s physically pushed across the stones the Lilies just walked, wooden doors looming above them despite his limp protests.

“Junmin can be a little mean.” He’s confided in, “I’m sure right now he’ll throttle that mage if he stays too long. Be better to have him in your care.”

“What are you talking about?” His voice pitches upward as he tries to dig his heels. By way of training that outweighs Sumin’s by years the general’s son is stronger, hands letting up only when they make it the opposite edge of the doorway to a set of stairs that lead up and around the building.

He’s regarded, just for a moment, with softening eyes. When Minjae sighs it’s heavy, bone deep as Sumin watches the other’s head drop and he takes a step back in worry that turns to fear at whatever could be said next.

And he should, proven right the moment the older raises his head again. There is no levity to the expression he’s given, none in the way there’d been.

“Do you think,” Minjae begins, “the way you look at him isn’t noticed?”  

The building catches him when he teeters, shoulder hitting brick while Minjae watches him sag with the weight of that. Then he speaks his own truth, the wall he’s placed just so,

“Do you think it matters?”  

“It could.” Minjae says and then nothing else, keeping an eye on him. It could. It could matter

But it couldn’t. Not when there’s a boundary that divides them in more ways than one. The church has turned down petitions over less.  

But what should that all matter when he can still help if he needs to? When he feels he can still be someone to rely on? That revelation, at least, is what drives him to do as he’s told, obedient when he turns and starts his ascent up the back path and out of the older’s pitying sight.

At the stables he finds knights placing horses away still and he stops, detouring towards them til his hand pats at the muzzle of a black stallion who always plays favorites. For the first time he’s not greeted with snapping teeth. There’s a foreboding feeling that comes up when Moghwa bows his head at Sumin’s touch. It surges when that same muzzle presses against his back and ushers him forward, as if the stallion would also like him to find Jinsik, hurrying him. Of his own volition he passes under the awning that leads to knight’s rest, and past the small cemetery that holds only the most accoladed folk of Garreg Mach’s history, overlooking the eastern plains. 

When he turns into the hall on his left he seals his fate, waiting just after the four pronged crossroad near the simplest set of stairs that leads up to their most holy.

There’s no one there; from the second floor he hears nothing, no sounds of feet echoing from the halls above him. Patiently as he can he waits there at the foot of the steps for anything when his chest begins to tighten. It’s as still and quiet as the cathedral, before a light comes haloing down the hall beside him, brighter than the moon and accosting his eyes before it dims itself, revealing a girl not much smaller than he with features diffused by a white veil.

She stops at the sight of him, her other arm labored as it carries a small box of thin glass vials, a long black dress pinned up in the front to keep her from tripping. There’s something about her and the curl of her blonde hair that strikes at his memory, the onset of that thought sudden and striking when he’s only recently been allowed into court and knows that only the lords of Adrestria court had been permitted entrance this year. With that in mind he banishes the idea of any burdensome similarities, instead stepping forward only for her to take one back, “Pardon,” he says softly, “but have you seen… Lord Jinsik?” he fumbles with the title, “One of the Lilies, not too tall-”

“Lord Ham’s third born?” The tone of her voice causes him pause, a brow raised when it’s deepened unnaturally but he nods anyway, but the voice she uses next does not match the first, “I saw him–I seen him, go yonder, um, yes yonder, towards the training grounds-” Her nerves play well in the sound that she produces, her eyes shaking behind the veil.

He is, however, a man with something important on his mind, “Thank you.” coming as he pushes the mystery the girl causes his mind, passing by quickly as she squeaks and tries to blend into the wall. 

Out from the safety of the hall he’s aware of the cobblestone echoing under his feet, sky growing ever darker above him and the lack of light makes childish fears come up with a force he cannot contain when he swears there are shadows that shouldn’t be there in the courtyard. 

There’s only a single path from here to the grounds, he tells his fast beating heart, just follow straight and there will be nothing that can harm you, a prayer he hopes the goddess hears when in the distance there is a single torch lit just around the corner from their classrooms and nothing else to light his way as he runs hastens towards it.

The creaking of metal greaves is only the knights. The glint of steel in the bare bit of moonlight is just them on patrol around the grounds.

The fact the color that gleams off it is black and not white is nothing to worry about, the figure standing in the courtyard does not look at you, its eyes are not red—

The sound of a throat being cleared causes him to jump, a soundless scream dying in his throat when the moon and the torch light so bright allows him a view of a nose so sharp, a face too much like the one he’s searching for. They are sat there, on the stones with knees pulled up just where the shadows begin to eat away at the light, and he needs no more than that to know who’s there, the sound of sniffling and a soft choked noise reaching his ears.

“Jinsik?” He whispers and shadows do not keep him from seeing the way the younger’s face is tear stained when they are still wet at the younger’s chin, “I’ve been looking for you.” He says gently, a hand raised but not reaching out. 

It breaks him, the barest bit, to watch the other inch away from him when he tries to come closer. The wall stops Jinsik though, and Sumin can hear the sound of too loud talking coming from the baths not far from them. Fingers wind together in his sight, pale skin glowing when glimmering threads begin but do not fully form.

He frowns, “Jinsik, have you eaten?” asked and he’s given no response but splashing in the distance, metal against stone causing him to tread closer, “The others all went to the dining hall. They might be done now but there should be something left.” Tepidly, he takes another half step, wishing nothing more than the other to know he’s there, “You must eat.” said simply to get them where it’s light.

It doesn’t work, a head that’s shaken before it’s placed against knees and Sumin can no longer see him, “Lord Park, he, he turned me away.”

“He does that.”

“I wanted.” comes along with another sniffle, moon catching on tears that fall anew when Jinsik raises his head, “To help.”

“Jinsik,” another name almost falls after that, something too sweet, doting, “you helped so much already. You need to rest.”

“Hyunwoo.” The younger chokes and he goes as close as he’s allowed, “Hyunwoo might die, because of me, because I-”

“Hyunwoo would want you to eat.” He does not touch but offers his hand, open palmed until Jinsik shrinks back from it, lets his fingers close to a fist before allowing them to drop, “Hyunwoo would want you to rest.” Like with children he used to find on the streets of Enbarr he squats low, unthreatening but able to catch red rimmed eyes more easily where his own shadow doesn’t consume the other, “He’d probably get all sour if could see you now, you know it’s true.” 

A fondness comes to him, a memory—both Hyunwoo and Beomgyu had chided Jinsik the day he’d slit his finger in the stables and refused to get it cared for, berated by one and assured by the other until he’d given in. He schools his expression when the shadows keep the other’s eyes hidden still.

“Please?” He nearly begs, “Come eat?” and Jinsik shakes his head still, vigorous, hair swaying as he creeps closer, very much in arm’s reach now, “What if we found Bambi?” He offers as a last resort. Jinsik’s head shifts in his direction, accomplishing at least that much, “She’s missed you as well. I’m surprised she wasn’t the first to find you, she only eats well if you’re here.”

I only sleep well when you’re here as well, but it’s unkind of him to push that on the other, smiling when there’s still fear in him as Jinsik peels away from the wall and Sumin raises up to meet him. He stays close, just within arms reach, the sound of metal greaves is still tromping through the classroom courtyard not far from them. It stops so suddenly the moment they touch the grass and he is no less fearful in the absence of that noise when the other will not touch him.

“You’re shaking.” Jinsik notes with a watered tone, eyes still down and fingers still twisted in a manner that makes Sumin frown even in the dark.

He inhales, turning the next corner, before the other does, “I don’t like the dark that much.” and the sound of sabatons has not started back up, no black armored knight in sight when he checks timidly. 

Instead the only thing they find is a small kitten that has grown just a bit—one that begins to unfold herself from a flop of cats that all gather behind leftover wooden boxes by the dining hall. Jinsik scoops her up with a noise Sumin can only describe as elated, himself being just happy to see the other’s fingers distracted with something more soft. He peeks in through the back entrance and finds that everyone has indeed turned in for the night. One lone lantern still burns on one of the tables, its handle warm in his hand when he pilfers it to guide Jinsik behind the counter.

There’s not much. It’s better than scraps, certainly, but a meager portion of lamb stew and hardening bread is something he knows doesn’t fit Jinsik’s tastes, searching for an apple to peel while the younger picks his way through the vegetables in the bowl he’d been given. Half the meat is shared with Bambi. He doesn’t say anything about that so long as some of it makes it past Jinsik’s teeth as well, stew dipped fingers forcing him to find a cloth when the younger whines at the texture. Jinsik doesn’t let him clean them off, doesn’t let him come too close. He leaves the cloth between them on the counter by the bowl while Jinsik presses a kiss to Bambi’s head and he envies her just the slightest bit, occupied by the silence.

In the lantern’s light he’s been able to observe more than just tears and reddened eyes and he hates it. A bruise colors the skin below Jinsik’s eye, a scab crusted scrape in the midst of skin that’s swollen. What he’d seen of Sunghoon’s report had been very thorough of injuries gained in battle and Jinsik’s flame burned arm, the bandage of which he can see just below the other’s cuff, was counted.

The injuries on his face weren’t.

The second he looks too long at the discoloration Jinsik casts his eyes back down. He won’t ask how it happened when he’s not sure his heart could take it. He’s assured of that fact, when Jinsik’s first words are more firm, eyes not coming up from the piece of bread the other pokes a hole into, “I need to learn to fight.” said suddenly.

The kitten held so gently in the crook of Jinsik’s arm meows in response and he steps closer.

“I won’t, won’t run away. I’ll train hard, promise.”

The rasp in the other’s voice, scratched raw when another set of tears threaten to fall, causes Sumin to reach out, hand aimed for fingers that do well to desecrate the bread that crumbs under them, “You are training har-”

But Jinsik rips it away before he can be touched.

They’re both quiet. Shock reads plainly on the other’s face before the hand curls around Bambi, “I’m sorry.” Jinsik says quietly.

“Don’t.” He tries to smile, “Don’t be.” when it’s him that should be sorry, too impulsive in the way he wishes to feel the other’s skin under his own palm again. Patient as he is, the goddess might fault him for the weight of his wants when nothing good could come of them.

“Will you still train me?” The other asks again and Sumin could never say no, says he’d be honored and the smallest of smiles pulls up the corner of Jinsik’s mouth as another tear trails down the cheek beside it, “Thank you, then, in advance, I’ll… I’ll…” the other’s voice cracks again.

Slower this time he moves, his hand kept in the other’s view as closes the distance between himself and Bambi, fur silken and damp from the rains they’ve been having. Jinsik allows him that, silent when watching him pet her until she begins purring so gently. Jinsik allows him more when his hand moves just as slowly to the younger’s where it’s propping her up. Muscles tense below his fingers but don’t pull away. His thumb brushes over skin that is nearly unmarred and smooth.

If he concentrates he can feel Jinsik’s pulse beneath it, the thrumming of blood just below. He will take this scene and replay it over and over in his mind for as long as he has it, rapt when the other’s head raises just a bit more, a smile growing wider in the dying lantern’s light.

But the memory will be stained, infected by his ugly heart that twists until it pops when the younger speaks again.

“I am to be wed.”

He stays silent, thumb brushing over knuckles, imprinting the feel of them into his memory if this is to be the last he’ll have of them.

“I do not wish to be wed.” And selfishly he does not wish it either when he has no right to that thought. 

He’s doomed for it some day as well, once his father’s ever deep patience runs out, currently satiated by his brother’s marriage to another lord’s first born daughter. A second son’s marriage means nothing so he’d always hoped it would be for love. 

Those dreams die though, in this moment, when Jinsik’s breath quickens through his noses and whines, a dead, dying thing’s sound and Sumin’s threadbare will keeps him from wrapping around the other, “Is it too, to do things for myself. Is it too much, to want–” getting choked out and his own eyes sting, forced to turn away before Jinsik can watch him crumble when he knows he needs to be strong.  

“I don’t think so.” He answers truthfully, voice tight, “The goddess teaches us that while we help our fellow man we are not to forget ourselves.” Common scripture that’s taught even to the youngest in Adrestria, the words always twisted in a way that satisfies self-centered egos over the good of all.

He wouldn’t have to worry about that with Jinsik though, the other already deprecating, inhaling sharply, “I’ve never, ever been good…” always good, he corrects the other internally, “at that part.”

“No.” He laughs at that, “No, from what I’ve seen you’re the worst at it.” Finally he looks back at the other and smiles, even if Jinsik refuses to look at him fully, “But we can practice that as well?” A glance is given to him, gone as quick as it comes, “I would allow you to be selfish in my presence, if you’d like to learn.”

He watches, endeared when Jinsik’s face scrunches in confusion the way he’s seen it done so many times before before he swallows, standing straighter.

“I mean it. If you’re not going to bother others, then at least allow me to have that honor.” And an honor it would be, one of many that he’s already been given tonight. But the other doesn’t look so convinced, watching a brow pinch too tightly, and he refuses to push past a boundary he’s already toeing when he wants to smooth the skin there, “What would you like to do?” He asks, “Right now, what is it you wish?”

As sudden as the offer is he can’t bring himself to stop, gentle but firm in his words. The silence that comes after draws on, punctuated by the sound of crickets just beyond the open doors, ticking down the time and for a moment he thinks Jinsik will pull away from him again, almost ready to do so himself, ready to let the other flee without remorse.

“I want to… go look at the stars.” Jinsik whispers quietly instead, hesitant, just before Sumin begins to release him, “I want to, to go lay on the grass.”

“Is that all you wish?” And Jinsik nods, still fearful and skittish in the way he begins to lean away and Bambi stays still and content in his hands where it’s safe and warm. 

A finger comes off her fur and furls around one of his shyly. His face softens, tries not to look sullen when he’s unsure how the world could’ve ever been so cruel to someone whose wishes are so sweet.  

“Then how could I deny you?” 

Chapter Text

Yellow Dahlias

-Yechan-

19th of April; 
Sovereign Year 1143

He throws the piece of paper carelessly back onto the desk it had been slid to him on. Behind him Jay says something he doesn’t quite hear but the tone has enough impact to catch his attention.

“Sounds like horse shit.”

Not that he listens.

A pin could drop in the silence that follows and still be heard. Pigment could also be made of the red that rims his eyes too, but he lets neither of those things keep him from his bitterness when Sunghoon’s face will turn purple at the rate at which the older holds his tongue as well as his breath. 

Good, Yechan thinks. Choke.

Jay either knows him too well or can read minds—both are horrific thoughts to have when he knows what his head holds—because the back of his jacket is yanked, just hard enough to make him jerk but not yelp. Leader or not, the older’s never seemed to care where Yechan ranks if he’s dead set on opening his mouth like this, many a roundtable meeting held with his mouth clamped shut and Jay’s spit slick hand wiped on the sleeve of his shirt by the end of it.

The only thing stopping that from happening now is an audience, and the fact that his adolescence has already been used very pointedly against him today.

“Act like an infant while you still can. Go cry over the man you might lose but remember you’re still a leader.”

The only evidence of the talk is the discoloration at the corner of Jay’s jaw and the red of his own face. 

He’ll apologize more fully for that later. Once Sunghoon stops glaring at him and once Kai’s tight smile stops making him angrier.

“Well that’s two against one.” The blonde chuckles, settling back against the table he’s leaned on, “Satisfied?” He asks the northern prince when all of the ones attending already seem to know the answer.

“With the child’s very poignant conclusion?” Sunghoon scoffs, and the word child makes his shoulders draw back, “No. Of course I’m not, what does this–what is his word over mine?”

He leans over the desk he’s sat at, feels Jay’s hand rear him back again, “Considering that most of them like me more? Quite a bit.”

“Like is a very strong word.” He hears above him, “Forgive him, Prince Sunghoon, he hasn’t had his afternoon nap–”

“Fuck you.” He rips away from the hold that keeps him, standing quick enough that the bench rattles with the movement, “I apologize for being younger than all of you, since that seems to mean something. Even when I won against you,” his finger aims at the northern prince, “and last I checked, so did your cousin who is my age.” From that same brunette he hears a noise made, but whether it’s in agreement or argument he doesn’t care, “Now where’s your apology for nearly killing one of mine?” His voice trills, an ignoble squeak to it when his emotions get the better of him.

The room is no more quiet than it was but the air seems to evaporate. Sunghoon’s posture stiffens, then relaxes, a softness to his features that would serve to soothe probably anyone else here but it makes the blood in Yechan’s veins boil when hands are extended as well.

“I have apologized, Lord Lee, I did what I could-”

“And what you could do is comatose someone you swore–”

“Was I supposed to hold his hand the whole time!”

“Enough.”

It comes harshly, not yelled but so firm that even Yechan’s spine goes rigid at the sound of it and his shoulders hike up, watching Sunghoon back up like a threatened dog. Kai’s head is stooped and his face unseen, hands so neatly placed on a knee where legs have been crossed. When the older raises up again none of that tone is present on his face, only the genial smile and soft eyes that Yechan’s grown so used to in the past month.

“I think,” the southern prince begins, gentle and kind, “that maybe we should speak on this another day, perhaps?”

“Hyuka-”

A hand raises, stopping Sunghoon from speaking. Yechan’s astonishment at that is cowed by the fear the other’s voice had instilled.

“There is time before the Rebirth Rite.” Kai shrugs, “Let us have time to recover from one thing before the next. Hyunwoo is important.” A nod, slow and acknowledging, is given to him, “As well as the rest of your injuries.” That same hand still held up is gestured to Sunghoon’s hand where a split is still tight around the other’s finger, “One of ours is also injured; we should let them rest.” 

He watches Kai look around to all of them in the small group that’d been gathered before him, each side outnumbering him and Jay when there’s only two.

“We should all rest.”

No one contends with that fact when Yechan believes half of them haven’t seen sleep in days. He sure hasn’t, tried so very hard to keep his eyes closed despite the noises at his door when none of the others seem plagued the way he is. 

When Kai stands the meeting ends, and the Lilies leave first with a shaken Sunghoon at their lead. Kai doesn’t say anything when Yechan waits a good ten seconds before following behind.

“Great job, milord.” He hears once they pass through the open doors of the Orchids’ classroom and onto the grassy courtyard where it’s bereft of any passing students. Pride, small and sharp as it is, does not last long when those words are accompanied by a not so weak strike to the head. His shoulders draw up at the impact, mouth falling open with a Hey! and a flurry of complaints that pile up when Jay’s touch isn’t soft.

They cut off, each and everyone one of them silenced when an arm wraps around his shoulders and draws him under the older’s chin like it’s nothing. It’s simple—a singular arm that keeps him still and quiet as he’s forced to stand there.

He pretends it doesn’t feel nice. Jay’s always been warm, always been strong. Thoughts a plenty begin to well straight up his spine, his stinging eyes blinked as his hands drop.

Just like always Jay doesn’t treat it like anything special, hand squeezing his shoulder before the other’s voice drops, “Let’s keep that between us for right now.” whispered close to his ear.

Oh, he thinks, just a matter of business. He should’ve expected even when he craves home a little too much. He’s not released so quickly though, and makes use of that as he lets his head drop against Jay’s chest, ears pressed to gold braiding that decorates the other’s jacket, “You act like I was going to tell anyone.”

“Yujun?” A valid argument thrown out, “Jiseok?”

He shakes his head to both, frowning when the hold on him slackens, “I wouldn’t want Yujun involved.” If he can help it, that is—not entirely sure how much he can keep to himself if there is already a group that knows. The Orchids will be told. It’s their prince after all.

“Jiseok…” He pulls away, a heavy hand still on his shoulder when he looks up, “Jiseok’s a different story.”

“He’s going to be our fellow tableman.”

The answer comes too quickly for him: “That doesn’t mean he should be burdened now.” 

It does not come quickly for the older though, who stares at him long enough his stomach begins to twist, an already stern face growing more sullen,

“And you should?”

“I’m going to be leading it.” He says, resolute. Then he stands straighter, the weight of the other’s hand lighter but won’t leave even when he rolls his shoulders, “I am leading it, here at least.” The Dahlias, all of them, children of Leicester, the ones that are going to be the future of his country. He’ll be leading them one day alongside Jay and Jiseok, and two others back home that have already done their time here, poised and ready to take over.

He’ll have to write them later. For now he enjoys the minute amount of peace he has, a hand ruffling his hair as he whines, so little the leader that any of them deserve. 

He knows who it should be.

But he’s the one that’s destined for it, smoothing out his hair while he’s pushed in the direction of the dining hall, “Well if you’re gonna lead, learn to watch your mouth.” He grumbles at that, lets Jay’s arm rest nice and warm across his back as he moves without much of a fight, “For now let’s get you something to eat; if we do fight I’d like you to be less gristle and more muscle.”

“I’m an archer!” He insists, a hand raised to strike but the older’s hand closes around his wrist, shaken til it falls limp and he bares his teeth, only given a grin, big and bright and just like his father’s.

“Being an archer isn’t an excuse to be this scrawny; Hyunwoo’s–” his own mouth draws down, “–an archer and he’s got quite a bit of muscle already.”

“Hyunwoo’s,” he nearly trips once they reach the stone pathway, “older-”

“By a year.” It’s already loud when they step into the hall, “A single year but don’t worry, I can get you into shape.” He’s released and his eyes are drawn over to a face that lights up at the sight of him before he can stop himself, “You should do the tournament this weekend. Surprised you haven’t signed up by now when it’s bows.”

He gives a quick glance back, privy to Jay’s proud stance as he stands there before a figure saddles up beside him, a palm pressed against his own, “I’m the only good archer right now. Lot less fun to win by default.”

“Win what?” Yujun asks, face too close when he turns and has to jerk back away with too warm ears.

Jay gives the same kind look he always does to Yujun, something gentler than he ever gives Yechan, “Convince our liege here to enter the tournament this weekend.”

“Liege!”

“Oh?” There’s nothing good that can come of the look that Yujun gives him as he’s circled like carrion, “It’s archery though.”

“I have no competition, Yujun.”

The older hums, leaning close again, voice low near his ear, “There’s talk of Sunghoon joining.”

His interest is piqued, almost, compounded when from the other entrance walks in the ice prince himself, shoulders held less straightly but just as tight. Once he’s noticed those shoulders are forced back, chin held too high and Yechan remembers something very crucial about the way Sunghoon fights, about the weapons the other works with.

His mouth contorts, twists into something that tugs too tightly at his lips until a frown worms its way onto Yujun’s, can only imagine the way that Jay’s face morphs into disapproval. 

But it’s true, he thinks.

Even if part of him wishes Sunghoon be bed ridden the way one of his own currently is there’s one thing that’s certain:

“I have no competition.”

⚔

Rest is what Kai had said for them to do. But Yechan’s not sure he’s experienced a good day of it since he left Niamh.

Mundane, somewhat boring days aren’t rare though. Not all of them are sent off all the time on unpleasant adventures but today is one of them, finding himself watching a group of Orchids pass under the portcullis and towards town for some simple patrol after breakfast.

“Wonder how boring that’s gonna be.” Jay says he comes up from behind and wraps an arm around him, “Gorta’s not that far so they’ll be back before dinner.”

“In one piece.” comes strangely from his mouth, no more sure if it’s a question or declaration than Jay probably does.

He’s tugged closer, shoulder pressing harshly against the older’s ribs. He’ll never know the look he’s being given when he refuses to glance up at the other’s face that morning.

“In one piece.” Is almost promised to him. He’s not sure he can believe anymore of those.

Jay’s, however, feels a bit more concrete somehow, sturdy.

“Come now.” The older tells him, “Let’s go visit a friend. Should have enough time to wipe that sour look off your face.”

“Is it enough time to wipe the smug one off yours?” He asks as he’s led through the entrance hall, already knows it’s there without seeing it.

The older laughs, “No, no definitely not enough time to do that.” It’s easy to guess where they’re going when there’s nothing else of interest on this side of the campus, “Maybe a few years.” Nothing of interest for him at least, not when all that’s over here is a bunch of dead people, a church, and a second floor of things that are mostly useless to him—archbishop included, spit out of his head and stopped behind his teeth when Jay’s not as lost a soul as he is.

“Not too many I hope.” He mutters, still quiet as they pass into the open air so briefly he doesn’t get to relish in it before they enter the next building, already seeing too much of the cathedral and the bridge through the door at the end of the long open hall, “You’re already old.” He says when they turn left at the crossways, the stairwell in sight as one of the priests hops off the last step and bows to them before passing.

“Death will get me before it gets you.” Jay responds and he looks up finally, catching a smile that only covers the bottom half of the older’s face. 

He makes them stop there, between the open doors of the archbishop’s audience chamber and the single half that bisects the upper floor. He’s allowed that, Jay not confused at all when Yechan stares up at him, alarmed.

“Take that back.” He hisses out before he’s made to move again. Jay has no right to fucking laugh when he’s serious, fingers dug into too firm muscle under the other’s jacket to make Jay take the words back into his mouth, wants them removed from his own head as the older knocks on the infirmary door, “Jay, take it-”

“Don’t worry.” There’s footsteps beyond the door, his hand wrangled away from Jay where he’s clawed, “Takes quite a bit to kill-”

“Doesn’t mean I like actively thinking about it you ass-” His shoulder is pinched as the door opens, a threat he obeys as one of the Orchids’ mages from their last meeting stands there.

Dark cherry hair is combed but unstyled, a bit mussed when Yechan can see the other’s shirt is disheveled as well. Eyes go a bit wide at them before flickering to something neutral. 

“For Hyunwoo, I assume?” is asked of them and he bites back the want to roll his eyes.

“Unless you have another of mine in there.” He says just as spitefully though, perturbed when the other is just tall enough to not be completely eye level with him, mood worsened when a chin is tilted higher, reeking of self entitled nobility he’s come to expect, “Last time I checked he was the only one half dead.”

The hand on him tightens again. He schools his face at least, still miffed when the one that stands in the doorway won’t just let them pass chuckles, “Well, I do have others in here.” Yechan thinks that means the other Orchid, knows another was carried in when the Lilies came and that Kim Junghoon was on the list of injured.

What he doesn’t expect when the mage moves and lets them in is to find Yujun there, head popping up from where it had been pillowed against folded arms on Hyunwoo’s bed.

“He’s been here a while.” The mage whispers, and Yechan’s not entirely keen about the fact a smile plays so easily on the other’s face when talking about Yujun. He steps out from under Jay’s hold and sets his eyes fully on a sleepy smile and a doe eyed blink.

The curtain around the other bed gets pulled almost violently closed when he takes a third step however, and the sound draws all of their attention. It’s the mage who sighs first, walking over towards it without a word, slipping between the curtain and wall before disappearing in full.

“Junghoon’s a little shy.” Yujun offers him once he’s close enough to touch, selfish in the way he combs fingers through sleep tousled hair and smoothes it down. From behind the curtain he hears something seethed out, shadows of a pillow raised and flung at the curtain that barely moves with the impact, “And easy to fluster.” The shadow of a second pillow is stopped before what sounds like a struggle starts up on the other side, “You’d like him.”

I like Yujun, he thinks, only Yujun, but Jay he thinks is also fine, both obnoxious thoughts that swirl around as he sits on the edge of the bed and Jay comes along only to stand. 

“What’re you doing here?” He asks when it’s as obvious as it is not, when Yechan hasn’t been able to catch Yujun’s attention in a few days and he pretends that doesn’t rattle him.

He pretends his chest doesn’t hurt—pretends that he doesn’t want it to hurt, pretends the other’s pity and care isn’t something that’s satiated him all this time, and that deprivation doesn’t make him wilt.

Maybe that’s why you’re so angry, he provides as an explanation of his moodiness when one of the real reasons lies behind him, his heart twisted when he clings to the feeling of Yujun’s too warm and scarred hand in his.

It burns, sometimes, hot enough to boil his skin if Yujun’s not paying attention but it’s comfortable in this moment, when the other’s eyes are fully on him.

“The Orchids were leaving this morning,” is an answer he doesn’t expect to get though, “and Junmin gets a little lonely.”

“Yujun!” comes out of that red haired mage’s mouth with more force than he’s ever heard it hold, hasn’t heard it all that much though.

He smiles despite himself, glad when his friend’s also grows, watching a glance get tossed to the curtain behind before it comes back, “And,” Yujun starts, the weight of things that Yechan knows are coming ripping that smile away and contorting it into something morose and unpleasant, “I thought that Hyunwoo’d be a little lonely too.”

How unlovely his heart becomes then, when he hasn’t let himself look yet. If he looks it’ll make it real. If he looks then he’ll have to accept that Hyunwoo really hasn’t woken up, and arms that had held him will still be limp and useless. He won’t look for as long as he can stomach it, and Yechan’s always found himself to be a bit more stubborn than the rest of them.

“I think he is.” He nods, agreement easy to find, his throat feeling scraped.

When Hyunwoo finally wakes then he’ll look. He thinks he should be allowed to avoid it when bitter thoughts of how this is Sunghoon’s fault are still fresh, raw wounds.

For now he pretends the older’s hand isn’t in view, so close to where he and Yujun’s hands are intertwined, far too still without so much as a twitch and paler than it was before they left. He had known, hadn’t he, that what he thought would come to pass would indeed be a reality, that he’d signed off on their deaths.

The goddess in all Her love just decided he should be forced to watch it.

But he won’t.

I’m lonely too, he almost says out loud when he decides to stand and let Yujun’s hand fall from his, “We’ll see you at lunch, right?” asked, eager to leave the infirmary when he’d spent enough time in them, careful in the way he won’t look back, “Sooner, maybe?”

The answer is given in the pout of the other’s mouth before it’s ever verbalized, “I was going to stay a bit longer.” Another thin incision cuts along the line of his throat when Yujun’s too firm with his wording, “I want to help Junmin.” By the way a scoff comes from beyond the curtain he’s sure his friend isn’t needed here, hands keeping still at his side when Yujun’d be all too easy to drag out—

“We’ll see you then.” Jay speaks for him, takes the words out of his mouth but it should be I, I’ll see you then Yujun, me, “I’ll keep him out of trouble.”

“Ha.” They’re both mocked, but the smile is back, the smile’s at him, “Do a good job of it then, this time.” Asked of the oldest of them with eyes still glued to him alone before a hand is clamped down on his shoulder, and he’s wrangled away with a promise to keep him alive at best.

His hand’s still bleeding warmth when they step out in the hall, clenched tight and tingling, when he asks “Do you want to help me with some revenge?” with less innocuous devilry to his face, finds it void of anything as they stand there.

“Against the prince?” He nods, “No.” Jay ruffles his hair again, “Not if you’re still set on me living longer than you.”

“They wouldn’t behead you, they’d take me first.”

Jay chuckles, pulling him the opposite way of the audience chamber and the stairs, passing locked doors of teachers’ offices on the way to another split in the hall, “You’re funny to think I’d let them.”

The words pit in his stomach, gnawing around the edges. There’s too much light coming in through the windows, a rare clear and sunny day, so hot when they’re so close to the sun here in the mountains. He turns his face, eyes finding their way over Jay’s arm where it rests above his shoulder and down the hall behind them. 

Gilded gold and well threaded tapestries are so vibrant in that chamber at the end of the hall, blinding white robes in a chair that still gleams, details he can just make out even this far away,

“What about against a holy man?”

It’s whispered. He wouldn’t dare say it too loud when there are ears around every corner, but there’s a nagging feeling in his guy when he remembers what Hyunwoo had said a month back, a thing he’d thought so benign.

Jay doesn’t make them stop until they’re fully in that cross section, the archbishop’s gilded hall so far and a line of windows spread out before them, sparkling clear glass so easy to see through and the other’s voice is just as soft when he’s finally answered.

“You make it very hard to keep promises to Yujun.”

He has no argument for that, “I can name ten that I did. I tend to make it difficult for others.”

“Mm. When all he asks of people is to keep you safe.”

Looking up again he finds Jay’s eyes drawn out the windows, unwavering from whatever they seem to be glued to, “How many people has he asked that?” He wonders out loud, when it’s such a simple thing for Yujun to ask, a very straightforward request with no thought behind it.

“Every man currently under you.” Jay says and forces him to the right, “And some of the dead as well.” 

In lieu of an answer he just hums, satisfied. 

But, he thinks, as the library comes into view, some of the dead should leave me alone.

⚔

Yujun does show up for lunch, pressed into his side on the bench, and he’s glad for both. 

He doesn’t complain when half his meal is stolen off his plate when he can barely find his appetite. He nods along quietly when one of Yujun’s new friends launches into some big tale about their last battle, laughs when it’s appropriate—keeps his glares to a minimum, when Yujun’s face seems a little brighter, when Yujun’s hand is more often on the table than it’s in his own.

Yujun doesn’t leave his side when the bell tolls and most of them are off to their group activities, even after he’d already made peace with the quiet he was bound to endure when he hasn’t taken up a single one. Instead, as if making up for the metaphorical beating he’s been given all day, the older’s hand slides into his and tugs him along the edge of the pond.

“They can miss me for one day.” He’s told when he asks about it, led away from the water, “And Junghoon wanted me to check the garden.”

His own feet stop, hand squeezing tight around the other’s and Yujun turns around once his arm is pulled back, “You’re making a lot of friends.”

Yujun cocks his head, confused, before he steps back. Toe to toe and nose to nose he notices once again that he and his friend are the same height, growing at the same rate physically like they have since they were children. Sickly little things, he hears in his mother’s sweet voice, when that’s stunted them, surrounded by peers that tower them at times.

“And yet,” Yujun sighs, annoyance countered with the mirth-like crinkle of the older’s eyes, “Yechan’s still my favorite.”

Always, he’s hated the way his chest beats a little faster with that admission. But forever, will he still love having security in knowing.

When Yujun pulls him again this time he goes with little resistance, shoulders pressed into each other on the short detour through the herb gardens that are just barely bigger than their two rooms together. After, he’s led more easily than he should be up through small patches of lawn in front of the dorms between sets of steps, eyes already filled with a bit too much hope when they pass up the second set.

His hand is let go as a door’s unlocked, pushed wide enough to see into a room that’s less clean than he remembers it being.

“Aren’t you coming in?” Yujun asks him and he takes a step forward, “You’ve looked tired so long, when’s the last time you slept?” asked earnestly when Yechan feels it and he draws near.

When a door at the very end of the walkway opens up he thinks his eyes might be playing tricks on him, steps back out and towards it as Yujun calls for him.

It’s closed, just like it should be, stepping back into Yujun’s room more because of the pull to the back of his jacket and less of his own will.

The owner of that room’s dead after all.

⚔

By dinner he remembers what he’s been forgetting the whole day, feigns reluctance when wrapping around Jay’s strong frame and trying to crush the older once their meal’s over.

“Forgive me for not making a cake?”

“And have you poison me?” He’s squeezed back, Jay’s arms more effective at getting the job done than his, and the pressure on his chest is welcomed for the first time if it’s like this, “I’m glad you forgot actually.”

“Some of us didn’t forget!” He hears shouted so cheerily, let go to find Sunoo’s eyes closed with a bright smile, flanked by Jiseok and Yujun, Jungsu and Jooyeon not far behind. On a plate in the mage’s hand is a small cake barely the size of his own hand but neatly coated in lilac colored frosting. With a look of awe, almost slack jawed, Jay takes the plate and holds it as if it’ll break in his hands, and Yechan surely doesn’t doubt it.

As they’re crowded towards he’s able to see what the two nomads have been carrying, long and slim and wrapped in cloth, “We had a bit of gold between us.” The former says as they present Jay with it before Jooyeon snorts,

“And I haggled the price down!”

“By the goddess, do not ask him what that means.” Jiseok titters, taking the plate away so Jay can unwrap it and Yechan can only begin to think of how one of his Dahlias might have done so—has to remember nomads have always worked well with traveling merchants just to assuage his meager worries.

It’s a good sword—a great one even—brightly polished steel he can tell, with a leather wrapped guard. Worth a lot he’s sure, and worth even more in the way that Jay’s face scrunches with the want to cry as he holds it up and examines the weight of it. 

A sword that Jay deserves. 

He makes a note to pay them all back for that when he’s certain that no better gift could be given.

The uproar of good cheer draws a crowd though, when he and Jay hadn’t been able to make it out of the dining hall before being bombarded. Before he knows it both the Liles and the Orchids who’d returned in one piece gather around.

“Another birthday?” comes from the Orchids’ cat eyed mage and he’s thankful his arm no longer stings every time they lock eyes, “And a cake!”

He tries not to pay much mind to the look Jay gives that mage, “If you ask nicely maybe I’ll give you a piece.” said with a wink that sends a shiver up his spine. He tries to pay even less mind to the look that’s given back.

⚔

“I think Jay likes Jungwon.” Yujun says when they walk back to the dorms that evening.

“I think that guy likes Jay more.” He argues and Yujun laughs.

“It’s reciprocated then?” The older shrugs, “Good relationships always start with something mutual. That’s what Junmin said once.”

“Relationship?” His brow pinches, “Jay? And that mage?”

They pause, still in the grass when Yujun sighs and squats down to poke at a beetle that’s been making its way across the yellowed grass, “Maybe. Maybe not.” When he comes back up he’s got the beetle resting on his finger, held close enough for Yechan to watch it crawl across the other’s skin towards a palm that’s still scarred, “There’s a whole border between them after all. That never works out, does it?”

He doesn’t answer but reaches out, fingers delicate across scars instead of anywhere close to the beetle, watches it spread its small wings and fly away.

“At least they’re in the same class though.” Yujun says once Yechan can’t see it in the sky anymore, “Both nobles. That’d make it easier.” He looks over at his friend and finds him smiling, teeth all bared and pretty, big eyes that disappear, the older somehow elated as he says something so miserable.

He’s silent too long, unable to find anything to add when those words still play over and over in his head. Yujun’s face smoothes into something neutral as his hand’s released but he chases the other’s, clasping around Yujun’s wrist.

His friend at least looks at him still, smile less bright, “Good night, Yechan.” So pleasant, calm as he’s pulled away from, “Get some rest tonight.”

“I’ll try.” He whispers and Yujun shakes his head.

“Promise?”

He’s offered a pinkie, held so high between them and wastes not even a moment in curling his own around it.

“Promise.”

⚔

He breaks that promise. Over and Over. 

Not his fault, he sweats—not to the goddess, when he’s sure that if She was so benevolent and gracious then he wouldn’t be made to suffer so to begin with. 

That night his doorknob turns just before the sun comes up, twisted back and forth loudly until he’s forced out of bed by the sound and throws open the door.

The hall’s empty, devoid of even fleeing footsteps that should be there when the knob was turning in his hand. The birds haven’t even begun their chirping this early and he slowly closes his door, hearing another open down the hall.

“If you’re going to haunt me,” he heaves, rubbing sleep roughly from his eyes with the heel of his palm, “can you do it once the sun has come up–!”

A knock on his door comes when he doesn’t expect it, startled violently when his previous rage has not quelled and a steadying breath is not enough to calm him as he turns the knob again. He comes face to face with a Kai that’s more disheveled than he’s used to.

Sleep ridden as well, when the older yawns loudly before becoming embarrassed, “Forgive me that,” as if Yechan were in the mood to deal with any of this at all, “But I’d rushed out when I heard a noise and it was your door that was closing…” Kai stops of his own volition, words that do not come as he looks up and watches the prince’s eyes search his face so impassively, “It’s not often our second youngest is one of the first up.” Our as if he has anything to do with the lot of them, as if not a leader in his own right despite his age, when they keep bringing that up.

However, “I was worried.” comes earnestly enough that he cools down to a simmer, shoulders relaxing from where they’d hiked up. Kai smiles at him, something so small but kind, “Are you alright?”

He swallows, “I’m alright.” Lying straight to the older’s face with a bit too much ease, and it’s taken with just as little prodding, a nod given before Kai steps back from the door.

“Good.” The curve of the other’s mouth makes him think his lie’s been fully believed, “Get a little more rest before breakfast then.” said with just as much resignation before the older’s gone down the hall towards his own room. 

Standing there a moment more with the door ajar he weighs his options, fighting between rest and getting up but there’s a shock that runs through his veins at the thought of trying to sleep again. His mind is made up, pulling on pants before tugging on his boots. Forgoing his jacket when he can already tell the day will be mild he steps out into the hall, wonders once again if the one who was turning the knob of his door is just down the stairs, waiting for him, the face that’s haunted him continuing to give him grief he cannot part from. 

They aren’t—he isn’t—and he’s free of that looming figure as he walks down, turning around and up onto the small patio that connects the first three rooms of the bottom floor.

“You will wake up.” He says as he presses a hand to the door but looks towards the building across campus where Hyunwoo rests, “You have to wake up.” He begs before he moves back onto the grass.

Yujun won’t be awake right now. But Yechan’s always been fine with waiting for him.

⚔

23rd of April; 
Sovereign Year 1143

Days pass dully, boring even, when the only truly eventful thing is his haunting, swears it’s Hyunsuk that towers over his bed one night with his rotted out skull only to be gone by morning light.

Routine sets itself upon him: a shuddering breath before breakfast, class he sleeps through, a lunch he doesn’t eat, a trip to Hyunwoo who he doesn’t look at, and a dinner that comes up from his stomach until he finally finds himself asleep. Then it repeats.

Hyunwoo does not wake, and blame begins to shift its target when his stomach curdles at the thought of the older never opening his eyes again. His visits are less of a want than they are a necessity when he cannot bring himself to be alone much during the day, and Jay’s weekdays are much fuller than his. 

Yujun has been granted leave from stable duty, switched to infirmary training if Seunghun continues to sign off on it. Yechan’s allowed to stay so long as he makes no mess and talks no louder than need be—Seunghun’s words, strictly told to him with a wave of a finger that he rolls his eyes at but does not bite when it’s for Yujun and Hyunwoo’s over his.

Junghoon and Junmin are there as well—the latter of which he reluctantly allows close, chest a bit too tight when Yujun seems more content with hanging off the older even when he’s right here, open arms and hands and deprived-

He won’t say it though. Being okay with sitting quietly by the window with the curtain to Hyunwoo’s bed behind him is a decision he makes to keep his peace of mind intact. He’s disinclined to give weight to the realization that this is good for Yujun as well, on the day Seunghun makes both mages pull up a chair, becomes distantly interested in the conversation they have about the lines on Yujun’s hands, the warmth that seeps from them.

“It’s not rare but it’s… unique.” Their professor says as he drags a finger down his friend’s palm, “The chance of having a second affinity is more prominent when wind is so easy to temper but there’s nothing but burning coals in his blood. Surprised he’s even allowed to heal with how hot they are.”

His face burns more than his ears with the waning thought of how nice Yujun’s hands are when they touch him, a concept tossed aside when it’s nothing more than warmth that makes him crave them.

“He was better with Faith in Fhirdiad.” Junmin offers, hands pressed to his knees, back too straight for his liking, “He learned to physic within his first few months there.” A fact that is apparently secret the way Yujun whines for the older to shut up.

And by Seunghun’s surprise as well, “Physic?” He almost laughs at the way their professor gawks at his friend, “You’ve known physic this whole time and didn’t tell me?”

“What’s physic?” He asks out of curiosity, finds confusion in their eyes when they all turn to him. Somehow he’d become so quiet they’d forgotten him, spooked them and their magics by the way they look at him.

All but Yujun at least. The older’s mouth presses into a straight line that makes him wish he’d stayed quiet, alarmed when Seunghun’s chair scoots back.

“Why, it’s a very useful spell indeed!” A knife so familiar is pulled from their professor’s belt before he walks across the room towards the bed and his worry causes him to stand, terror when the older gets too close.

But the knife is pressed against Seunghun’s own hand just as it had in the classroom before. It slices cleanly, blood pooling in his palm as he nods to Yujun, “Go on.” And with his lack of magic talent in any capacity Yechan’s aware this is the first time he’s ever seen something like this. 

From his seat over ten paces from where their professor stands Yujun simply closes his eyes and breathes, hands raised as those ever prominent golden threads swirl around them in patterns too complex for him to make sense of. It’s a matter of seconds before they’re gone, glimmering bits falling towards the floor only to disintegrate before they ever reach.

Bewilderment is met with pride, when their professor nearly glows with triumph at what’s transpired, a thumb pushing past the pool of blood before he speaks.

“Nearly good as new. And why didn’t you mention it before?”

He thinks he knows, with the way Yujun slumps over the back of the chair even when praised, “It’s a bit… taxing.” admitted with a sigh, “Especially so suddenly—when I’m prepared it’s easier.” 

“He’s healed three in a row before.” The other mage says without holding back before he can say his own peace, boastful about his friend.

The sight of it splits him in half. Joy about the attention Yujun gets for his achievements only lasts until he understands that he never knew of them. It makes him sullen—slowly falls back to his chair and into the silence that he was made to conform to earlier as they talk of things above him. Mage things. Things far too complicated for an archer who has never been able to conjure a single flame nor gust. It’s a world that Yujun inhabits far from him, and his mood is only intensified when Junmin’s hand continues to fold around his friend’s.

Suddenly being alone is almost preferable.

They do not regard him much when he stands again and makes for the door. The only thing he gets is a look so furtive and contemptible from Junghoon that he can’t make out the cause of it when it’s not aimed at him.

⚔

He comes back. There’s nothing for him to do but come back, sitting on the edge of Hyunwoo’s bed when Yujun’s already occupying the chair, head pillowed on arms where he’s fallen asleep.

It’s been quiet enough for that, when Junmin hasn’t come by today and he’s learned that Junghoon is fond of feigning sleep to avoid banal conversation with Seunghun whenever the older’s around. He’s not so sure the other is faking now, when brown hair falls into Junghoon’s closed eyes as his head lulls to the side and arms are far more relaxed where they cross over a chest than they usually are.

Better, he thinks, then when he was in restraints, a thing he still can’t comprehend happened—spitefully thinks that one of Sunghoon’s mages or Seunghun must have been barbaric enough to deserve whatever torment the boy in the bed across from him gave them. He smiles at visions of Sunghoon’s hand snapped clean off, childlike imagination too vivid when he pictures the older’s stumped wrist spurting out blood. 

Jay wouldn’t approve at all.

And as if made known of his horrific wants Jay appears, not even a knock on the door before he steps in with a stack full of letters, waving off a shadow that disappears down the hall. He’s sick at the fact that Jay has a world outside him as well. Too sick, chest caving–

“At ease.” is whispered just as he heaves a breath in, too quick and too rattled and not fulfilling enough, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He’s seen too many recently, “You’re old enough to be one.” He remarks instead, the hand that swats the back of his head having no malice to it, “What’s all that?” He asks about the stack once sense has been knocked into him.

“Letters.” He sees that plainly enough when Jay has separated them into stacks between fingers, “Jiseok knew I was coming here and tasked me with delivering to its residents.” 

He shivers at that.

A neat, thin letter is placed just below Junghoon’s crossed arms first, before the older steps around Yujun and sets one down addressed to Hyunwoo on the table between the beds. The same script has written out his name on one of the three that fall into his own hands, but at the sight of a yarrow seal pressed into yellow wax he begs Hyunwoo’s mother to forgive him for putting off her curse for now.

Looking at the handwriting of his grandmother and the way there is no damage to either corner or seam he could almost forget what Hyunwoo’d confided in him, can’t cast away the doubt in his mind when he drags a nail across the edge and waits for it to catch on any imperfection.

Jay watches him, two letters with two different seals left in his hand, “Something wrong?” asked when he flips it over and tries along the bottom edge.

“No.” He lies but doesn’t feel bad for it, “Just putting off what can only be good news I’m sure.” A faint hope echoed when Jay chuckles.

“Not with that seal.”

Not with this seal indeed. Two pieces of parchment are placed together, sent so quickly the ink hadn’t had time to dry with the way one has smeared on the back of the other. One is from his family, well wishes and warm regards from his parents—bitter regret of a fallen friend, peace of mind given when they try to say it’s not his fault.

The other, as he is wont to expect, is a summons for next month, a meeting of the roundtable he is to attend in place of his grandfather who is ailed. His absence from Garreg Mach has already been agreed upon.

“Timely.” Untimely, he thinks, when the older raises a brow, “Roundtable meeting. Do you have one too?” He gestures to a letter sealed with valerian and colored like mustard, “Surely I can’t be the only one made to suffer.”

“Can say with assurance you will be the only one actually.” The other smiles, both their voices loud enough that Yujun has begun to shift and he can see the crinkle of annoyance in Junghoon’s nose, “Jiseok’d already opened his. If he’d been called to serve he wouldn’t have shut up about it.” Just to prove the point Jay’s quick to tear open his own, a snort so crude let out that he pinches his brow together, “No summons.” The older pauses, “But my father is remarrying in winter.”

The noise that Yehcan lets out is almost worse than the older’s, a hack of disgust and eyes rolled before a sleepy giggle catches his attention.

“About time.” comes just as tiredly as he feels, a warm hand grabbing his. There’s no grace to it, barely a firm hold when the other rises and he’s sure Yujun’d just opened his eyes as Jay’d spoke, “Yechan said your father wouldn’t keep quiet when I was gone.”

“Every meeting!” He complains, voice too sonorous in the infirmary, “There would be talk of Almyran borders and he would follow up about if anyone had a spinster for a sister because his house was growing too quiet.”

“Nobles.” They’re all surprised when a voice not often heard rings out. He looks up to find Junghoon’s eyes open but far from them, the letter pinched between long fingers. It’s a shock for him most of all when he’s barely heard the other say a word all the times he’s come.

Jay is the first of them to recover though, “Nobles indeed.” agreed with a sigh, “Sometimes so caught up in their own love life or lack thereof they forget they have duties to attend.”

“Speaking from experience?” Quite mischievous when it’s not just Yechan that says it, the sentiment echoed by Yujun. Both of them receive equal threatening from the older before Yujun’s letter is tossed towards his hand and told to open it.

When it is open he catches a glimpse of it, tell him and my poor boy the only things in view before Yujun folds it back up and tucks it away. His spying isn’t missed, not when he’s never been careful about it, knee smacked as Yujun warns him, “Don’t be nosy.”

He hums, “Tell your mother I said hi.” coming instead of any rebuke, already concerned about the contents of the other’s letter when there used to be nothing kept from him. The tightness comes back and he rubs just above his heart in full view of the rest of them where it begins to ache when it shouldn’t.

Yujun has no choice but to see it, frowns, and Yechan thinks it’s not his fault that it’s begun to flare up while they’re here but his hand is pulled away and fingers thread together with his in his lap.

“I always tell her you do.” He’s promised.

And that dulls the ache just a bit.

⚔

25th of April; 
Sovereign Year 1143

Kim Minjae acts like they’re friendly.

Far too friendly in fact, for him at least, when an arm wraps around his shoulders as he walks out of class and he’s tugged away from Jay’s towering form, hand getting ripped from Yujun’s as the Orchid smiles.

“Borrowing your leader for a bit.” The older says when Yujun’s hand is raised and poised to reach for him, to pull him back and he’d like nothing more than to grab it as well.

He’s unfortunately got an idea of what this all is about, it’s okay mouthed to his friend while Jay and Jiseok wave them off with varying levels of worry on the latter’s face specifically. It doesn’t make Yujun’s frown any less fretful, almost pleased by that when he’s been mostly forgotten in the past week.

With good reason, he beats at his own heart when he can’t help the way it beats a little harder, something bitter just at the back of his mouth where his spit sours.

“Not very covert.” He bites out to keep the rest of it at bay. The hand at his shoulder pats once, twice, before it drops and he’s allowed to walk freely.

“Because we’ve decided we don’t need to be.” Minjae shrugs, “Not too much at least.” Before he can fully speak his question it’s silenced, “Patience, you’ll see.” an attempt to soothe him but he hears brat muttered at the end of it, and no smile on the older’s face can detract from the way his blood boils at that. 

But patience—minimal as it is when their classrooms are so close together—is rewarded when the Orchids’ room is almost bustling with energy in comparison to when he’d first come. 

Kai still sits at the first table, close to the door, and Sunghoon still stands with his chin far too high but there are quite a few more bodies than there had been. Junmin almost fuses into Minjae’s side when they step in and he realizes the commotion they’ve walked into isn’t anything light hearted. Even Kai, Seeun, and that cat eyed mage he’s never been terribly fond of can’t seem to muster more than a half-assed smile, and it’s mostly the latter that seems to pretend to be the only one in good spirits.

Almost every Orchid has gathered barring the one still confined to the infirmary. But only two more Lilies have joined—a word he uses liberally when they keep to the edge of the crowd, and neither are completely joyous.

And then from the Dahlias, only him.

“What a party.” He huffs before he takes a step away from the two beside him and nears the southern prince and the ones that bracket him. One of them has the idea to step between them and his lips peel back, shoulders tensed, “Am I the threat now?” He poses the question to them all and their dour expressions.

“Of course not.” Kai says with a wave of a hand, “Riki, if you’d please stand down.” spoken gently, too lightly, “Or sit down—as you’d been asked.” laughed as if a joke that only Yechan isn’t a part of, glad for it when the name strikes him. He’s reminded that that particular Orchid is the youngest of them all and just as scrawny, right behind him by barely a few months.

A mirror almost.

A mirror he doesn’t like.

When the guard dog is out of the way he’s beckoned forward, chooses to stop a few steps away, “Guessing you decided on a course of action?”

“Not completely of my own choice, I assure you.” The older chuckles again, “But were I to take full charge I’d fear overlooking something. And if I left it to some,” he doesn’t miss the way an entire group of eyes go towards the northern prince, “there’s a possibility of attracting too much attention to the ordeal.” He nods, finds that reasonable when Sunghoon’s initial reaction was quite striking if not unsettling.

And he’s not the only one to agree with that, one of the Orchids with a bored enough expression shaking his head, “Or worse. A different kidnapping. And wouldn’t that be fun?”

The way Sunghoon looks, gritted teeth and clenched hands, sure is fun for Yechan, “Can you quiet that one before I do?”

“Snappish today?” Yechan questions but Kai calls for the lot of them to quiet, an order unheeded.

“Do not.” The northern prince warns but does not move and Yechan has enough wit and Jay’s voice in his head to mind himself, turning his head before rolling his eyes. It’s caught by that same Orchid instead, a smile given in return but hidden behind a hand lest it become too noticeable. Good for both of them, when Sunghoon apparently has them walking gently on glass to avoid his soured mood.

An undeserved one; last he read of the letter it was Kai’s head that was going to roll, not Sunghoon's. But Kai doesn’t chide either of them beyond a pointed look at both before clearing his throat, a piece of paper with handwriting he doesn’t think suits the older raised from the table and read from,

“As most of you have become aware, Sunghoon and those around him have word that an attempt on my life will be made during the Rebirth Rite that will soon be upon us. With that in mind, there are some that are worried about the effect this may have on the rest of the students here. I have reviewed and planned with some of my most trusted here in order to find the best course of action and have decided thus:” there is a lengthy pause, a silence that overtakes them all in waiting,

“A simple guard detail with rotating persons, the details of which will be decided later.”

It’s… stiff, he decides, finds it almost painful to listen to how stilted and jarring the other’s usually smooth tone becomes when reading from what can’t be his own words. The sentiment is shared, the cat-eyed mage piping up first amongst the crowd of disgruntled faces.

“Minjae wrote that, didn’t he?”

“I told him what I wanted and had him put it in a more formal tone.” Kai takes a look around the room and he follows, quite fond when his gaze stops on the other prince who’s started going blue in the face.

He smiles, “That may be why he’s going to run your military, and not write your speeches.” quipped before he throws a look over his shoulder where Minjae and Junmin are still behind, “No offense.”

“None taken.” The older snickers, “Far better with an axe.”

And Yechan would thank the goddess for that if he ever cared to give Her some credit, “So a guard detail? That’s all?”

“It’s non-intrusive.” Kai proposes, “And I will still be protected. Everyone gets what they want.”

Sunghoon looks so close to exploding that he takes a step away from where the taller stands, “Not everyone.” almost snarled like the dog he is, and Yechan thinks he can’t truly be blamed for what happens next when Minjae hadn’t waved Jay along with them.

“Keeping Kai in a dungeon seems a little bit too much like what the enemy wants, now doesn’t it?” He smiles, “You’re highness.” Heinous kept tucked in his pocket for next time. Kai has to stand this time to get between them, and Sunghoon’s faithful lap dog grabs the prince’s arm before he’s launched for.

“Enough—now, I said.” With exasperation Kai sighs and turns on his heel to face him, looking fairly annoyed to find the grin has not left his face, that Yechan has found this too entertaining, “Yechan, leader to leader, I am asking for your most trusted when it comes to this. Think-” a glance is thrown towards Minjae again, “critically about who you find would suit a security detail—a nondescript one, I beg—and we’ll talk more as the week draws closer.”

That’s very little, he thinks, to be asked of him.

But it’s a lot, when it’s once again his own that are being signed over for things they should have no part in, when his attention is already elsewhere by another task that will come so quickly after.

It’s a shame he likes Kai, as a person. It’s a shame that the thought of the other being killed causes the knots in his shoulders to tighten.

“I’ll think about it.” He half answers, unable to give a full one at the moment, unwanting to sign off on things that might end more difficultly than the Orchids are acting like it will.

Kai takes that as enough though, bowing so low for someone who is most definitely not of the same rank before coming back up and taking his hand, “You have my thanks for that. And you may have your leave as well, I’ve kept you too long.” Kai looks over his shoulder to where a chastised prince and his displeased guard are, “And you’ve stayed too long as well. Go, gather your men.”

“My men are in this room.” A statement he watches raise a few brows on the Lilies’ side as well, the prince’s cousin offering a particularly incensed look. 

But he’s not allowed to stay and watch the fallout of that final declaration, tugged towards the door by Junmin’s hand, guided out but he hears it, he hears the last thing that Kai says in a tone so unlike his usual geniality,

“Gather the ones without seals as well.”

⚔

Junmin says he’ll help find Yujun.

They don’t have to look far. By the time they turn round the corner of the building they find him there on one of benches along the wall, hands neatly pressed together in his lap. It takes a moment for Yujun to register they’re there, a throat cleared to get his attention, but when he does he smiles as if he was previously affected.

The smile doesn’t reach the rest of the older’s face; Yechan finds eyes a little sadder than they usually are but he doesn’t doddle, gets out from Junmin’s hold as quickly and onto the bench, pressed close to Yujun’s side, “Didn’t you have infirmary duty?” questioned when the second bell of the evening has already rung, and the red haired mage has already begun slipping away from them and towards where he’s needed.

Yujun nods, “I was waiting for you.” His hand is grabbed, pulled up when the other stands only to be let go the moment he follows. The full burn of magicked warmth is removed for but a flame, a pinkie intertwined with his before Yujun begins to walk, “I was going to escort you to your room. You look tired.” Lips curl in on themselves, a sigh before, “You are tired.”

“Just a little too restless at night.” He swears but falls into step anyway, “Are you not going to the infirmary then?”

“I might go to the library.”

“So you won’t stay with me?”

Yujun’s pace seems to pick up, not quite the amble they’d started with anymore. Only when they pass the first row of dorms does the other finally say “I’m not sure.” with just as much indecision laced between each of those three words.

It’s not a no and so he won’t treat it as one. It’s not a yes either, but Yechan thinks the itch in his chest might fully form by the time they get to his room. That he can cough and wheeze and Yujun will pity him enough to stay and make sure no ghosts haunt him while it’s still bright out.

But at the steps up to the second story he’s the first to go up. And Yujun stays two full steps behind him to the first landing where the unmoving force behind him keeps them both from going any farther.

Yujun’s head is bowed as he half turns, their hands still connected in the space between them, swaying the way the older always has made them.

He takes a breath, but Yujun takes a stronger one.

“You won’t tell me what’s wrong.” is confided to the steps more than him.

“There’s nothing wrong.” Since when did it become so ebay to default to lies, to fling them straight at his best friend’s face. He squeezes his pinkie against Yujun’s where it’s become too lax and the action is reciprocated, but the other won’t raise his face.

There’s a myriad of things wrong—he just can’t seem to find the right one to focus on when his plate’s becoming full, near toppling with too many things that have come too quickly. Attempted assassinations and the weight of his responsibilities that he thought wouldn’t come for some time are quite different wrongs, have their own weight in comparison to the way his chest twists when the other won’t look at him anymore.

You used to be the only thing he had to look at. He should despise himself for thinking as much.

“And if I don’t believe you?” 

He bites his tongue. You always believe me, don’t you, you’d believe me right now if I told you to, too tempting a thing to say. 

Instead he takes a step down, closer, watching Yujun shift with unease. Drastic measures—impulsive—taken when he leans forward and kisses the top of Yujun’s head where it’s still bowed, lip catching just where hair parts to skin, soft when he touches the other’s forehead.

Yujun reacts the way he predicts, shock erasing everything else, a hand wiping away any leftover trace of his touch as if burned.

It’s cute, childish but adorable when paired with the pink that flushes across the older’s cheeks and Yehcan decides the tightness in his chest is okay to deal with if it means Yujun’s not so dour.

It still stings, watching the scene. But he’s okay with it, has acknowledged a long time ago that his feelings were never going to be reciprocated. The burdens he’d lay on Yujun’s shoulders would be too heavy to bear. 

They’re already so heavy for him now. 

“I swear,” he doesn’t, “there’s nothing wrong.” There’s always been too much wrong.

But just as he knows to be true Yujun believes him, even in small doses like now, still wary of the way that his face has possibly twists when his heart’s rotting along with his lungs behind his ribs.

He’s the leader of the Dahlias after all. He’ll be leading the Round Table of Leicester soon.

Those are his burdens.

“Go tend to Hyunwoo. I promise to get some sleep.”

And just like he’s told Jay, he should learn to live with them.

Chapter Text

Yellow Dahlias

-Yujun-

24th of April; 
Sovereign Year 1143

It's been clinging to him recently. He doesn't know when it started to crawl back in and settle at the base of his belly.

It's the wrong time for that now, he thinks, careful when he slices a diamond out of paper folded in thick quarters below his hand. The knife's duller than he'd like—feels the drag of it along worn paper a few times before it eventually catches the tile of the cathedral floor once it gets through.

Jiseok hums a merry tune that's common to the more populated cities of Leicester, something played on pipers during celebrations just like the one that's coming. Beomgyu's paper ornaments are more intricate, somehow able to cut the prettiest of shapes into the blandest of colors before they're spread out and he's almost in awe of the array of patterns the older's made.

Almost.

Something about the celebration this time isn't bringing him much cheer. Not while that continues to leech off his good spirits.

He sits up straight again, feels the way his back twinges with an ache that's not uncommon when he's been told before not to sit like that, hears Yechan's—hypocritical—chiding tone as he stretches his arms above his head til he hears a pop. It's one that echoes off the cathedral's vaulted ceiling and open walls, above Jiseok's humming, over the folding and slicing of paper, over and over and over-

He sighs. None of them are quite as talkative as he's used to—some of them not as talkative as they used to be and it doesn't help his mood as he picks up the knife again and gets to work. There's not many here to begin with, just the four of them, all quiet, too taciturn, allowing him to brood, to think, to—

"Ah!"

The knife clatters to the floor; his finger curls into his palm, trying to staunch it but it bleeds so easily, pours and trails its way drip, drip, drip to the goddess's hallowed golden tile once it's run out of area to stain on his skin.

He spends far too long staring at it—the way blood drops and drops until it starts to congeal and dry where it's splattered and his breath catches at the sound of footsteps.

Jinsik's hand is the one that wraps around his, so silent when he pulls Yujun's bleeding finger from where it rests and his stomach sours at the sight of the cut that's sliced clean through before he looks away. Not a breath is heard from the other when his finger is captured in the older's fist, and familiar warm threads glitter and gleam in the corner of his eye before they and the warmth and Jinsik's hand are gone from him as well, watches Beomgyu retreat back to where he'd sat not so far from them.

Only the blood remains. And his mouth is far too dry when he catches sight of it.

He'd almost forgot the older was there when he'd been so sullen like the rest of them had been, ink stained fingers and a fading bruise on Jinsik's face making him dour when he looks too closely. The stables haven't been a place he's visited recently—doesn't know if Jinsik's been but someone has to take care of the horses, but Yujun doesn't think the older could abandon Moghwa the way he's decided to stray from Baekab. He misses the tanned colt, knows he's going to make a good riding horse one day.

The sorrow of that makes his mood worsen, thumbing at dried blood and looking at the back of Jinsik's head for something he should say when he's sure it's better for him to stay silent. Not talk they've had the past week has ended well. No talk he's had with anyone has. Avoiding what could happen if he opened his mouth, he decides there's only one other path when his ornament is tainted with a few drops that'd managed to splash it, and there's not enough will in him to get up and start another.

Once again Jinsik is perturbedly silent when he leans into him, rests his head on the other's shoulder. But he's not pushed off either. That must count as something, surely, when Jiseok's humming starts up again, closer to singing when he can make out words under the other's breath and Jinsik alternates between tensing and relaxing. But at least it's not silent. Not right now.

Beomgyu is the first of them to speak in some time, a slit eyebrow raised when he looks over to them and smiles halfheartedly, voice as tired as Yujun feels.

"Well, aren't you two…"

The oldest of them doesn't finish that, going back to his own work that outdoes all of theirs barring the fanciful script Jinsik has penned along a banner. Quite the pair of fools, he finishes for the other mage. A sour sight, comes an alternative option; a sore sight for pretty eyes, as Yechan'd say and his chest tightens with that one more than anything when it still lurks, still clings to him.

His stomach's never been great, but it's better than it was. He can keep his breakfast down with thoughts of what he's done, with what feels so wrong lately. Everything feels wrong. The only things that feels right at the moment is how warm Jinsik is against his side, and the wet cloth that Jiseok's brought over to wipe his hand once the damage that's been done is actually noticed, finds himself surprised that it's not Beomgyu that's uprooted himself.

Unlucky as he is, it might stain. And She'll have to forgive them all that blunder when Jiseok scrubs as hard as he can but can't seem to get all of it off, "Hot water would do the trick but the well water's colder than a corpse." He says before giving up.

The only one who laughs at that is Beomgyu. Yujun thinks the well water's as cold as Hyunwoo's hand. He doesn't like to think of the older and that specific state as synonymous right now.

Jinsik's said sorry too many times since he's come back. He says it again now when he looks back and sees the thin outline of blood still there.

Yujun's tired of trying to stop him.

He's just happy that Jiseok's hand stays in his even after it's clean.

⚔

"Idiot." He curses Yechan, fleeing from the second floor steps the next day, "Stupid, stupid."

The spot on his head where lips had touched is almost scalding to his touch. He's not sure that's something that should happen, feels his cheeks in flames when his fingers trail down the side of his face.

It's silly. So silly he almost cries over it—can't seem to articulate the reason for his nausea by the time he gets back to the bench where he'd waited before.

His breakfast doesn't stay with him this time, ends up wiping his chin with his sleeve and hopes the next the rain they're bound to have will wash it away before it has a chance to poison the bushes. His breathing doesn't calm by the time he gets to the stairs. Hands are shaking when he curls them around the knob that'll lead him into the infirmary, prays he won't be turned away when he's got nowhere else to run.

Junmin's mean enough to laugh at him.

"It's not funny." He whines, aware so suddenly that the bed next to Hyunwoo's is vacant and he trembles, "Don't laugh at me, you know that-"

"I know." The older's palms are shown to him in surrender, "I know, Yujun, it's not funny." Junmin tries to placate him.

Arms thinner than he remembers them being in Fhirdiad pull him into an embrace when words don't work. It catches him off guard, somewhat—not entirely surprised the older's hands are chilled down to the bone, feels them through his jacket and into his skin. One of them cups around the back of his head and makes his face tilt, his chin not having much of a journey before it hits Junmin's shoulder. It's not uncommon a scene for them to play their parts in when he wraps himself tightly around the other's middle and squeezes all his frustrations out.

He's only reprimanded a little for that—Junmin's flesh has always given much easier than some others, tender and sore in ways he'd never understood.

"We've talked about it before." The older whispers, as if Hyunwoo's comatose form—his jaw tightens to think of the other as such—would be able to give away all their secrets.

But he's just as quiet when he stresses, "And we won't talk about it again."

Junmin hums at that, begins to rock them back and forth like he'd done in their old shared dorm. Yujun was smaller then, able to tuck into the older's side and sob his heart out only for his guts to follow next. He's learned from then that the other's silence has never meant the end of a conversation. Only that too many thoughts have begun to swim about.

And so he finds it to be true now as well, when the grip on him slackens and hate is almost an emotion that comes easily when he feels too tightly strung to keep himself tempered, wants to keep being held so badly.

"An experiment then." He swallows his soured spit at Junmin's words. No good comes of it when those chilled hands move to his face and hold him gently, feels himself burn so brightly. Junmin doesn't laugh at that, blessedly, only leans closer and there's a similar anticipation that rears itself in him, folds his lips in. They aren't the older's target though.

Instead right where Yechan's lips had laid does Junmin also find his mark, a sweetened peck just where skin meets hair and the fire dulls to something tolerable, something soft. It's common enough thing for them. Junmin used to do it all the time, soothe him the same way his own mother used to when he was buried in his woes.

"Did that scald you in the same way?" The older asks once he's pulled away, and in those chilled hands he shakes his hand shallowly, finds his grip in the other's shirt too tight. Junmin's lids are closed just so slightly, dark eyes heavy when he tilts his chin up and assesses whatever he could be trying to find in Yujun's face. Whatever he does find makes him hum again, "Well," clipped out, "I think you have your answer then."

It's not an answer he thinks he likes. Not when he's known it far too long.

"Unhelpful." He pouts and Junmin tips his own chin back down again, eyes wide and bright again if not still tired in the way Yujun expects them to be.

"I never said it'd be helpful." Briefly, he thinks something about the older's face shifts, scrunched before it smooths just as fast, "Oftentime experiments only make things worse." Hands release him, and he feels like he's been dropped when Junmin divests of him fully and his hands have nothing to hold but themselves, "I've known how you feel about him." His stomach churns, "You've known how you feel about him."

"And what am I to do with all the knowing, hm?" It—the numbness—comes to him again, his limbs weighted like stones as the older sits so carefully, "What am I to do about things we both know I can't have?"

Resourceful and helpful as Yujun's always found Junmin to be he's aware they're both prone to liking things far beyond their means. It's freer in Leicester, he knows, but not by much. Not when his status is just as much a boundary as the rest of him.

But the answer he gets from Junmin is exactly the same as he's been given before and the older knows it too, once again having a sense of déjà vu when legs cross and wrists do as well, set upon the older's knee while he squirms under the look he's given. It's happened again—this whole scene has happened before and he knows the words before they come but he does not like them any more.

"You love him all that you can, while you can." There is no less mourning in Junmin's voice when he says it this time as well, "Because you never know when it will be the last time."

⚔

Yujun doesn't throw out the suggestion entirely. Not when it's Junmin who gives it to him.

But, for once, does he also keep thinking about how much harder it'd be to let go if he did as the older told him. It's greedy of him to want.

Yechan finds him in the library looking at books of herbs with words he's only ever heard his parents say but never learned their meanings. Cursing his inability to pay attention during tutoring doesn't last long when his hand always finds it's way to Yechan's and clings to it like a lifeline, threads their fingers together and the other's cooler skin calms him.

He'd fuse their palms into one if it was asked of him.

His heart twists when he knows that Yechan, childishly, would.

And then he could keep the younger safe forever, now couldn't he? Could keep himself attached to the other and heal all his ails before a wound even had the chance to fester, could affix their veins together and share of their blood and beat two hearts in two separate chests.

Yechan would have no need of that though when childhood illness left him as he hit his teens and Yujun's place as favorite plaything was supposed to phased away. What keeps Yechan coming back to him when he has no use he won't ever know but he doesn't begrudge the younger for continuing to call him friend and keep him close.

He does, however, revile whatever's been ailing the other when dark circles have become more prominent and lines have creased a face for so long. Things like that Yujun can't heal. Yujun could give all the life in him to Yechan and it would be a waste if the problem stayed.

His company is all he has to give. And that's all that's ever been asked of him, both of them tucked into a small corner where the librarian had begun piling blankets sewn and stuffed with hay for students to rest on. And company he does give when the book in his lap becomes less interesting than the weight of Yechan's head on his shoulder, hair tickling his cheek when he leans against it.

Patiently—as patiently as he's ever been capable of—does he wait for the other's breath to even out. And even then does he wait some more—just to make sure, keeps himself quiet and unmoving—for Yechan's hand to relax, for fingers to become less vice-like.

And then he raises their conjoined hands up, still slow, still aware of the librarian that has gone back to putting books back in their proper places after checking on them. So softly does he press his lips to the back of Yechan's hand, imprints himself where skin is thin and bone could pinch through easily.

He always has—has made sure Yechan's never seen it when nothing good can come of it.

Because it's his special charm, the seal to his blessing that he's prayed to the goddess for, all so he can give it to the younger.

And because there's always been some truth to the words Junmin has forever said.

⚔

27th of April;
Sovereign Year 1143

Colors have less vibrancy at times.

He's always thought that, since even before here—moments where he was devoid of someone to anchor him to a more saturated world. Yujun's always wilted by himself.

Junmin would surely have something to say about it. Maybe even Jay were he able to get anywhere near the older recently, finds that there are things the older is always running off to do, always with someone.

Sometimes Jay's with Yechan. And he should feel welcome to their company when he always has been. But the past week of being kept out of the loop on things he knows are going on makes him acutely aware of the fact he isn't. Nobles have noble duties after all—have noble problems that require noble solutions. They have nothing to do with Yujun.

He thinks maybe now the dullness of the room comes from the fact that Hyunwoo's skin hasn't regained its full color, so unnaturally pale for so long that Yujun ceases to recognize him at times, unused to going without simple threats and guarded eyes aimed at him. He owes his life to Hyunwoo, doesn't he? And yet he can't save him?

Maybe you're just attached to saviors, a thought far too big for his mind when it's full of fuzz and webs in recent days. It clears out only when Junmin asks him a question he has to search for the answer to, almost annoyed when such a simple thing won't come easily.

⚔

"Hallowtail induces vigor." Junghoon says, one of the infrequent times he's spoke at all. Even after being released from the infirmary, given as clean a bill of health as he can get when his steps stutter now and then but he keeps coming back. Despite the way his heart hollows and his mind clouds as they sit here in their entombed silence too long Yujun doesn't deny his appreciation for another warm body in the room, offsetting the cold one beneath his fingertips.

The room gets a little brighter when Junmin laughs. It's a sound he's not often heard as of late when the older to look more and more upheaved as the days wear on, "Hallowtail induces vigor for sure." comes clear and chime-like in the other's light tone, "The wrong kind of vigor."

"What do you mean-" Out of the corner of his eye he watches Junmin place a finger to his mouth, silencing the other who reddens once it clicks. It takes longer for it to come together in his mind but when it does his mouth finally closes, comes together with a clack of teeth. They fall into another bit of silence that's supposed to be used for thinking of ways to help.

Yujun uses it to watch the other mage stand and face the windows that've been open, fresh and clean air after another light morning rain doing them some good. It will do them for worse, when the older's arms stretch up above his head high enough that his shirt becomes untucked. The breeze that's still chilled takes hold of the hem of it, billows fabric in a way that lets him to see to the skin of Junmin's lower stomach and his eyes hone in the anomaly he finds there.

A scar—clean and thin, so neatly done—sits below the other's navel, running horizontal past the point he can see from this angle. He's never seen it before.

And he shouldn't, if the speed at which Junmin pushes his shirt down says anything, eyes drawn to his before the face that houses them fights between shock and horror. To be looked at like that makes his bile rise.

He can't think of anything that would cause a scar like that—can't think of a reason why Junmin would have any scars to begin with when the older's spoke so highly of his mother's capacity for faith. But he has enough sense to excuse himself after the older does to Junghoon's confusion, privy to a fleeing shadow that makes its way around the corner before he can get out the door. Whatever it is he shouldn't ask about, he decides—counts to ten just as the lunch bell rings to make sure Junmin has a far enough lead that he won't be able to catch up. Out in the hall he waits again, resigns himself to eat alone when Junghoon doesn't follow him out.

⚔

The hall doesn't become full.

Towards the end of the hour Yechan does show up, circles as dark under the other's eyes as they'd been in childhood when oxygen had been privilege for the younger more than a right. When sleep was hard to get because there was no rest to be had. Thinking about a time so unsavory would do neither of them well. Enough walls have already been built too easily lately.

You started that didn't you, he thinks to himself when his palm fits securely against the other's, always has and hopefully still will long into the future. His mother would love that—her letter's still tucked in the top drawer of his desk along with the others he's gotten. Junmin might have something to do with more whimsical thoughts like that though. And thoughts of the older lead him back to that scar and the reaction and the fact he should stop asking about things beyond him.

Yechan's, unfortunately, also beyond him sometimes-

"-Hyunwoo?"

He jolts, his head whipping to face the younger. Without prompting the question is repeated:

"Going to check on Hyunwoo?"

His eyes dart from his empty plate to Yechan's that's still full back up to eyes aren't far from slipping close, a smile that doesn't meet them aimed towards him. He's not fond of it. But it curls tighter, splits the other's face more once he reaches up with his free hand and brushes hair that's grown longer than its usual crop from the other's head, "Just saw him actually." He smiles but it doesn't stick, "He said hi."

When Yechan laughs it's so close to his face, too close almost, breath ghosting his cheek as his space is invaded too easily.

The other's voice holds no lightheartedness even when all Yujun sees is teeth,

"He didn't."

The plainness of the statement makes his face fall, head shaking as he agrees, "No. He didn't."

The conversation ends. Yechan pulls away as if he never came close, props his chin on his curled fist and Yujun pulls their hands into his lap where he can tap his fingers along bonier knuckles. He eyes the younger's still full plate again, the way food hasn't even been pushed around on it. Eat something, he wants to say.

But it's not often that the other listens. And so he resigns himself to the quiet that is interrupted only by the clinking of silverware against porcelain and metal from the tables around them.

"If I asked you something," Yechan starts again after Yujun's stomach sufficiently soured, the dining hall having emptied of all but them and a classmate of Junmin's at one of the farther tables, "would you promise to tell me the truth?"

"Of course." His heart answers before his brain can have any say. It's never had much of one anyway—thinks he'd answer the same even if he did have time to think about it, refusing to give much weight to the self accusation when it's true. That security in knowing that of himself lessens a tiny bit once Yechan pulls free of his hold and smooths his fingers along the lacquered grain of the dining table instead. Without anything to hold his own hands fold into each other, worrying against flat scars that feel so thin still.

He's not given what he later thinks is his right to be looked at when Yechan asks what he does, the other having the gall to even think the opposite—

"Hyunwoo will wake up, right?"

Truth isn't something he can answer with when he doesn't know it. Well enough does he know the other that I'm not sure won't be a satisfying answer. No isn't an answer he thinks has truth to it either, not when a heart still beats in the older's chest and air fills his lungs without intervention.

"Yes." is what he lands on.

To think the opposite, he believes, would be a disservice to someone who's already survived this long beside them.

Yechan doesn't argue with him—doesn't tell him he's wrong, that he's broken a promise by lying. He doesn't say anything at all, just looks at Yujun with eyes that are not as mirthful as he wishes the younger would be again. When the bell ring Yechan is the first to rise, still full plate deposited on top of his with a smile that's pulled tight.

"Finish that for me?" He's asked, left to watch the other unsteadily move himself from the bench they're on, "I didn't have time to eat and I'm working on something with Jay that I have to go do." His hair is ruffled when he pouts, when Yechan forgets that he's older even if it's not by much, "It'd be a waste and it's your favorite."

"Will you tell me what it is?" He calls out before the other can get that far, his hands still gripped so tightly together in his lap and Yechan turns back, "What you're working on?" What keeps you so awake at night that you look ill?

Yujun tires of seeing that smile, of hearing, "Later."

A pinkie is raised up, a promise made but Yujun doesn't think it counts when he doesn't get to lock his own into it and Yechan's already walking away from him.

He's not allowed to argue though. He's only allowed to hope.

⚔

Sleep eludes him that night, uncommon an occurrence as that is.

There's a tincture his father'd sent with him just for nights like these, still unused all these months later. There's a temptation to drink from it now when he turns to watch the glass gleam in the moonlight that pours in through his open curtains. He'll fight it though—the same way he'd fought it weeks earlier, grown fond of the bottle that sits on his desk when it's one of the only things he has left from what he'd pack, most of it lost in the forest at the base of the Oghma Mountains.

So in the morning he finds he can't lie when Junmin touches his shoulder gently as they pass each other by the greenhouse, and he's asked if he slept at all when he'd barely mustered the energy to brush his hair into something presentable.

"I just didn't get enough rest." He's known Junmin to do the same.

Sympathy bleeds into the other's tone when thin hands try their best to finger comb unwashed tangles from his head, "Can't say you're the only one."

Stupidly he almost asks if the older means himself, a bit fond of hands he'd grown used to in Fhirdiad until the sound of heavy footsteps catch his attention. Beyond Junmin's shoulder he catches a glimpse of bright hair that shines glorious in the sun when it's caught by the morning light.

Only to be offset by the shadows that hang heavy under eyes so usually full of that same light.

And as he'd expected, Yechan seems just as rested as him.

⚔

In the afternoon he swings by the infirmary. There's a honey cake wrapped in wax coated cloth in his pocket, the intent to share his time with Hyunwoo on such a sunny day quite the plan he had in store for himself.

But when he opens the door he finds Junghoon in his place, his chair pulled close to the bed, a cheek pressed to the back of Hyunwoo's hand. The other doesn't move as he stands there in the open door, back rising and falling too evenly to be anything but sleep.

He can't bear to watch it.

He backtracks out and turns left when he can't bring himself to wake the other, decides he can at least get some studying done, find some kind of interaction to be had he's sure once he steps into the library. It's sparse with students. But he thanks the goddess when there's someone.

Sunoo waves him over to his table near the front with a friendly smile and he finds himself sitting without much argument even if the mage doesn't talk much as he rests there. Reason studies is the topic that the other hums about as he looks over his book and Yujun doesn't have much in the way of commentary when Seunghun isn't wrong about how fire is the only element that burns in his blood. When Sunoo's attention becomes too engrossed in things that aren't him his eyes start to wander towards the only other occupants in the space.

At a table farther back are two familiar faces in an equally familiar pose when Hunter's the only one paying attention to the book in front of him and Seeun's eyes don't drift long from his friend's—more than his friend, if Yujun gave weight to the rumors—face for long. He should probably give them more weight. Especially when the taller's expression softens and his head is tilted so doe like and endeared, fingers loosely wrapped around Hunter's wrist as if to keep him there.

When Seeun notices him he gets a wave, one that's not so animated and matched with half a smile. It gets Hunter to look as well, given just as kind a smile as he always is before those eyes go back to that book. He's almost curious when the two of them start talking, watches Seeun's expression dip into something less fond and more harsh, but Sunoo glances up at him again as if remembering his presence again. Yujun doesn't blame the other.

"You look worse for wear." The mage says, not unkindly and he doesn't disagree, "I've checked in on our fair archer a bit. Can't say I've seen anything like that before." A bit of grief to the tone but still so matter-of-fact when they've all said the same thing.

He's said the same thing, "Junmin says we just have to wait." Even if he hates it, "But Hyunwoo will wake up on his own."

His resoluteness makes the other cock his head, "The red haired Orchid, yes?" Sunoo watches, waiting until Yujun nods, "Mm, I fear we'd have to trust him then." Something about the way the other says it makes him frown, "There's a lot of hearsay about that one. If he can't help then—"

He's oddly protective, even when his teeth catch his cheek, "He has helped." said, a bit sourly before he remembers himself and Sunoo's eyes widen a little, "The hearsay is just that."

"So you say and so do many say." comes so cryptically from the other's mouth as he shrugs, and there's a tightness in his own shoulders as he begins picking at his fingers below the table, "I wouldn't doubt it's nonsense when I've never seen him pray; the goddess gives Her gifts to those who adore Her right?" He doesn't answer, "I believe he no more than tithes before up and leaving after mass."

"He-"

"My faith would be shaken too after what happened." As if it doesn't matter what he says Sunoo returns his gaze back to his reading. Yujun's stomach twists, "Nearly losing one so close to you when you've been all but handed the ability to heal would destroy anyone."

And he hates it—hates hearing it, has enough memories of Junmin's nightly sobbing when the older'd thought him asleep, face pointed to the ceiling and begging to be free.

He wets his lips before he speaks again, presses his hands between his thigh when he knows his hands will hurt worse if he doesn't stop picking, "Do you think Seunghun will quiz us on battalions this week?"

Sunoo glances at him again, "Probably."

"Would you mind sharing your notes then?" When he breathes there's not enough that comes into his lungs when his heart beats too fast, "Yechan dropped mine in the pond and—"

"Yujun."

He stops. His eyes won't leave the wall of books behind the mage.

"I've already stopped talking about Junmin." In the corner of his eye he finds that Sunoo's face isn't stern, "You don't need to lie to me."

His head jerks, but his vision blurs too much when he tries to meet the other's eyes. In shame he can't find the cause for his head droops, and hands no thinner than his own pet through what Junmin had tried to fix that morning.

He's told to cheer up. He doesn't think he can.

⚔

29th of April;
Sovereign Year 1143

That dullness blankets his day in full when he goes to visit Hyunwoo during lunch, has him tingling from elbow to fingertip when he pushes the infirmary door open.

Junmin doesn't smile at him.

Any other day that'd mean nothing when those don't come easy to the older's face. But in the aftermath of viewing something he feels he shouldn't have it stings. He opens his mouth to greet the mage—to apologize for the grievance he's certainly caused—but a hand is held up to silence him, eyes darting to where the curtains around the other bed are now pulled tightly shut.

Junghoon's been released. He hasn't heard word of anyone else being injured so gravely.

"Sunghoon." is whispered to him when he raises a brow. He finds out a day later what the prince is there for—a cough and a wheeze, topped with some muscle fatigue so potent he'd almost been carried in.

Parts of him influenced more by Yechan than himself think the younger would be almost amused to know Sunghoon is still as much weathered flesh and sickly blood as the rest of them. That the prince is human, despite the way he'll act. But Yechan's feelings for others aren't his to hold onto.

And so for now he pays no mind to the one behind the curtain who breathes so laboriously that his memories of youth become far too clear and takes his seat next to Hyunwoo's unmoving and pale hand before touching it so featherlight.

It's still cold.

But there's still a pulse.

He carries Yechan's wish for the older to wake up when he clasps his hands together and presses them between his knees, lifts his head like he's to pray. The Rebirth Rite is coming soon and Hyunwoo has to wake because the goddess is good and the goddess is kind and She wouldn't let him rest this long unless She thought he needed it.

Behind him and the curtain humming begins, a hymn whose melody he knows by heart when the choir at the cathedral back home would always sing it, and the one here doesn't remove it from their rotation of songs to be sung. O goddess onto me, a blessing so bright so sweet, his mother had taught him young, how to make his voice fill a room when he was too small to do it by presence alone, o goddess onto thee, the light that reflects from the sea.

Sitting here on this chair he thinks he doesn't need his voice to be big and booming if She's supposed to be able to hear wherever he is. Yujun can't promise Hyunwoo will wake up but he can hope and he can pray, and he knows the goddess will listen because She's never once let him down.

The door slamming shut jolts him out of his musings. Junmin leaving without saying goodbye isn't anything he's unused to.

⚔

Jinsik asks to pray with him that evening after they've finished their decoration making for the day. He finds the other no less sad but definitely more talkative, a smile so wide and teeth so nice. Yujun almost doesn't notice when it doesn't reach the other's eyes.

But he also wouldn't refuse the offer, already sitting himself in one of the front row pews as Jinsik takes a seat a hand's width away from him, scooting farther when Yujun tries to lessen the space. Finding the other to be uncomfortable with that closeness he lets it be, tries to be less greedy in his want to be held as he presses his hands together and raises his eyes to statues of golden saints.

He asks the goddess to lessen Yechan's burden so he'd rest more, knows the younger always pushes himself too far too fast. Asks Her to forgive Yechan his transgressions when Yechan won't do it himself.

And lastly he begs Her, with all his heart, that he'd be able to hold Yechan's hand for as long as they live, if that's all he'll ever be able to have.

⚔

He wakes up with his face mushed into something warm, almost soft. A button has made its impression where his cheek has lain against it for who knows how long—finds the moon high in the sky when it comes through the window and bleeds light into his room. He sighs, releases the tension that's tried to coil inside him again before he lifts up and finds that particular part of his cheek quite sore even if Yechan's stomach a good pillow.

It's not an odd position for them to find themselves in at all, a common one actually, one of Yujun's favorites because the younger can't escape him and he can be assured that Yechan's finally rested.

Good rest, he knows, hopes, fondly watching his friend when it's the first time he's seen that face without worry in some time now. It doesn't last long when the younger's nose begins to scrunch but he prays they've slept long enough, frowns as he places himself back where he was, and feels a hand touch his head almost fearfully.

Many a time has Yechan been disoriented when he wakes and this time is no difference, feels the other shift beneath him, the belly he's been pillowed against tensing as he hears a whine rip from the other's throat. His friend doesn't remember coming here, and Yujun can't say he remembers how they ended up in his room either when his blankets are piled on the floor while they share his stripped bed. Feigning sleep isn't something he's keen to continue doing when he hears the way breathing gets quicker, panicked.

"It's okay." He whispers quietly and moves so he can look up, finds the other as terrified as he expects him to be. Yechan's face softens at the sight of him and that's a boon isn't it? To be a source of comfort as he feels the other relax if even just a little. Fingers tangle in his hair so gently when it's pushed from his face and he smiles, hopes it soothes the other.

Yechan doesn't smile, "My chest hurts."

It's croaked out, words raw and rasped, a cough thrown in for good measure. He frowns at that, hearing the way the other's breath is wheezed, forced through a throat that makes the noises worse than they should be.

Yujun knows it shouldn't hurt.

But he reaches up, undoing one of the upper buttons of the younger's shirt and presses his palm to skin that burns just as badly as his own.

And then he heals it anyway. Even if it doesn't exist. As long as it makes Yechan happy.

⚔

He stands, just where the wide open doors lead into the audience chamber. The sight, for some reason, keeps him transfixed.

But what he sees isn't abnormal—Sunghoon kneeling at the archbishop's feet while the holy man's fingertips grace the area where hair meets skin, three of them pressed firmly. It's but a blessing. If Yujun had to guess he believes the archbishop's fingers will be stained red when they pull away, and there will be three marks for the prince to wash off at the end of the day. If Sunghoon's as sick as he'd heard Junmin say then there's nothing wrong with the voice of the goddess placing his fingers upon the prince's head and offering up a boon.

Yujun's just not sure he's fond of seeing Sunghoon kneel.

Grace, he thinks, is what keeps Yechan's gaze from being drawn to the scene when half shut eyes are barely focused on the floor they walk on let alone anything as pious a sight as this. And that's a more pressing matter, isn't it? When he's bringing Yechan to the infirmary to keep an eye on the younger. The goddess is using the archbishop to aid Sunghoon and heal his ills. And She's using him to aid Yechan when he's already made up his mind that he'll the other in his room if it means he finally rests the way he's supposed to.

It's by that same grace perhaps that Yechan's eyes fall fully closed, sitting on the floor by Hyunwoo's bed. He refuses to sit on it now, knees pulled up to brace under his chin and Yujun moves his own to keep the younger's head falling too far, from toppling him over.

⚔

Junmin's told him before that he can come to his room whenever he wants.

Yujun avails himself of that when Yechan disappears after dinner and never returns to his side long after the sun's gone. He feels out of place this far down the closed of hall of upper dorms when he's used to coming only as far as the first room. Junmin's surprised to see him when he opens the door, already freshly bathed and dressed for bed.

"I was just leaving." He's told, when there's a pair of clean pants clenched in the older's hands.

Yujun nods, "You too?" said a little too solemn when he hugs his pillow to his chest and feels that childish nausea of his start to churn him again, "You all have something to do that doesn't involve me?" When he notices it's not just Yechan but also Junmin. When it's not just them but also Jinsik, and Jinsik's classmates and Junmin's as well, and Jay and everyone but not him—

He only realizes he's crying when Junmin pulls him into the room and into his arms, held as tightly as the other can, and tears wet the other's shoulder as he hides himself there.

"Okay, okay-" the older smooths a hand through his hair and Yujun feels him swallow from where his cheek is pressed to the other's neck, "They don't need me, it's okay, Yujun, let's just sleep, shall we?"

He won't be scolded in the morning for acting like a child. Not by Junmin, not when he's allowed to curl himself under the older's chin and pretend they're back at Fhirdiad where things were just as lonely and he was held just as gently.

At least there he didn't have Yechan to worry about though. When he chokes on his tears he thinks he deserves it, hates himself for thinking it'd be better without the other.

"You know it wouldn't." Junmin tells him and whispers for him to calm, for him to sleep before works himself into an episode when the older doesn't know he hasn't suffered one of those in some time. The only boon is when the sleep he falls into that night is heavy and dreamless.

⚔

1st of May;
Sovereign Year 1143

Junghoon's awake the next time he comes but Junmin's the one that's missing—been missing a lot lately, much to Yujun's displeasure. Crying in the older's arms hadn't changed much. He wouldn't mention it to Junghoon.

Nor does he say anything about the way Junghoon rips his hands from Hyunwoo's the moment he pushes the door open, caught red handed—red eared in this case—as he walks fully in and looks around.

They're not prone to conversation. And this one's certainly not their most amicable one. Yujun can't say he's ever felt unwelcome here before now, when Hyunwoo's one of his classmates and Junghoon was someone who was at least nice to him. Somehow it's a different story today, when the Orchid that takes his chair and keeps his hands fisted on his knees is noticeably terser than he's ever been, bites at him more easily.

"Nothing new?"

"What do you think?" The other snaps.

Yujun decides Hyunwoo isn't the conversation topic they should be having then, even if it's his classmate on the bed. He doesn't say anything about that though, swallows his meaner words that he'd regret letting spill and takes a seat on the edge of the bed, as close as Junghoon will allow him without glaring at him like he's intruding.

"Do you have plans for the Rite?" He questions instead, when that's sure to be a neutral topic and it's all anyone's preparing for, "I hear there's a festival that's going to happen the day before. And a bunch of stalls out past the portcullis the day of."

"Fodder for guests who are going to swarm here then." Junghoon huffs, "It's going to be noisy."

"Plan to be holed up in your room then?" He jokes but it seems the wrong one to make, doesn't think too clearly about it. Junghoon's eyes glance back down to Hyunwoo and he has an idea where the other will be keeping himself, feels shame to have spoken without thinking, "I'll bring you one of the cakes they'll have. What flavor do you-"

"I don't think I'll be in the mood for cake." His own mouth shuts tight, "My class has something to do that day."

"An assignment?" His brow furrows, "During the Rebirth Ride, isn't that…" Sacrilegious when it's a holy time, he thinks. A day of rest. He knows Adrestrians are nowhere as devout as the people of Faerghus but they still hold some religious texts as law.

Junghoon regards him with a pinched look of his own, smoothed into something more unreadable before he shakes his head, "Guard duty."

"Oh." He's still surprised, hands flattened against his own legs as he swallows, "That's still weird. They only asked your class? Not for al-"

"I wouldn't know about yours, would I-"

Hyunwoo's hand twitches.

Junghoon's eyes go wider than Yujun's ever seen them, both of them halting even their breath as they wait for it to happen again, unsure what they'd seen. He's so hopeful, in that passing of time, his stomach churning.

But several seconds pass. And there is no other movement to be had.

A fluke.

Bile climbs its way into his throat as he drags his eyes from Hyunwoo and back to Junghoon despite not receiving a look in return, "No." He whispers, fearful that maybe their loudness had woken the older up, that maybe more rest is needed and they're doing wrong by forcing him awake before it's time, like an egg hatched too early, "We haven't been given an assignment like that, Yechan would've told me."

Wouldn't he?

He doesn't get to doubt his friend when the movement happens again, but tendrils of it tickle along his ribs as Hyunwoo's hand twitches a third time.

Achingly slow, Junghoon's finger wraps around one of Hyunwoo's, his other hand slipping tenderly around the older's wrist. He finds the other's eyes so unmoving it becomes uncanny, unable to watch them as they stare so determinedly at the hand he holds and Yujun decides to join in that observation despite the way his own chest aches at the way Hyunwoo's being held so gently.

Miracles must be true, his prayers so simple and plain answered, because Hyunwoo's hand does not twitch again—no his finger curls around Junghoon's and Yujun can't tell from which of them a gasp rips itself from.

When Junghoon looks at him he can't help but think it's in fear, the other so scared as his eyes shake and he comes to find he doesn't like that expression tainting Junghoon's face, begins to reach out a hand before it drops into his lap, eyes back to the way Hyunwoo's finger grips the other's.

Junghoon, thankfully—even if it pits his stomach—doesn't notice, "Get…" the other trails off, eyes darting back to Hyunwoo on the bed, slowly moves until his face is also keened on the older, "get-"

"I'll get Seunghun." He's already up on his feet, eyes fleeting, seeing the way Hyunwoo's grip slackens and that churning in his stomach nearly takes his balance.

In his periphery Junghoon nods as if they have a choice, pretends he doesn't see the tear that falls from the other's eyes before his classmate starts to seize.

Junghoon shouts at him to go. And Yujun's never run faster in his life.

Chapter Text

Yellow Dahlias

-Hyunwoo-

13th of April;
Sovereign Year 1143

The first time he wakes he doesn't open his eyes wide enough to see anything. Nothing more than the shadows play from behind his eyelids is all he'd be able to get even if he did. That's all they'd be.

Something draws him back inside himself, away from those shadows, lulled by dreams that look more like home and less like hell becoming a most tempting vision. Did he do enough for their goddess to accept him into the afterlife? Will his mama be there once her sickness claims her? He likes to think it'd be less lonely for her if he was there first. He'd be able to rest easier if he could do that much for her.

But it's not long before he's consumed by the darkness the takes his vision, and the sounds around him become nothing more than chimes in the wind.

He's not sure who's screaming. But he knows the voice behind it is one he usually likes.

⚔

1st of May;
Sovereign Year 1143

The second time there's little to remember about it. Shouting, hurried voices and someone crying above him. It's unsettling. Something wet hits his hand, one drop then another and did they leave me outside is a thought that has little weight to it when something more like flesh, warm and soft, graces his cheek. There are too many aches in his bones, a twinge in his shoulder that won't unwind when he can't get his body to move. Parched as he is he can't remember how to swallow, nose too full of herbs when whatever touches his face dances across it.

He knows those herbs… He knows… He…

⚔

When he does open his eyes there's a face he doesn't expect to be there greeting him, close enough for him to see.

Statues of saints have looked less pretty. Only the one of the goddess in the cathedral could probably outdo whoever this serving girl is when she leans over and golden curls tumble over her shoulder, a gloved hand pushing a black veil pushed from her face. There's a familiarity to her. Then again Hyunwoo thinks images of angels should be familiar, something unsuspecting but still too beautiful. He takes the time to chide himself when a different face plagues his mind at the thought.

Her porcelain face crinkles when she realizes he's awake, lips pouted when she calls out, "Well, he's alive." as if there were evidence to the contrary. Considering the way his head pounds and his tongue is nothing more than a weight, dried like cotton traveling merchants would sell, he almost wishes he was.

"I would hope he's alive!" gets called back to her, and the voice is something even his muddled mind can remember just from the pitch of it, "Herb girl I asked to let me know when he's awake!"

"His eyes are open."

"Kuanjui's Hells-is he awake?" And there need be no more evidence that his teacher is the one that bellows from wherever he is in the room that Hyunwoo's found himself to be in.

The unfortunately human girl—has to be human, no angel would be able to stand being around him, let alone his professor—cocks her head to one side, veil pushed farther from her golden hair as she examines him, "Are you awake?" She asks him, "Or do you sleep?" Plainly added and he hears Seunghun curse once more across the room.

Despite the cobwebs in his mouth and the film that clings to his teeth, he finds his voice, distant as it is, "Waher." croaked out before her eyes widen, "Water." He tries again with more success and that finally gets her to move, disappearing from his already blurred vision and leaving him with the white of linens that surround him. She returns not with a cup but a cloth that she squeezes into his mouth, lukewarm water almost a treat even if it's tinged with the taste of soap. Something in his mind tells him not to be greedy of it—hears his mama's warning recited to him when he'd broken a fever once when he was younger and does not whine when the cloth is pulled away after it wets his lips.

"Who?" He asks her, muffled as his voice is when he can't seem to get it fully out. Him, struck muter than usual, would surely cause a shock to the other residents in his village back home.

She, however, lets out a squeak, "No one!" hissed at him as if he'd done wrong before that veil of black is dropped and her features are no more than a memory to his fading eyes. She calls out that he is indeed awake. He's not so sure of it. But Seunghun is hovering above him the next time he blinks, with eyes wider than the 'girl's' behind glasses that rest at the edge of the older's nose.

"So he is." A hand is waved in front of his face and he does his best to follow the shape of it, "Alert enough as well."

"He asked for water." The girl informs him.

"Talkative too."

Hyunwoo feels himself begin to tire already, his still leaden tongue trying to breech his teeth to his lips. He's prodded at, here and there, discomforted when his body seems just as heavy, can barely keep his arm raised when his professor moves it up to see if he'll hold it there. It drops quite easily.

Then he hears a "hm" muted as Seunghun's eyes are back on him as far as he can tell, "Do you remember your name?"

Yes, he thinks dully when the problem is having to speak it, "Hyun" getting out before he chokes on the cotton-like feeling at the back of his throat, "Choi" the next syllable he attempts.

His professor nods, "Well that's good enough. Do you know where you are?"

At that he looks around, eyes already unfocused again but he wages his guess might be correct when his professor's there beside him, and a bell is tolling loudly above them, and he's certainly not frozen stiff from the cold Faerghan spring.

"Hell." is just an easier word to get out. And it's one that makes both of the ones above him stifle a chortle.

"Good enough as well." The older speaks, "Infirmary is probably a big word for you right now." And perhaps his house leader rubs off on him when bastard is the next thing his tongue wishes to spill. Lucky for him it doesn't get out; but he's able to narrow his eyes, threatening as much as he can when he can't exactly put any real fight behind the action, "Tell me, what ails you?" He's asked, "We're lucky to have you awake now, but there's much to be done when you can't seem to lift a finger. Is it a pain in your back? A wound we've missed? You do feel me as I press here," a bony finger jabs into his knee, "and there," another pushes his abdomen, "right?"

He nods, "Shoulder." It's the first word that doesn't feel like led on his tongue, even if his lisp is far more pronounced than he'd like when he says it, annoyed by the delight in his professor's eye.

"Shoulder? An ache, a sting, or a burn? Be as verbose as you can." Verbosity isn't his problem at the moment. He could come up with quite a few descriptors. It's getting them out of his still dry mouth.

"I think he's laying on it weird." The girl interjects and Seunghun turns to her, "When you tried to set him up earlier he'd winced. We probably set him wrong."

He doesn't tell them it's an old injury that acts up now and again. He just knows that it's the worst of his ails, and that when the older props another pillow under him it eases the strain on it, finds enough strength in his body to move the arm attached to it so it lays across his stomach.

Were it not for the cotton he'd almost be at peace again.

The peace is unfortunately disrupted when Seunghun's fingers come close to his face and begin to poke there, his nose particularly sensitive when it's pressed and his right temple is so tender he'd howl if he could. What noise he does end up getting out is close enough though. When his eye is reached for next he makes the same sound and Seunghun retracts his hand, turning to the girl and telling her to make a note of it.

"Bad as the Orchid but without the teeth."

If he could snap his jaws at the other he would.

So long as they stay away from his eyes he won't. Healers can always tell too quickly the way his eyes will degrade as he ages.

He doesn't need to hear it again.

⚔

The herbs again, heavy in his nose when he finds himself waking later, days or hours passing he's unaware. But his eyes blink open easily this time.

Something wet brushes against his brow where he's sure sweat has been gathering, a pale and unblemished hand letting what he realizes is a cloth rest there against the full of his brow before pulling away, taking the smell of sage and angelica with it. There is no angel or saint haloed in his sight when it clears up the way he needs it to.

But there is almost black hair and a set of narrow, pulled back shoulders he's not come to associate with anyone else here. And the warm wet cloth on his head is as good a blessing he could ask for right now when his hands twitch at his side as he shivers. He gets another, small but still one he's grateful for, when one of his arms bows to his authority long enough for him to raise it shakily.

A finger brushes one of his before a hand encloses around it, pushing his own back to the bed where a thumb presses into the back of it, pinning him so easily he's almost frustrated by it.

"How long have you been there?" He manages to get out of his mouth—wishes a bit of the water would trail down from the cloth and into his mouth, that maybe he'd be offered another one to sip from.

He's found out quickly that Junghoon's not good at reading minds so his wishes go unheard, but his question's answered at least, "A little while." said in the other's neutral tone.

"Mm." It croaks in his throat, "Is that girl around?" If he squints he can just about make out the lines of the younger's face, eyes the first thing to come into focus before a brow flicks up at his question.

"Girl?" Junghoon leans closer, and the softness of a nose is the next thing to become clear, brows pulled together when he nods, "Veiled one?" Confusion begins to weave its way between the ache in his bones.

"The princess?"

If he didn't know any better he'd almost think the other amused, the lilt in Junghoon's voice still gentle. It turns to a chuckle, soft, when he pulls his lip between his teeth and chews it out of compulsion, finds comfort in it as Junghoon continues, "I know you said your vision was awful but I didn't expect you to not recognize Bahiyyih Huening."

"'t's not like she visits Ecne." He bristles, fingers digging into the blanket that covers him, "And it's not completely gone. Some thing's are… clearer, some blurrier." There's a hole he's digging himself when "I know what you…" thankfully cuts off before he can say something too stupid, a cough bringing up something thick before he can reveal he knows the other by scent. Unfussed by the show, Junghoon cleans it away with a dry cloth that's too rough before a wet one is brought to his lips and he drinks as much as he's given.

They're too close; he's able to make out almost all the lines on the other's face and the taste of herbs clings to the water where it's pulled out from under the other's nails.

"Pretty." His mouth moves just as his mind does, "She is." He reframes the statement when Junghoon's eyes widen too much after his first word.

Then the other's nose crinkles, "Is that so?" toneless when the cloth is pulled from his mouth and his tongue rests less like a weight in his mouth, loosened to the point of idiocy when he feels the need to defend himself.

"She's not my type," his heart beats too fast, swallows thickly and that makes the other's brows twitch up again before eyes narrow at him, " but I can appreciate how someone looks."

"Is that so?" Junghoon merely repeats again, settling back in his chair.

Begging himself to stop talking works wonders now that he's already made a fool of himself. The only thing that keeps himself from fisting his hand into the blanket hard enough to pull threads is that a finger rests on the back of it, pushing into the divot between his knuckles and forcing him to relax it.

It works on his hand. Not his mind. That still grumbles at him when the other stands and fixes the cloth on his head where it's started to slip, " Get some more rest." He's told, words said too gently, said in a way they've never been spoken from Junghoon's mouth.

He likes it though, feels something trail down the side of his face before it's gone and he says nothing of it, "Have I not rested enough?"

His temple is tender when it's pushed against, causing a wince to strike his face. The other's expression flickers, his pained noise taken in before the younger shakes his head, "You can get some more." Junghoon tells him, quiet, "Because you'll need it." so ominous but there's not much he can gleam from that when it's Junghoon he's speaking to.

"And because you will wake up again."

His mama is the voice he hears when his brain muses that doing things once is always the hard part. That it gets better the next time, and the time after.

You lived, he congratulates himself when that was the hardest part of all.

You almost didn't do that.

⚔

He's aware of someone looming above him before he wakes fully. He's gotten good at that, for the most part—the knowing that something's there that shouldn't be.

Opening his eyes he finds his young leader standing there, head bowed and hands fisted at his side. He's red faced and teary eyed, too young to be here next to a person in his ranks that almost died, too old to lose the memory of it and be unaffected.

It's been four days since he woke and was able to stay that way longer than a few minutes. The younger hasn't been by that whole time but most of the rest have. Hyunwoo doesn't mind it; Hyunwoo prefers it. He barely liked his younger brother seeing him ill and this… this conjures up the same feeling.

Yechan predictably doesn't speak first, quiet as a mountain cat beyond the little bit of sniffing that still comes and Hyunwoo notices the rest of his usual visitors are gone from his hearing range at least. And herbs aren't so easy a thing to catch with his nose. But he can tell the curtain is drawn around the other bed behind the younger, and he can still faintly smell angelica in the air, not fully gone from the air.

Hyunwoo saves them both—if not more—the awkwardness, tilting his head and finding his hair has started to grow long enough to curl into the corner of his eye, needs to be cut.

"You've been crying." he says simply, an observation that's plain even to him.

Of course the younger argues, can't let himself be found weak and emotional, can't be seen as young when he is.

"No, I haven't." A blur of an arm is brought up to wipe away tears that have started coming again, a broken little noise spilling out as well to further betray Yechan to him, "Shut up, that's an order." He's told before he can say anything. But there's more anger than true authority in it.

And it's not like Hyunwoo doesn't know the cause of it. Even if the nomads weren't loose-lipped gossips that brought him a wake-up gift of shiny arrowheads and talk of growing tensions between the house leaders, he'd already been privy to enough of it. There's a lot of weight that comes with a leader having to place one of their own in the care of another. There's more, terribly so, that comes with handing them off to a person you think less of, someone who you've assigned all of your anger. Yechan holds grudges because he's young and childish.

Yechan will grow out of that.

"He saved me y'know."

"I don't care."

Hyunwoo still needs to grow out of it, "I know you don't like him—I don't like him," he admits, not that it's any grand revelation when a lot of who he's talked to share the same opinion in some regard, "but if it wasn't for him I wouldn't be in this bed, I'd be in a box."

And that's a terrible thought, isn't it? Knowing how close to death you'd been if not for someone you'd thought less of?

From what he can see, Yechan sure does; the younger is once again silent, tears now falling quietly if they still are at all when he can't seem them fully, but as he turns his head he catches the way the other's mouth twists. Before he can reach out Yechan's feet become heavy against the floorboards, quick and hurried as the future leader of Leicester storms out in favor of coming to terms with the fact one of his own owes their survival to a rival. The door slams, his curtains still flowing gently in the breeze left by it and he sighs, staring at the ceiling.

"I know you're there."

For a moment he thinks he's wrong, talking to the stale air of the infirmary and nothing else. But as his cheek falls to the pillow beneath him the curtains around the other bed are pulled away. And Junghoon's face is in its place. Frown or smile he can't tell from here but the other's propped up on his elbow, turned to him.

"Trying to sleep?" He quests, trying to will himself to roll onto his side but it fights him and he's sure it'll continue to fight him, "Quite hard in this place, isn't it?"

"Mm." Junghoon hums, giving Hyunwoo a view of him in profile when the other's face turns to the door where Yechan's already long gone. It's quiet for a bit then, the antithesis to his complaints of being too noisy, only hears Junghoon breathe.

Then, "You're kind to him." He's told.

And it's so sudden and random that it gives him pause, confusion taking over long enough for Junghoon to begin moving, scooting higher on the bed before pushing up to sit, "Huh?"

He's not answer until the other's settled, cross legged and facing him, the curtain pulled open enough for Hyunwoo to see him framed so thinly, "You spit and rage at nearly everyone but you keep calm with him."

It's not untrue. He doesn't spend long giving much wonder to how long Junghoon's been watching him to surmise as much. He's not that important. No one has to look long to figure that out when it's plain to see. Junghoon never looks long enough at anyone from what Hyunwoo's seen let alone him, but he forms opinions fast.

This one just happens to be right, "I have a brother not much younger than him. Don't like that he's here." He explains, getting enough strength in his arms to push himself onto his elbows.

It's a struggle still, one that has the other silent but he doesn't mind, shaking horribly as he tries to keep himself up, "I'm kind to you, too." He feels like he has to say, as if it's something that's harder for the other to observe.

He should know a little better, "I know." Junghoon says and it's more embarrassing an answer than he'd like to admit. Then the younger's head turns from him again, not privy to the flat blur of the other's face anymore,

"And I'm kind to you as well."

And that's something that Hyunwoo's sure he wouldn't ever doubt. Not when the other pulls himself up from the better and steps carefully the few steps it takes to reach him. Junghoon's hands are warm when they slip beneath him and dig softly into his back. The younger's purpose is easy to figure when they slip higher, caught under his arms and helps to drag him higher against the pillows.

"You're losing muscle." Junghoon mentions and he snorts only for him to choke.

"Hard to keep it on when I've been bedridden." He explains but he can tell it's true, fatigued muscles not having to put work in when Junghoon takes his arms and helps to place them over his stomach.

For the first time since he's woken up the other takes a seat at the edge of his bed, as uncommon a sight as any,

"Mm, you'll get it back quickly." One of those warm hands grace his own, fully placed over his folded ones, "They want you to start walking tomorrow. Junmin and Yujun want to try and ease the weakness in you."

"Let me guess." He whispers, one finger trying to lift and touch more of the warmth he can feel being pressed to him from a palm no softer than his own, "You'd like me to rest more before then." It's been three days of that after all. He wakes and Junghoon makes him go straight back to sleep after a little talking. Junghoon sure doesn't deny it now that he's close enough for Hyunwoo to make out the curves of the other's face and how they pinch, a nod following not long after.

The warmth leaves him and he speaks without thinking, fearing Junghoon will leave him in full, "Will you stay?" asked quickly enough that he coughs again and hears the water in the bowl next to him ripple before cloth is pressed to his lips.

"If that's what you'd like." Junghoon tells him, "Was hoping to sleep in my own bed tonight." A funny thing to say when Hyunwoo knows the other's been here more nights than not. He won't say that though.

"You can lay here then." He tries to smile but Junghoon seems too determined to wipe it from his face, "I've been told I make a good enough pillow." Been a good one for her brother once, lent a shoulder to Yechan as well.

He's far too surprised that Junghoon needs no coaxing, "If that's what you'd like." repeated as the cloth's pulled from his mouth, "Scoot." all but hissed at him and he does his best to accommodate that when his body's still weak and unwilling to listen to him, warm hands insistent when they push at him barely any farther than he was.

Junghoon's face gets far too close. Close enough that he's privy to a rosy hue across the other's cheeks—one he doesn't call out when he can feel the way his own begin to warm—and angelica where it's forced itself into each of the threads of other's uniform. Where Hyunwoo can't do much but lay there Junghoon does his best to stiffly conform himself against Hyunwoo's side, a small noise made when Hyunwoo ends up elbowing him in the chest accidentally before one of those warm hands locks around his wrist to keep it pressed where it was before.

If Junghoon's head fits too well on Hyunwoo's shoulder where hair tickles his chin he would be stupid to say it, let alone give it any more thought.

"Get rest." He's told sternly, a thing that's hard to do when he's hyper aware of the body that now shares his space and the rise and fall of Junghoon's chest against his arm. But it's calming. Especially with the breeze that makes its way through the windows left open, and the way his cheek is allowed to pillow atop the other's soft hair. Both of them stay stiff, a bit rigid when he didn't expect his request to be granted.

Somehow he falls asleep faster than he has since he was a child.

He thinks that might be in part due to the lullaby the younger begins to hum once his eyes closed.

That's the same tune his mama would sing to him at night. He's not sure why an Adrestrian would know it.

Especially Junghoon.