#we are like nothing alike but somehow the exact same nonetheless

[hyukaroki]

Okay im finally playing slow damage,, but i cant fucking stand ikuina ik he isnt even one of the main guys but i NEED this faggot killed YESTERDAY pleaze god just take him out back we dont need him anymore fr

[thejustmaiden]

So out of nowhere I was tagged and quoted by a SR shipper for a blog of mine posted in August of last year. Talk about throwback but, hey, gotta appreciate that level of snooping. 😉

Back in the day I actually used to encourage discourse amongst Inuyasha fans- both shippers and antis alike- but I've since realized that it's a lost cause. But for you, @feministmetalgreymon , I'll grant this exception. Just 'cause it's been a while so why the hell not. haha

I want to assure you, however, that nothing you say will ever convince me that Sesshomaru and Rin are meant to be together romantically or that the story intended it so. Nor will you find any validation here. You can ship them for all I care, but please for all that is good and holy while I have your attention try- I mean really try- to understand why it is so many of us Inuyasha fans are so against this pairing in the first place (newsflash: it's not about ship wars), and why we believe a romance between the two of them is completely and utterly out of character.

For those of you interested in reading this, the blog of mine in question that the above shipper mentions in their counter-argument is here for reference. It's titled "Jaken = Rin's Dad?" I'm going to try and keep this short, but I'm also making no such promises. After all, I'm not exactly known for my brevity. haha Now let's get crackin'!

Like you, feministmetalgreymon, did for your recent blog here where you took screenshots of mine to address certain parts, I will be doing the same and dissecting yours accordingly.

[Snippet 1]

I worked with kids for many years as a teacher, and many people in my family have too or still do. Two of them happen to be just over 5 feet which is quite short for the average adult woman living here. I've also worked alongside many a women of short stature, and never did I hear any of them complaining of issues with their students having difficulty differentiating them from their own peers just because they were short as well. I'm sorry but that's just ridiculous. Kids are quite smart and pick up on a lot more than you seem to give them credit for. Height is not the only characteristic they look at to determine who's an adult and who's not, and it's foolish to suggest otherwise. So unless you're a babysitter who's still in their teens and/or who has very childlike features or behavior then I'm afraid what you're getting at is total hogwash. This is just another example of how you shippers offer nothing of real substance to your reasoning, it's only ever cherry-picking or strawmanning from you guys. Stop deflecting from the real issues please, because this certainly isn't one and only winds up being a complete waste of time for all parties involved.

[Snippet 2]

Okay, calm down now. I wasn't insinuating that relationships between parents and children can't change over time in terms of how they get along. Of course that's possible, as all families experience their fair share of estrangement and abuse. What I was speaking about was in reference to the overall dynamic between the two. Because a bad mother or father can still be viewed as a parental figure to their child even if say they're not in said child's life anymore. Since Sesshomaru and Rin share a healthy bond- and just a friendly reminder that in my blog I even said that he doesn't have to necessarily be labeled her father but that a romantic relationship later would still be inappropriate- I didn't deem it necessary to address what you brought up. Plus, it kinda, umm, misses the point?? Please, let's stay on topic. And it's not captured in the screenshot, but stop acting like there isn't a small part of them that idolizes their parents at some point during childhood. Just like you mention later on how it's normal for kids to have innocent crushes on adults that they eventually grow out of? Well, guess what, the same concept applies here. Kids eventually learn that their parents are far from perfect and make mistakes too. Rin is so damn young in the OG series though that we never even get to see her reach that maturity level.

[Snippet 3]

LOL! Alright, okay, so the "unbreakable bond" bit you're mentioning was actually me quoting you sessrinners. Did you not catch that? I literally spelled it out. *sigh* The whole point I was making is that shippers like yourself make hypocritical and contradictory statements all.the.goddamn.time. One moment you guys claim that Sesshomaru and Rin were essentially strangers and meant very little to each other, only to say in the same breath a few seconds later that they were destined to be together and their bond is like no other. I agree, their bond is special, but why must that mean they're going to fall in love?

That is the root of the matter here. Too many animes/mangas have romanticized this older adult man & young girl growing up falling in love trope that it's become way too normalized and widely accepted across the world- and yes, in some cultures more than others. Sadly, you lack the awareness to recognize how this all works. You know how we know that? When we see that you shippers are so desensitized to sexualized images of girls in the media that you share posts like this one below which *subtly* imply a future romance although one half of that pairing is still just a child in the pic and then try and pass it off as cute. That's like super fucking problematic and it scares me that you can't see that (or deny you do). 🤢

After all that's said and done, Sesshomaru leaving Rin in the village with Kaede is to me the strongest indicator more than pretty much anything else he's done for Rin that proves he is her adoptive father. It's so funny to me how you somehow see the exact opposite though. 🤔 What I think is happening is that you got yourself on some squeaky clean ass shipper goggles fresh out of your little echo chamber. Because I hate to tell you, but what you're fantasizing is what you want to see and not what's actually there on screen or was written into the story. I'm strictly talking about Inuyasha and the manga of course. [For the TL; DR version skip to the last paragraph.]

Parents looking after their kids is what parents are supposed to do. A good parent will do anything to keep their child safe and ensure they are cared for, so what he did for her by leaving her there was in her best interests clearly. Besides, as a babysitter, you more than most people should understand that parents aren't always able to be there for their kids so sometimes others gotta step in to help. Haven't you heard of the saying, "it takes a village to raise a child?" Which in Rin's case is literally true! 😂 Sometimes kids are even sent off to stay with grandparents and that's who raises them instead. Or maybe they have to temporarily live with an aunt or uncle because their single parent's job requires they work out of town 4-5 days of the week so they're hardly home. But that doesn't mean that the parents care or love their kids any less, and it's foolish to assume that Sesshomaru must have thought very little of Rin simply due to the fact that he made the decision to leave her in the village. Come on, y'all are acting like he abandoned her there!!

It's just given the circumstances Sesshomaru finally came to learn that Rin traveling with him was no longer safe. I also like to think it's because he wished for her to live a more normal life and to learn how to fully trust humans again. Plus, continuing to travel with him as young as she was would have proven dangerous and unwise. Now for you to know all this and still manage to turn his past actions towards her while she was just a child into a romantic gesture is what boggles my mind. Regardless of how you look at it, from my perspective or your own, Sesshomaru is in the wrong. Either he's a father figure who impregnates his daughter at the young age of approximately 14. OR he's this man she used to travel with who maybe isn't a father to her but who nonetheless basically rapes her since kids her age can't consent to sex with an adult. Idk about you but it sounds to me like nobody here wins with either scenario we're given. In other words, you should be just as mad as we are. If only one side didn't choose to forsake their morals they know we both have in common for the sake of a ship. Welp. 🤷‍♀️

I agree, incest is disgusting but that's not the only problem we have with this pairing. A romantic bond forming between Sesshomaru and Rin would also constitute as grooming.

You realize that over the years he visited her in the village that he brought her gifts too and essentially watched her grow up right before his very eyes, right? I mean, I know you do, but I really shouldn't have to explain further why pursuing a romantic/sexual relationship with each other is plain and simple wrong. And before you say it's not because he didn't have any malintent, please understand that considering their history and power dynamic up to then that yes this is still considered grooming even if Rin supposedly "wanted it" or "made the first move." Whether you consider him her father or not, as the adult who took on a role resembling that of a caretaker in her early life- a critical developmental time for a child- Sesshomaru is obligated to turn down any advances by Rin and most definitely should not initiate any himself. As the first close adult figure she's had in her life since her parents died, it's unfathomable to imagine how Sesshomaru could go through with taking advantage of this young girl who was under his care and supervision since they met. To think he could be capable of betraying that trust sickens me to the core.

This. Now THIS is how a parent/guardian or a similar adult caretaker (babysitter, teacher, etc.) talks to a child. And, in turn, this is how some young children talk to adults. You'd be insane and delusional to deny it! We see it in our everyday lives, do we not? From where else do you think our stories draw most of their inspiration? Yes, obviously these fictional universes have aspects of fantasy that don't exist in the real world, but so how then do you suppose we're able to relate to them? The reason for that being is because these stories are written by people for people, so naturally there are going to be real life aspects embedded throughout. Sure, a little escapism doesn't hurt as we don't need to take everything so seriously, but ultimately we all need to recognize that the messages in the stories we tell matter. Most stories possess a combination of both light and dark themes, but when it specifically comes to the latter we gotta be careful with how we tackle this in children's media since kids are far more impressionable.

So if at the center of a story we have two of the main protagonists whose mom is basically their same age and to top it off she knew their dad when she was just a girl and who just so happened to help raise her, wouldn't you say that's beyond fucked up or at the very least so fucking weird? Like why would we think it's even remotely okay for our children to watch this garbage?? Really think about it. Try and be objective for once and think about how it would sound explaining this storyline to an outsider who's never watched IY or HNY. Well, antis have tried this before many times and we always get the same reaction: Ewww!

Like I said earlier, if you wanna ship it then fine, but 1) please stop seeking our approval or trying to change our minds - your ship wish came true didn't it, so why do you need us to validate it? 2) even though it's not canon, respect that we don't support this sequel portraying pedophilia in a positive light. It's harmful af to not only allow but glorify the continuation of sexualized images of young girls everywhere. And I shouldn't have to say this, but just because this trope is popular as you say does not make it right. Lolicon themes in the media have been an issue forever and it needs to stop. Yes, even some people in Japan or "the East" would agree. Shocker!

We're pissed off and rightfully so because Yashahime's TV rating is 14, not to mention it airs at the prime time kids in Japan watch TV after getting home from school. That's Towa and Setsuna's age, true, but if Rin being the mom when she's like only a year older than them (please don't argue w/ me about the math- antis have so far been right every time with it) is straight-up disgusting and not something we should be supporting or endorsing. Rin's a whole ass child!! Please don't start with the "but times were different then so her having kids at 15 is acceptable" argument either, because we've already debunked that and every other single excuse you guys throw at us. Besides, how or why would you expect young viewers to know these historical "facts" anyway, especially if as you suggest fiction doesn't affect reality so what does it matter? Yet here we are, arguing over a fictional show in real life almost a year and a half into the "Sesshomaru fucks?" sequel being announced. My ass, your ass, hell all our asses fiction doesn't affect reality!

Look, I do apologize if the tone of this blog came off as snippy or condescending at times. I do not wish you any ill will, it's just I'm not really sure what you expected to get out of all this besides maybe getting on my nerves perhaps. haha A lot of you shippers have been desperately scrambling to interact with us, lurking in our tags, jumping onto our posts screaming canon and getting so defensive even though you sought us out first. We've been sticking to our tags, so how about you stay in your lane too. By the way since we're on the topic, have you seen Twitter or Reddit?! SR shippers there are the actual worst and many Inuyasha fans (not just antis) have complained of not feeling welcomed to engage in fandom spaces anymore. Shippers swarm them and scare them off simply because fans don't like your ship and refuse to accept it. It's pathetic, really. No one should ever be bullied or harassed just because they don't like something you might. We're all fans of Inuyasha, aren't we? So let's act like it. Yashahime on the other hand, you guys are welcome to that pungent heap of trash. Fans have a right to criticize it too, but if you like it then good for you, so keep on liking it and don't mind us.

I'm almost done, but real quick back to Jaken! Let's not forget about how the official Yashahime website- which came out after my blog, mind you- described Jaken. This translation isn't the best one available but it's the only version a fellow anti friend could track down. They do recall a better one done by a native Japanese speaker who was also an anti, and that member confirmed that Jaken is indeed called Rin's babysitter. So you see, I was right in my interpretation. In the original post I did compare Jaken to a brother, but after talking to others (some comments can be found under said post) I did acknowledge that he's more of a reluctant babysitter who's not related. And if he's not at least a brother to Rin, then he's definitely not her father.

At the end of the day, the creator Rumiko Takahashi has the final word. Which is guess what? Hogosha. 💖 Probably should've just started out with that and saved us all the trouble, huh? Good day/night to you.

Papamaru bids you adieu now. 🤞

[shouldntcryoverit]

Fireworks

Dad!Rex x Jedi!Reader

w/ Padme, Anakin, Ahsoka, Obi wan and the Skywalker twins ;)) they’re all very much alive and happy.

After the war, with no order 66 because I said so. This is my first time ever writing children, a weird milestone i know, but I hope I did okay let me know! I was gonna give the 501st boys a mention or a scene, but it didn’t feel natural and I couldn’t squeeze it in - so if you want them there, they’re there <3

Also I decided on the name Mira as ‘mirjahaal’ translate to ‘peace of mind’ in Mando’a, and I just know that Rex would name his kid after something like that. (also i felt smart with the whole deeper meaner situation)

taglist -> @pinkiemme

———————————————————————

“Da!”

Rex swivelled his head to the table he had been called from. He still reacted to ‘Captain’ as a variation of his name, but for around three years now ‘Da’ had caught his attention far quicker.

“Yeah C’yare?”

Perched on the edge of the table was his four year old daughter, Mira, smiling smugly as she puffed out her chest and straightened her back just how she’d learnt from Cody. She beamed as her father walked over and pressed a small kiss to the top of her head.

In a short check formed out of habit, he recognised her now braided hair, which had been partitioned into two dainty lines down her blonde head. He had gotten better at doing hair for her sake, but not that good; Leia must’ve gotten ahold of her. Whereas Luke was becoming so much like his father, Leia already had the willpower and strength that mimicked her mother, though that was no bad thing.

Her dress, again courtesy of Padmé, was a beautiful blueish pink colour, and it matched in harmony with the rosemary hue of the sky that bled through the wide windows behind them. It was almost night, and somehow there was an undeniable peace in the air. Perhaps it was something about the time of day, or perhaps it was purely because nowadays there were hardly any reasons for it not to be peaceful.

“Tell Unca Ani I’m right!” Mira spoke with surprising indignation for someone so small. That had always made people laugh.

“I’m not wrong!” Anakin proclaimed, appearing to be hurt by the child’s comment, but failing to hide his grin.

He was rested against the kitchen counter, still slumped like he always did. He perked up slightly as the ‘argument’ began again.

Jaida was near enough to have heard most of their conversation from where she sat beside a dozing Ahsoka. She was mostly focused on the datapad in her hands: lists of still uncompensated troopers that still needed to be helped, but she was far more inclined to listen to the sounds behind her. She smiled distantly at how Anakin acted around her daughter. He softened, even as Mira babbled away.

As Rex and Mira sat and stood respectively, Anakin found it almost laughable how much they were alike. She looked so much like her mother, but her blonde hair and honey eyes were the exact copy of his, that was undeniable.

“Unca Ani say that on Flucca plants glow in tha dark!” Rex smiled sweetly at his daughter’s awe “But that’s imbossible!”

“It’s not!”

“Nope!” Mira popped the ‘p’ like Jaida always did. Anakin laughed at that. It was a solid argument.

“Well, then we’ll go to Felucia. You can see it all for yourself.”

It was a promise Rex was happy to make, especially as Mira lit up at his words.

“Gotta be careful though, sometimes they bite!” Jaida teased from behind the sofa back.

As Mira giggled, a knock sounded from the door to the apartment. Ahsoka stirred up in her light sleep, though Jaida hushed her and moved instead. She pushed off the couch beneath her, winking at the grinning toddler before she made it to the door.

As it opened, Padmé and the twins were revealed, both looking perky behind their tired faces. Luke looked half asleep in truth, but Leia was tugging the senator along with a fist she’d latched onto a few fingers. It had been a long day; no words were needed for Jaida to understand that.

“Hey! You all look so tired what happened?” Jaida laughed lightly as she welcomed them into the room.

“Yoda went bonkers.” There was a hint of remorse in Luke’s voice.

The Jedi chuckled, “What’s new?”

Padmé watched with kind eyes as her children weaved off, and laughed as Ahsoka only just managed to reposition her posture before she was attacked by them both. Luke and Leia were only a year and a bit older than Mira, but they matched each other in energy.

It took them no time at all to close the door and cross into the kitchen where Anakin, Rex and Mira were. Mira had resorted to asking about the different planets, to which Anakin found himself wishing to remember the answers. Rex couldn’t help himself from laughing at the exchange.

“Is the Senate in disagreement again?” Jaida asked as she grabbed a mug for Padmé’s tea, and judging by how she rubbed her temples she suspected she was right.

“Not entirely; it’s just this new vote. Some of the Senators are too focused on the expenses of it all, and I can’t blame them. It won’t be cheap, but it needs to be done.”

“This that liberation bill Cody was talking about?” Rex interjected.

“Yes, it should be simple enough. Only they’re just some people who I can’t seem to budge on it.” Padmé sighed, but didn’t hold that annoyance for much longer. “But anyway I didnt come here to discuss even more politics, how long until they start?”

The reason for their gathering. It wasn’t often that coruscant had fireworks, but when they did it was always something spectacular. The cause for this celebration was particularly important; the 5th anniversary of the end of the clone wars. The senate had decided without much debate to introduce the idea of fireworks, Anakin even joked that it was the quickest they’d ever decided something, yet it was still exciting nonetheless.

Ahsoka got up from where she had been talking to Luke and Leia and grabbed a fruit from the bowl. She laughed along with what conversation had been happened, and grinned at each joke and jibe.

“It’s a shame Obi-wan couldn’t make it back in time.” The togruta spoke after his mention.

“It won’t be the last time we have something like this, and plus, I think Mandalore have something planned as well!”

Ahsoka shrugged in agreement at Padmé, taking a bite at the same time.

“Oh, look!” She spoke between mouthfuls. They all followed the line of her outstretched hand, looking towards the window now beginning to light up in disarray.

“It’s starting!” Luke interjected. He pushed through to the front with Leia hot on his tail. And indeed it was, the beginnings of bright crackles started to compete with the stars behind them. The fireworks were just above the senate building, bemusing the gathering with small, golden splashes of light in intricate patterns. It wasn’t loud, the apartment being so far away, but the distant sound of bangs made Mira jump a few times.

Rex comforted her, taking her up in his arms. She relaxed as soon as she knew she was safe with him; he kept her safe. That was the promise he’d make a thousands times over and more if he could. Jaida met his eyes, and hugged his arm with her head rested on his shoulder. Everything was right; real. The war was over and they had won. The fireworks were a beautiful touch, but nothing could displace the satisfaction of watching your own life grow into something you never even imagined it could. Rex had endured enough, and now he could honestly say it was worth it. He kissed Jaida’s forehead as she melted into his side.

The smaller, yellowish bursts began to grow: feeding into the sky as pinks, oranges, blues and greens spiralled off from their sources. Each pop of colour that continued into circles or stars had it’s own mind, yet still unfolded as if it were puppetry. Some shot straight up and exploded after a minute of delightful teasing, and wove between themselves like missiles. They were the ones that made Luke squeal in excitement the most.

Others whirled in spirals, endlessly collecting momentum and continuing in their talented hast; or shattered into millions of personalised sparks you couldn’t choose which one to follow. They tumbled down in rains of coloured stars, settling as if the art they’d shared with an entire silent city was only fiction. Their message was received in awe, and Jaida held a teary gaze even as they faded. Luke and Leia clapped, Mira laughed, but the adults shared pregnant silence, a moment for what they had found for themselves. Children, family, peace. Love.

The war weighed heavily, it always would. But it was over, they had lived, and a new life had begun.

[makeste]

BnHA Chapter 289: Looks Like the Gang’s All Here

Previously on BnHA: Horikoshi was all “you guys don’t really need to know what’s gonna happen to Deku and Shouto right now” and cut away to Toga and Ochako before anyone could get a word in. Skeptic utilized the power of Freak Shounen Coincidence to magically zero in on Ochako and Tsuyu amongst the fleeing crowd. Toga was all “IS THAT OCHAKO” and immediately leaped down to fight them, ignoring Spinner’s heartfelt speeches about Villain Found Family because fight now, hug later!! Down in the streets of some unidentified crumbling city, Ochako was approached by a sweet old lady and was all “I better help this sweet old lady who is definitely not leading me into a trap”, which unfortunately turned out to be poor decision-making on her part. Anyway so now she and Toga are going to throw down. AND ALSO, P.S., BEST JEANIST IS STILL ALIVE, and that doesn’t really have anything to do with anything right now, but BY GOLLY I JUST HAD TO SHOUT IT FROM THE ROOFTOPS.

Today on BnHA: Iida and Hadou are all “is it our turn yet”, and Horikoshi is all “yes”, and so the two of them finally burst onto the scene and are all “hello Shouto, Gigantomachia is on his way, btw do you need help” and so they all get ready to fight Tomura together. Meanwhile in Unnamed Ochako And Toga Fight Town, Toga is all “what’s up Ochako, oh is this the All Might doll Deku gave you, I guess you must like Deku as well, just like me, we truly are the same, btw I can use other people’s quirks now” before she vanishes in a flurry of knives and ambiguity, as mysteriously as she came. So that’s a thing that happened. The chapter ends with Gigantomachia and the League STOMPIN’ ONTO THE SCENE, JUST IN TIME FOR ENDEAVOR TO WAKE UP AND BE ALL “OHHHHH SHIT.” YOU’RE DAMN RIGHT, “OH SHIT.” Finally the pieces are in place for Dabi to reveal his true identity to Hadou and Iida, JUST LIKE WE ALL EXPECTED.

before I start, thank you so much to everyone who sent birthday messages on Wednesday!! I had a good day; my quarantine impulse purchase guitar that I ordered months ago but had been backordered finally arrived, and so now I can do something productive with my time as I continue to while away these months in isolation! not to say that capslocking over fictional characters and their shounen escapades doesn’t also count as being productive lmao. anyways, my fingers hurt so typing is kind of a bitch right now, but I’m having fun still. IF KAMINARI CAN DO IT THEN SO CAN I

anyway so let’s see what mishaps my various catastrophe-prone children are getting up to this week

okay there are several things happening in this panel which I want to comment on

IIDA!!!

HADOU!!!

“some time after” jesus fucking christ though, how long have Deku and the rest actually been fighting?? like it’s absolutely absurd to imagine that they’ve been managing to hold off Tomura for more than a few minutes, and yet everything we’ve seen these last couple of chapters suggests that this is indeed the case. which is just pure insanity tbh. excuse me sir, but I have an emotionally maturing son, a homewrecking grandpa, and a sleep-deprived one-legged platonic husband who are all in DIRE NEED of medical attention just FYI

lastly, I direct your attention to these two cool cats in the background who are both riding on hover surfboards. living it up like it’s Back to the Future. why are there two of them. do they both just happen to have the exact same quirk. what are the odds. ARE THEY TWINS. I want to know everything about them dammit

anyway so Hadou is asking Iida why he’s tagging along, because unlike the others, he can’t fly and is thus vulnerable to Tomura’s attacks and such

well Hadou I’ll have you know that it his DUTY AS THE CLASS PRESIDENT to tag along and THAT’S WHY

oh shit you guys IIDA SAID “FUCK THE LAW”

“plus Bakugou-kun, whom I am not particularly close to, but nonetheless hold nothing personal against!” well uh, kind of a weird distinction to make there bro, but okay. listen everyone, it’s a tense situation; if Iida feels the need to clarify the ins and outs of his interpersonal relationships with each of the people he’s rescuing then please just respect that okay

anyways though have I mentioned how much I fucking love Iida Tenya though you guys. feels like I haven’t mentioned that enough. I LOVE HIM. there

FINALLY

AFTER THREE WHOLE WEEKS WE FINALLY CUT BACK. OH MY GOD. DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW LONG OF A TIME THAT IS TO BE HOLDING YOUR BREATH. [EXHALES]

is it bad that my immediate reaction to this page was A LOT OF LAUGHING, though. fkldlksh this entire situation is SO ABJECTLY TERRIBLE that if I were Shouto I would almost be fighting the urge to look around for a hidden camera at this point. ASHTON KUTCHER WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU DOING HERE. OH THANK GOD, IT WAS ALL JUST A PRANK

anyway so uh. heh. how screwed are we at this point, exactly. oh and also, whose speech bubbles are these. who the fuck would look at this situation and these bleeding children and say “HA!” what kind of monster. just ignore that paragraph right before this one please

OH SHIT, OH SHIT, OH SHIT

TOMURA I CANNOT BELIEVE I’M SAYING THIS, BUT PLEASE LISTEN TO AFO FOR ONCE AND JUST LEAVE

pretty please. we kind of have a situation here. not that I wouldn’t love to see what this icy flamey boi could do if push came to shove, but I also have had just about enough of watching children get maimed for today though

OH SHIT

THE TIMING OF THIS MAKES ABSOLUTELY NO SENSE AT ALL BUT I DO NOT CARE!! THE CAVALRY HAS ARRIVED THANK GOD

“WHAT UP GUYS, WE BROUGHT YOU SOME TERRIBLE NEWS” FKLSHLKHLK

WELL GEE IIDA THANKS SO FUCKING MUCH!!

lmaoooo a wild Lida has been spotted what the fuck is this translation though

I don’t know which is better, the “Lida” (DO YOU EVEN READ THE SERIES BRO), or the “CHRIST” gkfhkg. CLASSIC LIDA

OH SNAP HADOU

sobbing at Manual cradling the still-warm corpse of Gran Torino like a tiny baby khlk;h. BUT ANYWAYS HADOU SAW HER TEACHER ALL BLOODIED UP AND IS READY TO THROW DOWN, YESSSSS, THE MY LADIES ACADEMIA ARC CONTINUES

(ETA: listen you guys, there were many things at the end of this chapter that brought me joy, but perhaps none more than the inclusion of Hadou in the final two page spread looking all serious alongside the Todorokis, as if she has any fucking clue at all wtf is going on slfkhlkhgghsl. what I wouldn’t give to see her and Deku and Iida all making frantic bewildered eye contact at each other throughout the next chapter lmao.)

GOD FUCKING DAMMIT DEKU

ARE YOU PROPPING YOURSELF UP WITH YOUR ARM THAT’S IN SPLINTERS, I CAN’T EVEN BELIEVE YOU RIGHT NOW. SOMEONE PLEASE SLAP SOME SENSE INTO THIS CHILD. SIT YOUR ASS DOWN

LMAO TODO’S READY TO TAKE AFOMURA ON. THE SHARED HERO BRAINCELL HAS ALREADY EXPIRED. FUCK IT LET’S DO THIS

“true, I already watched him murder my dad, my boyfriend, my other boyfriend, my teacher, and dozens of other people, but gosh darn it, I just feel like the fifteenth time’s the charm you guys.” shit, I ain’t even mad. who’s up for yet another episode of Todoroki Shouto Attempts to Murder a Bitch

-- “TIME TO CUT AWAY!!” laughs Horikoshi as he gleefully dodges out of reach before I can punch him, that SON OF A --

goddammit. you’re just lucky that I’m invested in the girl power fight too

YESSSSS OCHAKO

DON’T BE SORRY FOR KICKING ASS! NEVER BE SORRY FOR KICKING ASS

damn, looks like she managed to touch Toga’s shirt but not Toga herself. both of them are so fast

now Toga is monologuing from the shadows

we’ve all been there, Toga. sometimes you see someone you really like and it’s just like, ahhhhhh gotta kill them am I right

lol I love Toga so much you guys, but I’m also kind of wincing in anticipation of whatever essays are gonna materialize out of the fandom this week explaining how hero society has failed her utterly and she is just a victim here. CAN YOU NOT SEE HOW SHE JUST WANTED FREEDOM TO BE HERSELF AND MURDER A BUNCH OF PEOPLE flhkklhl

OH SNAP SHE WENT AND TOLD HER THE THING!!

and it was fucking awesome and scary as shit, Ochako. like damn, still sends a chill up my spine just thinking about it

anyway so now Toga is continuing to explain that she can use the quirks of whoever she transforms into

and Ochako is kind of freaking out, which I don’t blame her for, since it’s probably really upsetting to hear that your stolen blood and quirk were used to murder a bunch of people. shit

so now she’s all “WTF WHY WOULD YOU EVEN TELL ME THAT”

??? was this somehow the wrong answer?

for fuck’s sake. Toga you literally came down here to ask her if she would be willing to kill you, and here she is telling you “I would never be happy about killing someone, that’s fucked up”, and you’re all “......”

like come on though, what else do you want her to say?? and why does Ochako look so shocked now

OOP

LMAO

THEIR FACES DKSLHFKG. TOGA NO THAT IS MEAN. and jesus christ Ochako it’s just a toy. I know it has Sentimental Value and shit but is this really the thing to be getting distracted about right now

FOR FUCK’S SAKE

JIN-KUN WHOM OCHAKO HAS NEVER FUCKING MET?? THAT JIN-KUN??!

OM NOM NOM

this entire confrontation makes absolutely zero sense to me you guys. just. Horikoshi was all, “this is the kind of stuff girls talk about when they’re battling to the death, right?” just, are you okay my dude

anyway so Toga has somehow deduced that Ochako got the doll from Deku, which means that she and Ochako are exactly alike in every way, and this is somehow an important plot point, and now they’re finally getting back to the fight lulz

OH SHIT

OCHAKO BOUT TO SLAP THE SHIT OUT TOGA WITH THIS BOOKCASE ON A STRING AND THIS LOUIS BAG OH FUCK

so now Toga’s all excited and she’s all “THERE’S SOMETHING I OUGHT TO TELL YOU, I’M NOT LEFT HANDED EITHER” oh snap

fuck, it almost feels like she’s trying to warn her. Ochako idk maybe you should run shit I do not like this ( ﾟдﾟ)

but of course she is not running, and she’s all “I’ll have you take responsibility for your actions”

HEY NOW

WHAT IS FUCKING HAPPENING, DID TOGA JUST FUCKING MURDER TSUYU, WHAT THE FUCK. I AM TERRIFIED, I DON’T WANT TO SCROLL DOWN, SHE THREW LIKE FOURTEEN KNIVES INTO THE DARKNESS, WHAT THE FUCK

OH

IT’S POSSIBLE THAT I MAY HAVE OVERREACTED

so did Toga just Swip a bunch of knives for no reason and then abscond, lol what. CAN ANYBODY PLEASE EXPLAIN TO ME WHAT THE PURPOSE OF THAT ENTIRE SCENE WAS. ASIDE FROM GETTING TO SEE OCHAKO TRY AND YEET A BOOKCASE AT SOMEONE

fuck, she was crying??

DID MY GIRL TOGA JUST KILL AN OLD WOMAN, NAKEDLY LURE OCHAKO INTO A BUILDING, ANTAGONIZE HER INTO SAYING “I’LL MAKE YOU TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR KILLING A BUNCH OF PEOPLE JUST BECAUSE YOU FELT LIKE IT”, STEAL HER DOLL, GIVE HER DOLL BACK, TELL HER “OH SO YOU LIKE DEKU TOO HUH? BTW I CAN USE OTHER PEOPLE’S QUIRKS”, AND THEN RUN AWAY CRYING??? BRUH

-- OH SHIT, OH FUCK

[SIRENS BLARING WILDLY] [AUDIENCE LEAPING OUT OF THEIR SEATS] [T-SHIRT CANNONS BOOMING IN THE AIR] [VIKING WAR HORN SOUNDS IN THE DISTANCE] FUUUUUUUUUCK

well never the fuck mind about Ochako and Toga and WHATEVER THE FUCK THAT ALL WAS SUPPOSED TO BE, I guess, BECAUSE!! MACHIA MADNESS HAS ARRIVED. SPEARS SHALL BE SHAKEN!!! SHIELDS SHALL BE SPLINTERED!!

AND LOOK WHO WOKE UP FROM HIS NUMBER ONE HERO BEAUTY NAP RIGHT ON CUE, TOO!!! ATTENTION ALL PASSENGERS... IIIIIIIIIIT’S TOUYA TIMEEEEEEEE

[the-river-person]

The Alleyway

When Frisk found the alleyway for the first time, it was an accident. The thunder of the falls was deafening out here on the edge of the city. If you were to climb out on the ledge and look down you would see the waterfalls plunging from the city’s canals and down into the dark depths below. Of course, you couldn’t see what lay at the bottom of the colossal towers, nor much further than the cliffs in the distance. What little you could see were rows of blackened dead trees and plants. The corruption. Leaving the city wasn’t an option. It just wasn’t safe. The City’s Ministers and officials did their best to keep the stuff at bay, to keep everyone in the towering cities safe. But if you left, you wouldn’t be allowed to come back even if you survived. Everyone’s safety was at stake, after all. But, as they found, if you sidled out along the narrow edge, away from the last official street on the map, you might find yourself along another opening, a dark street that seemed to be totally blocked off from the main roads. Dark doorways promised sinister watchers from the shadows, and even one or two small shops that looked like they’d never even heard of the guilds had their wares spread out on cloths or in windows.

Frisk, wearing a jacket to keep off the constant dampness of the falls and the chill air, looked around before turning to go back the way they’d come. Madame Toriel was waiting for them and there wasn’t time to explore. Yet there was someone there. Frisk jumped back, alarmed, but the figure didn’t seem to be moving in a threatening way, they were just standing there, looking just as surprised to see Frisk as Frisk was to see them. It was a little difficult to tell what the person looked like, as they had a long brown overcoat on and a hood that hid nearly their entire face in shadow. Only the eyes stood out, peering at them from beneath the hood. Terrible, grey, blank eyes that seemed to want to pull them inward. But when the figure spoke, it was in a quiet voice, one that was… relaxing and smooth, even friendly. “Heya, didn’t mean to frighten you or anything. I was just wondering what you were doing back here, the Warrens aren’t the safest place to go exploring. Don’t want you getting hurt or lost. What’s your name?” “Frisk,” they said, their expression turning ever so slightly towards a frown. What was “The Warrens”? What did he mean not the safest place? The City of Vandfald and its three sister cities of the Claustra Alliance were among the last safe places left in the world! Surely someone would have noticed if there was any real danger. Quiet laughter escaped the figure. “Ah. Frisk. What a cool name. Heh. Alright, I figure you’re not the type to be put off by warnings. Tell you what, I’m staying around here for a little while. If you need my help, look for me here.” And he handed them a small card with an address printed on it. “I might not be able to solve your problems, but I might be able to give you advice, or at least lend an ear.” With that, the figure turned to walk away down the alley street. “Wait!” called Frisk. The figure paused, listening. “You didn’t tell me your name!” There was a little pause. For one moment, Frisk wondered if the person would refuse to tell them. But those brief fears dissipated when the figure spoke again. “Mistral. My name is Mistral. See you round, Frisk.” And as he walked away, it occurred to Frisk that though Mistral was taller than them, he was still quite short. * * *

The next time they came to the alley, they were dragging Azriel with them.

“How did you even know this was here? Frisk? Frisk. This place could be dangerous. Are you listening to me?”

Frisk waved him into silence, “Shush, Azzy. This isn’t the time to chicken out.” “I’m not chickening out,” muttered the goat-monster. But he followed them into the alley nonetheless.

They crossed paths with a few people, but most simply hurried onward,not quite meeting their eyes. One of the shady vendors beckoned them to his little display with a friendly smile and a wink. He appeared to be selling a variety of items that had clearly been repaired. Frisk picked one of the objects up to get a closer look at it. It had some kind of flat glass on the front, like a window, and a strange knob or two on either side of the little window that might have been buttons. Frisk pressed a button, but nothing happened. They looked at Azzy, who shrugged, looking just as confused. The shopkeeper’s wife, who was watching from the doorway, removed her sandal and gave her husband a thwop on the head with it. Her heavily accented voice was quite loud as she continued to thump him with the sandal.

“Children, Aaron! They are little children! You cannot sell scavenged junk to children! What would they do with it? How would they even know what it is? You are stupid! Stupid!”

“Ouch! Ow! Wait!” yelped the shopkeeper as he pleaded with his wife, holding his  muscled arms over his head to protect it from her onslaught. “Please! Catty, my love!”

This did not save him from the shoe. “Don’t you ‘My Love' me! You could have been a Rail Cleaner like my cousin! We could be living a decent life on Villias Tower!. But no! You wanted to  get a license from the Guilds to sell your trash, as if anyone wants this junk! Now we’re stuck here in the Warrens because you won’t listen to me!”

Other faces had started to poke from doors and windows, monsters and humans watching the scene with amusement. Frisk and Azzy quietly slipped away, not really wanting to be caught up in all the attention. Without realizing it, Frisk had held onto the device they’d picked up from among Aaron’s wares, and had stuck it in their pocket without thinking. It took them a while to find their destination.The streets were winding and branched off or connected all over the place, like a series of cracks spreading out. All of it seemed to somehow be inside the city, but how and where was a mystery, since neither Frisk nor Azzy had ever seen any glimpse of the place in all their time living here. Asking directions was difficult because most people would simply brush past them, refusing to answer, or look around warily before telling them to go home. Finally they managed to get a grudging response from the eighth person they asked, a canine monster who was smoking a dog biscuit and wearing an old, rumpled, tweed suit. He squinted at them, as if trying to see them better, and Frisk wondered if he was partially blind. But he pointed them down the right way before walking off, muttering about children being where they shouldn’t be the entire time. Surprisingly they had actually been quite near the address they’d been searching for, the one on the card Mistral had given Frisk the first time they’d met him. It was a townhouse, squashed between a number of others that were all fairly similar despite different coloring and decor styles, and when they knocked on the door it sprang open right away. There was nobody there who could have opened it, but a voice from somewhere inside greeted them. “Come in! I’m just in the kitchen. First door on the right.” Following the voice they stepped into the kitchen, where a familiar short figure was bending over a pot on the coal burning stove. When he turned to greet them, both Azzy and Frisk gasped.” He was a skeleton, but that wasn’t what was unusual about him, what shocked them was that he could have been an almost exact copy of Minister Sans. Seeing their expressions, Mistral laughed. “No, no.” he said with his hands in a placating gesture. “I’m not the Minister. Don’t worry. I just happen to look a lot like him, lots of us skeletons look alike you know.” Frisk felt doubtful of this as their eyes took in the finer details of the skeleton’s appearance. All across his bones were crystals. Not fine jewels on broaches, rings, and necklaces… but raw crystal actually growing on, or maybe from the bones themselves. Mostly they were small, merely encrusting his arms and neck with tiny beds of silvery-white crystal. But here and there a larger shard grew, jutting out and impossibly sharp. Since he’d removed the long overcoat he’d been wearing, they could see the stuff growing up around his neck and all along his arms. A few crystals were even growing around his face and upper skull. Frisk and Azzy turned to share a look, was this the corruption at work? Or something else? Mistral gave the pair an amused glance, noting their wide-eyed expressions. “I suppose it’s not everyday you meet someone as handsome as me. But didn’t you two come here for a reason?” Frisk shook their head to clear it. Yes, it was true the skeleton did appear similar to the city’s less than approachable Minister of Commerce who oversaw the guilds. But the differences were more than enough to prove his claim that he was not the same person. Besides, they’d come to ask for help. “People have been disappearing. All over the city. Monsters and humans alike, but always someone nobody would notice. Or pay much attention to. We’ve tried to report it to the guards, but they don’t care. And mothe-” They stopped mid word, looking uncomfortable for a moment before correcting themself. “Madame Toriel won’t listen to us.” As Frisk had been talking, Azzy had been rocking back and forth, looking nervous and distressed. Finally he spoke up. “They took Chilldrake! And Suzy! And even that mouse whose dad worked for the Drake family and he came to play with Chilldrake sometimes, what was his name? He had a huge scarf.” When Frisk only shrugged, Azzy continued on anyway. “We don’t know why people are going, but nobody listens to us, or cares. Frisk said they might know someone who could help, or tell us what to do.” Still stirring the bubbling pot on the stove, Mistral had listened calmly and attentively to everything they’d said. Now he moved the pot to a different burner and retrieved three bowls from a cupboard and filled them with stew from his pot. It smelled delicious; like onions, beef, and cooked carrots. Various spices like cumin and rosemary tickled their noses in a tantalizing way that caused their mouths to water. There was also, very faint beneath all the other smells, the scent of something else… something like lightning and rain… like ozone. “Now,” said the skeleton. “From what I’ve learned, the best thing to do in a situation where you’re not sure what to do, is to learn about your surroundings. You live in the city, sure. But how much do you really know about it? And the Warrens? Know anything about them?” Frisk frowned. “I know the City is one of the four great cities of the Claustra Alliance, and that there are bridges and rails that keep us connected with them. The cities protect us from the outside, where it's not safe to live because of the corruption.” Everyone knew about the corruption. Said to have been released from containment centuries ago it had overtaken much of the world. Humans and Monsters had banded together in order to build the cities and protect as many people as they could. “Are you sure?” They stared at him, Azzy’s face scrunched up in bewilderment, and Frisk feeling slightly angry as they asked, “What do you mean?” Mistral grinned. “Are you sure it's not safe to live outside the cities?” “Of course we’re sure!” said Azzy. “Everyone knows that!” The skeleton, looking like he was on the verge of laughing, nodded. “Alright. So how do you explain how I'm living in relative safety here in the Warrens?” They gaped at him. “But,” started Frisk. “I thought…” Mistral actually did laugh now. “You thought they were part of the city. Parts of them are. Back entrances, certain doors, side alleys. There are a ton of ways back and forth. Sort of like… gates that take you to far away places with a single step. So think on this. If it’s safe enough to live in the Warrens without worrying about the corruption, what other things do you think you were lied to about?”

Neither could answer, and Mistral took that as a sign the conversation was over. He urged them to eat their stew, which they did, and then he herded them from the house, saying that he had appointments to keep.

His final words, before he shut the door, were a strange warning. “Don’t mention me to anyone. As far as this and every other one of your great cities is concerned, I don’t exist, and I’d like to keep it that way. If you need my advice again, slip a letter under the door here and I’ll get back to you within a day or two if I can.”

Then he’d closed the door and there was a final click, like a lock being turned. Azzy turned to look at Frisk.

“You have weird friends.”

[avehi-the-adamant]

Are We Dead Yet? Pt. I - Piercing the Veil

[[ Co-written with @sylaess​ & @kidcatgemini​ ]]

~*~

The summons came for all of them. 

Every single Knight of Acherus could hear that call, knew that call. It wasn’t one you fucked around with. 

They stood in ranks, watching the portal open. Waiting. Somehow, they were going to help. The icy winds atop Icecrown snatched at cloaks and fur-trimmed armor alike. Stole the wispy breath of the living and tossed it to the glacier beyond. A very solemn time.

A very anxious time.

They filed through. Rank by rank.

It took forever, in Sylaess’s humble opinion. All for a bloody portal. To the deadlands. Shadowlands. Syl hated portals. They always fucked her up. She cut a glance to see if she could spot Avehi one more time. Had tried to get into formation with her, but who knew if they were still near each other? There had been so much shuffling about. 

The rank before her moved up. Started popping through, one by one. So the rumors were true, then. Bolvar had had his ass handed to him by Sylvannas. And then she messed everything up. Again. Sylaess was careful to keep herself still, steady, and cool. At least outwardly. It was tiresome. But she did an excellent job of that mask.

Sigh.

Syl stepped forward unthinkingly. Just muscle memory in the line, headed into the portal. The less she thought of the insanity she was about to partake in, the easier it got.

That was a bold-faced lie, but she was grasping every thin thread to keep herself from launching off the side of Icecrown instead of into the afterlife. Both options sucked, to be fair. 

Took a breath, hands on her swords hilts like they were a lifeline. Stepped through the blue-black mass of magic that would lead her to the exact place she’d been avoiding all these damned years. Literally. 

Tried not to scream.

The Maw was unchanged from when Avehi was here last-- but it was still an entirely new experience. Before, merely a fragment of her consciousness could wander freely through the desolate wastes beyond the veil. Now, she was here wholly, fully… with no guarantee of any way out again. Her body never felt more cumbersome, reminiscent of when she was first risen. That bitter, ashen taste. The way the air felt so thin and yet stifling at the same time. The amber skyline was piercing, a burning contrast to the somber grey dust beneath her hooves. Immediately, the wailings of the damned assaulted her ears, in a symphony of suffering. This was no place for a mortal. 

Thankfully, she wasn’t one.

Foolishly, however, she’d brought two along with her. She looked back to her companions; imposters, both adorned in Ebon Blade recruit armor. Argonas’ barely fit over his muscular physique. An oversight on her part-- she should’ve procured a Tauren-sized set for him, just in case. Raetos’, however, fit just fine. Though his brighter skin tone betrayed his Light-suffused body beneath the dark Ebon plating. Both of them would’ve been easy enough to pick out… if anyone were looking hard enough. Too focused on Bolvar, Avehi presumed. She wasn’t sure about the Highlord. Helm or no helm, it was hard for her to reconcile how she felt about the presence that had set up shop in the back of her mind since the fall of Arthas Menethil. Familiarity, yes. But overwhelming distrust trumped it. Like an estranged brother.

She put it from her mind, for now, attention back on Argonas and Raetos. 

“Muster your senses.” she instructed. “We must move-- quickly!”

Argonas did just that; he was much more prepared for the terror this place instilled in the depths of the soul than Raetos was. Having died somewhat recently, he was already accustomed to this place, and the heavy draw that permeated the air. He expected it. Prepared for it. Shrugged it off, and moved to follow Avehi into the wastes. Somewhere here, they’d find Sinafay. And he’d make good on his promise to free her from this terrible place! That alone was all the drive he needed to suffer through.

Raetos wasn’t as fortunate. Despite all the time he’d spent on the Fel-suffused planet of Argus, it did nothing to protect him from the wave of absolute dread and hopelessness that permeated his senses.

“--Light,” he muttered under his breath, kneeling down and throwing his helmet off to bring his hands to his head. 

Thankfully, his Lightforged body offered him some protection. He couldn’t imagine how much more horrible this place would be without it’s soothing properties. It took him a moment, as he waited for his senses to acclimate. When he looked up, Avehi and the others were already far ahead. He removed some of the extra pieces of plate armor Avehi had told him to wear. The atmosphere was already too heavy, and the weight of the gear was unbearable. At this point, it didn’t matter if the Ebon Blade realized they’d brought a mortal through. 

Not like they could force him to go back...

Gritting his teeth, he got back on his hooves and followed after his companions. He was one step closer to finding Fable.

Sylaess’ skin felt prickly. Like someone had chopped the sides of her neck with the blade of their hand and jolted all her nerves at once. A cold sweat made her armor lining cling uncomfortably.

She wanted to vomit.

Two steps onto the other side, and she held it all back. Held her breath, too. Did a half-turn to check for an ambush and--

Came loose from herself. Drifted away from her own body. 

Ah, shit. The thought was haphazard at best. A remote acceptance. The world went away.

Sylaess stiffened up like she’d been struck on the head and went over like an ominous pillar of saronite. No hand came out to break that fall. Crashed to the ground unceremoniously with a dull thud. Absolutely unresponsive for a solid moment, other than a faint tremor in her hands. Unnatural.

“I waited, nonetheless.”

He took another bite, and  chewed that one too for a while. Thoughtfully. The only times Argonas was really so quiet was when he was eating or sleeping. His mouth stopped running long enough for his thoughts to get a turn. Most of his thoughts were on Sylaess, and his gaze followed them. He swallowed.

“Was it worth it?” he asked, motioning roughly over his own face where Sylaess’ exacerbated scarring was. “It looks as if you took a few hits. Did you learn anything of the truths you are seeking?”

She blinked at her hands, considering the question for a hanging moment. “...I don’t know if I feel qualified to name worth about this, but I learned enough that I...” Want to take a scalding damn bath, my friend, badly. “...want to leave. I have enough control, I feel.” No, you don’t.--

The taste of rust and dirt in her mouth. Black, watery rushing in her ears. A flicker of lights. Pushed away from the fragmented memory. Didn’t recognize much of it, anyway. Didn’t make too much sense.

And awake again. 

She gave a hell of a start. Limbs felt loose, uncoordinated. Standing up felt a little clumsy. Shit, how many times was that? Sylaess tensed, willing herself to look like iron again. Hoped beyond whatever frail hope she had that most of her companions looked past that little... episode. Destarion had made sound mention of her new ailment. She had an idea of what happened, but never a full understanding. Her skull felt like it throbbed, and yet was airy all at once. It was incredibly hard to refocus.

The fragment of memory, or fictitious image was fleeing her mind already. Little snippets. Some were true, but she couldn’t tell what was real. It was harrowing to try and winnow it all out.

Truthfully, she felt like her bones were made of windchimes. Hollow.

Avehi eyed the elf, a mixture of worry and annoyance upon her countenance. The poor thing shook and wobbled like a newborn talbuk finding its legs in this treacherous place. The Draenei couldn’t fault her too terribly for it, though-- everything about this place was an affront to the senses. She was, in truth, surprised Argonas seemed to take it in such stride. But then… he’d been here before, rather recently. She examined the trio, and grunted. This was it. This was the team. With no plan to get back out, and no telling what to expect inside… they proceeded.

“Stay close.” came her only instruction; her only warning.

The Vindicators trudged forward, driven by their respective purposes. Avehi had finally made it to the other side, and took strides now in correcting this problem that had haunted her for so long. Argonas’ purpose was far more specific. Yet both moved, in a show of their shared training, keeping a close-yet-loose and wary formation. Hammers drawn and ready for the horrors the Maw would surely throw their way.

Raetos stayed further behind, both to watch their backs, and also to keep an eye on Sylaess. She was the only one in the group he didn’t know at all. She was such a tall and skinny thing, so lanky and sickly looking. And from the looks of it, she’d taken the entrance into the Maw harder than he had. He wondered how long she'd been dead, but then Avehi had made it clear that it wasn’t a question to ask a Death Knight. A sensitive subject. 

Now wasn’t the time to make friends and start conversations anyway. Quite the departure from his regular self. Instead, his golden gaze scanned the rocky cliffs. Oddly enough, it wasn’t too far off from the rocky and desolate landscape that Argus had been… except Fel was replaced by… well… death and mist of some kind. So he had no issues blending and moving quietly about the area. Thankfully so, because the mist made it hard to see at a distance, and there were constant eerie screams in the background that made things difficult for his ears to pick up other sounds --not to mention the sounds of battle! It would make hunting the enemy harder for him. 

He wondered if Avehi knew where she was going. She seemed to anyway… So he followed. For now.

The worst of it faded slowly. Not that the ominous air of the Maw itself was helpful in any sort of recovery. 

To be fair, she’d been here before. A few times. They had to find Sinafay as fast as they could. Every second in this place was a threat to the very fabric of a soul. 

She should not be here. So many should not be here. That would have to be solved later. It was a much grander scale issue.

Sylaess shook her head slightly, chasing off the thoughts before they took hold. Glanced over the rest of the party and resolved to ignore her indiscretion. Such as it would be. A brief flicker of concern for Argonas, but she let it slide. Had to. No room for that here. She wasn’t particularly concerned with Raetos, disguise or no. 

There was a feeling that the Jailer would be able to sense them regardless of any shade or misdirection and that bothered her. Bothered her a lot. She slid a hand into her cloak, a hidden pouch there. Reassurance. The tiny vials were wrapped securely in cloth and leather layers, protecting them from a lot of damage. They seemed intact. “Avehi, do we have a specific direction, or should we try to command a soul to give us an idea?”

Her voice was quiet and gravelly, but clear enough. Such an odd thing to hear out of her own face. She sighed softly through her nose. At least she’d spent the last few weeks with the ritualists in Acherus, learning what she could of the other side of being a death knight. Less battle, more magic fuckery.

"Once we have our bearings, that's a good idea." Avehi replied without breaking stride. "Let's get up this ridge, and see what we can see."

"--Command a soul?" Argonas repeated, clearly uncomfortable with the notion. "Have they not suffered enough without such compulsions?"

"Probably. You can ask your wife the specifics after we compel a wayward soul to lead us to her." came Avehi's curt response.

It silenced Argonas well enough.

“Geez… I mean, it doesn't hurt to ask nicely at first,” Raetos couldn’t help but throw his opinion in, “If they’re being a pain in the ass, then by all means, but Argo’s right. No need to hassle an already suffering spirit if it’s not putting up a fight.”

He held his rifle ready, keeping his senses sharp despite his mouth working. 

“Like… from the looks of things, there are some obviously bad things picking on helpless looking spirits,” he mentioned, taking a peek over the ledge where he spotted the commotion, “We intervene, the nice spirit tells us what they know out of gratitude, and then we can compel the baddies for extra information. Win win. Oooh! Leave that hound-thinger down there alive, though. I want that.”

“Was it worth it?”

The memory echo gave her half a pause, but it slid away like oil on water. She sighed softly, the tightness in her jaw not settling.

Maybe it was the half-echoed whispers from the souls damned to this place. She could hear them. Assumed Avehi could, too. “More than half of these souls are ... remnants. Shattered pieces. The Maw is where they are sent to be slowly obliterated. Now that all souls are sent here, it's ... the worst fate you could wish on anyone. No hope for rebirth here, just swift annihilation if you’re lucky.”  Sylaess said. Gave pause, side-eyeing Raetos. “They’re constructs, but ones that feast on souls. Fine sport, I’m sure.” She had meant to be calming, reassuring even. But her words raked like gravel, gashing out the hideous truth of this place. The end was colored by sarcasm. No mercies indeed. There was regret, but she couldn’t pluck the words from the air. Nor did she feel she could’ve found better to say. The elf tugged her cloak over her shoulder, black hollow eyes scanning the area in a slow sweep. Old habits were never far. At least, she assumed it was a habit.

She eyed the hound. Then it came together. “But we could harness it to travel faster. At least, one of us.”

This place was grating on Avehi’s nerves. The sounds most of all. Words no mortal could hear, but registered as whispers to the Death Knights, one foot in and one foot out of their graves. Half-truths and intrusive thoughts given soundless voices, all speaking directly to her mind.

“You belong here, too.”

“None escape…”

“The Jailer sees all!”

It was distracting. Overwhelming. And Argonas’ and Raetos’ sanctimonious protesting only irked her further.

“Feel free to see how far asking nicely gets you.” Avehi chuffed, growing in irritation. “But if you want your respective loved ones saved from this infamously-inescapable place? Cast aside your Light-bleached sensibilities and be prepared to do whatever it takes. Let the undead handle the undead, if you can’t stomach it.”

The ridge crest overlooked everything… and nothing. There wasn’t much to see of this desolation. A ‘river’ of aetherial miasma cut through the land some distance ahead. And following it to their left revealed ramparts of some manner of fortification. Beyond that, ever-looming in the sky, was an infinitely tall tower. Unsettlingly menacing, it dominated the skyline, casting its shadow over the already dismal landscape. 

“--There.” Argonas spoke up, motioning to the fortifications. “I… I saw Sinafay near there, when I died. I remember the wall.”

“You’re certain?” Avehi asked, turning to him.

He nodded once, eyes affixed to the distant keep. It was recent enough, still fresh in his mind. Avehi grunted, but nodded in response.

“Then we make our way there. Any soul we manage to find on the way, we question.”

She waved her hand dismissively at the construct and his ‘dog’ down below.

“Leave those sentries be, if we can. The creature will serve us no purpose, anyway.” she directed. “Splitting up here is the worst thing we could possibly do.”

And yet, that was exactly what Raetos decided to do. As the others turned away and continued their journey, the Lightforged kept his eye on the hound and its rider. He always worked better alone anyway. And it would be easier to sneak around without the heavy plate wearers. Brows knit into a frown as he looked over to his friends once more, only to see them already a good distance away; pushed forward by Argonas recognizing a rock formation. 

Fable wouldn’t be with Sinafay. It was a gut feeling the Draenei had. Their times of death had happened so far apart and differently. The chances of finding them together in this hell hole was slim to none. His three companions obviously cared more about finding Argonas’ mate than his. Avehi had promised to bring Raetos into the Maw. That done, it was time for him to walk his own path. His partner needed him, and he wasn’t going to waste any time following the wrong trail.

Silently, he stepped away from the group and hid into the cliff. And just like that, he was gone, silently moving down the cliff to stalk the hound and rider, hunting rifle in hand.

“Perdition...” It was more of a mumble to herself, thinking over the location. She frowned, watching Raetos go--but who was she to stop him? If you want to disappear into hell, literally, by yourself, then that’s on you. She honestly wished him well. 

The wash of voices became loud in her ears for a moment. She grit her teeth.

“If we’re headed that way, we should get going. “ A pause, and she stared at Avehi. Tried to gauge how much she knew of this place, gave up. “He’s watching.” Softly. “There’s not much I can do about it.” Stepped up to be vaguely beside the other Knight a moment. “The best thing is that he’s busy with the sudden swarm of Acherians. He can’t focus.”

The Draenei’s tail flickered in irritation, as Sylaess put so well into words what she was feeling. The master of this domain exuded a too-familiar omniscience in this place. The power behind the Helm of Dominion worn by the Lich King could be felt here. Its origins, perhaps? It felt far too similar to be coincidence. 

“There’s nothing any of us can do about it.” she affirmed, bluntly. “May his focus be elsewhere as we get done what we’re here to do. Everyone stay cl--”

She narrowed her eyes in search; the brightest of their group was nowhere to be found! For his otherwise inept and naive countenance, Raetos was particularly adept at forging his own path and vanishing when he felt it was time. His impatience and disobedience would be his doom here, Avehi thought, as she shook her head.

“We need an escape. A rally point. Somewhere to fall back to and regroup as necessary.” she grunted, eyes flickering to Sylaess. “Can you secure one? Argonas and I will go ahead into the keep, and see if we can’t find Sinafay.”

Sylaess nodded. “I’ll hold to one spot as well as I can, but I feel I might need to move. May this be a quick endeavor.” 

(( Mentions: @avehi-the-adamant / @argonas / @raetos / @sylaess / @sinafay1 / @darkestfable ))

[suffering-and-happy-about-it]

I want to tell you... (Part 10.)

Description: Nathan Drake is not the exact definition of an unhappy man. His job is steady, his friends still see him from time to time, he plays football, but his marriage is his main problem. Many things will change when a special person comes to his life.

Part Summary: Everything was slowly going off rails again for both you and Nate. But at the same time, you decided there’s something lingering in the air, which you should ignore. 

A/N: We’ll be slowly falling down to the pit of bad news here. Anyway, if you’d feel as if you are trapped in a toxic relationship you’re not happy in, please, don’t let that to yourself. Try talking to your friends, family of professors/co-workers. Loneliness, cheating, fear and depression isn’t fun to deal with. And I’m speaking out of personal experience. You’re not alone. 

Word counter: 4.9 K

Tagging: @missdictatorme​, @peakymarvels​, @nemodoren​, @flavorishy​, @decadentwinnerjudgedream​

Series master list: H E R E

Nathan’s car sing-along playlist: H E R E

When you came home, the whole flat was still silent and dark. Mike was still at work, so you had a lot of time to just sit down on the couch and to think about the wild things Nathan had outlined. And when your boyfriend finally came home, after an hour of you sitting in front of a TV playing some rom-com. The man walked over to you and tried to lean down, kissing you on your forehead - and being the mad little bean you were, you moved away from him.

"Hey, come on." - The man put his bag next to the couch, sighing loudly when he realized that he's probably in trouble. Slowly, Mike sat beside you, leaning his elbow into the back of the couch, moving closer to you. - "I was working, I swear." - He leaned closer to you, kissing the crook your neck gently while smoothing your thigh up and down. - "And I had you on my mind all day, baby, trust me. I want you. I want you so fucking much now." - The man leaned closer and started to get more heated up than just a moment ago.

Maybe he was working? He was at the new workplace just for a month, he wouldn't have time to start some kind of a relationship, right? That would be too soon. Too bold of him when you still didn't quite trust him with keeping his dick inside his briefs. No. He surely wasn't cheating on you - and this thought sold you into leaning into the touch, kissing him back with equal passion. And with that, the last thought about Nathan and Sully being a part of a gang flew out of the window.

But not for long - the next few days, you've spent with buying you some textbooks and reference materials for your college, which you were about to start in October, you looked around for a few more decorations to put into your flat and overall, you tried to fight the loneliness on your own again. Why? Mike was constantly at work. Sure, you were aware that Mike is a workaholic, but it did rose your eyebrows that he is at every single day, working overtime so early after your new start.

Your boyfriend dismissed you with a small smile every single time. He told you that you have nothing to be worried about because he was just trying to impress his bosses so his payment would be raised quickly. And this time, you decided to believe him instead of jumping straight to conclusions - which proved to be right the last time nonetheless. But this time, you tried to keep your cool.

Which was proved quite difficult when Nate texted you about your schedule - he wanted to plan the hangout between his shifts so you would both have a lot of time to spend together. You were free anytime he would ask you to come to see him, so the date was set on next Monday, because Nate had a shift on Sunday, preparing meals for some rich people party in their restaurant. He texted you the address where his flat was at and on Monday evening, you were standing there nervously and waited before Nate will run the stairs down to open up the door for you.

He and his wife chose a nice location to have their flat at. It was one of those locations where families with children live their day-to-day life. The apartments there were spacious and modern, they had a nice feeling to them. It was close to the beach and the sea, so Nathan could go rollerskating every time he wished to. And you had just one question - why was Nate and his friends very financially secure beyond believable. There was something iffy about this whole company. Nathan was just about to tell you.

"Hey, hey, come in. I've been waiting for you." - The man told you as he opened up the apartment building front door, inviting you inside. Honestly, you'd love to end up in a flat like that if you would be about to start a family. Even the halls and stairs were spacious. The whole building was feeling very safe. No-one who was a villain secretly would be living in such a building.

The true moment of dripping a jaw came when Nate had unlocked the door to their apartment, inviting you in. It was beautiful - there were souvenirs from all around the world, hand-knitted colorful carpets - you loved a small corner with two bean bags which was somehow inviting. And next to these two, there was a whole wall covered in dream catchers. The rest of the flat certainly had that warm, family-like feeling. It wasn't tiny in the slightest, every small inch of the apartment was inviting and lightheartedly vibing to you. There were photos of Elena and Nate everywhere, which was the first time you had ever seen her. She was a pretty blonde woman, smaller than Nate with big brown eyes and big smiles in each of the photos. You had to note that she was athletic, to say the least - you could ever catch a glimpse of her jogging t-shirts in the laundry basket.

She was hugging his waist and they... They were looking very happy. But one thing that hit your eyes was the fact that these photos were fairly old. Nate caught you staring at one of them and he chuckled, pointing at his with a small smile. - "That was our vacation three years back. We were in Europe, in smaller countries like Czechia, Slovakia, and Austria. It was very nice." - You nodded with your eyebrows slightly arched as you looked at Elena wearing a summer dress.

"She's looking happy and, honestly, she's beautiful. You're a great match." - You stated quietly, which made Nate grin funnily. Neither of you commented on his grin - you put some sweets you bought on the countertop. When you commented on your cooking, you weren't trying to be funny. There was a high probability that your food would poison him, which made you realize that you should buy at least some donuts for Nate to snack on and buy yourself some coffee while you were at it. - "But now, you promised me to tell me about the... Things you and your friends anticipate in. And if you won't make me believe that you're not a white meat trafficker, a gangster or a drug dealer, we're done." - You looked Nate in the eyes.

The man was aware of his friendship with you being put on a tight line at the moment. But at the same time, he knew he had enough proof to show you that he, indeed, is an archeologist - well, maybe not exactly the archeologist you knew from real life, but he liked to consider himself one. IN the end, he was extremely passionate about history and he could go on about it for hours and hours. Yeah. Nate was most probably an archeologist.

"Okay, so, sit down here and wait for me. I'll bring you some stuff to show you. Books, journals, maps, artifacts, everything." - The part about artifacts made you furrow and straighten up as you sat down on the couch. Why was he talking about maps and artifacts? Was he smuggling stuff over the borders? What the fuck was Nathan working on in his free time? But he threw you out of your train of thoughts pretty fast when he dropped a box full of stuff next to you. You freaked out and sighed, closing your eyes dramatically while Nate bent over to take out one of the first books he had there, sitting beside you.

"This my mom's journals, the ones Florence was talking about back at the dinner." - Nate went through the pages until he found the passage he was most fond of before putting it into your palms carefully as if it was a commodity of a high price. First, you didn't have an idea about what you were looking at, and when Nate sensed your cluelessness, he smirked and pointed at the name. - "Henry Avery was a big pirate back in the day. There was this huge heist around the 16th century for which he got famous. To tell you in modern slang, this guy was huge. And according to some theories, this man had established the pirate utopia of Libertalia. But that's just a theory at the moment." - Nate sighed and watched as you read random passaged from his mom's journals with a slight furrow, mouthing each word to yourself. Just when you wanted to give him the journal back, a photo fell out of it - and when you looked at it carefully, you realized you're looking and much younger Nate.

The guy next to you was around his early thirties and this boy was... Around thirteen? God, was this picture even real to start with? Nate leaned over your shoulder to grin at the visual documentation of what he was looking like.

"This is my brother. Sam. He's a great guy and he got me through a lot of stuff." - Nate pointed at the other guy in the picture. The boys weren't looking alike at all, but something was telling you that these two boys were related. While you were stuck at the picture, Nate laughed victoriously as he pulled another photo out of the box. It was hidden in a small, leatherback journal that had a small hole from a bullet on the front side.

"Won't you look at that." - The man smiled at the memories connected to the photo. You could see someone somewhat similar to Sully. And the man was looking very similar to what he was looking for when you first met him, so the photo was pretty recent. - "This one is like... Two years old. We were in this rainforest, searching for the lost city of gold. You know what I'm talking about?" - Nate wiggled his eyebrows and gave you the photo.

He was there along with Elena and Sully, each of them was dirty and visibly very tired. Elena, with a big smile of gold, was sitting on big old crates, thus being the center of the picture. Nate, with a shotgun, leaned to his shoulder, was on her right side, leaned to the boxes as well with messy hair. Sully was looking the finest, standing on her left side with a smug grin and a lit-up cigar. Sure, each of them was tired, but they were happy as hell for sure. They looked like a family.

"Why do you have a shotgun here, Nate?" - You asked with a small grin. - "But no, do tell, please." - You leaned your back into the couch and let Nate talk. He just talked about the lost city of El Dorado, sir Francis Drake, and Panama.

He spoke about Rafe, Nate, and Sam getting locked up in a Panamian prison for the sake of research and about Sam getting his ass imprisoned for a few because hurting one of the guards. Nathan told you the story about how they met again, finding a brother in one another again.

Nate showed you small trinkets with a lot of historical value he collected throughout the years of treasure hunting, telling you about each of them. There were numerous photos of him and his partners in crime, of a woman named Chloe and a man named Charlie and many photos of him and Elena on various excavation spots.

Sure, Nate didn't keep his inability to keep at least one of the historical spots intact, but he was still a skilled and smart archeologist nonetheless. Sully managed to get him some good and well-paid gigs. It turned out that Victor knew Florence for some time now because some of these gigs were mostly her doing.

The Drake couple had many photos where they looked so happy it made you smile as well. But, the more photos of them you saw and the more Nate told you about the history behind each of them, the more the whole situation didn't make sense.

What happened to them? Why weren't they together at these spots anymore? Why weren't there any more photos? But when Nate was so passionate about everything, you couldn't just ask him, could you? That would bring him more pain than necessary. And you, in any case, didn't want to stir up the dust once it settled for at least a while.

That afternoon, you managed to drift off to sleep while Nate was telling you at least the seventh story about some pirate or who. But the man didn't wake you up. Nate put a blanket over your chest, tugging you in as he got to the preparation of dinner for you.

It was almost eight p.m. when your phone started to ring. It was just buzzing, but Mike's photo was lighting all over the dining room. Which made Nate sick from his stomach.

The memory of the conversation you and Mike had back in the day suddenly tickled Nathan's memory. Was the boy cheating on you? At the moment? Or not? Should he pick up the phone and ask about the topic like a man could ask a man?

He could and should do that. He would do that if he had the balls at the moment. So he just picked up the vibrating device and shook your shoulder gently. That woke you up instantly. When you realized what's happening and who's calling, you sat straight and tried to get the sleepiness out of your head.

"Hey, hey, baby." - You mumbled sleepily and got your feet, pacing around the room at a fast pace. Your head was still dizzy, but you tried your best to concentrate on Mike's voice.

"Oh. Oh. Again? That's strange. Yeah. I get that. Sure. Love you. Bye." - There was this deep sigh when you ended the call, looking at the phone in your hand. Nate was just cooking the cheese sauce for your pasta. His blue eyes flickered at you standing there with an empty look in your face. But he chose not to talk until you'd like to talk.

"Listen. It's late. I should go home now." - You mumbled sleepily, having those dizzy moments of just woken up person.

"Woah. Not a chance." - Nate answered immediately, turning down the volume of heat under his cheese sauce.

"I don't think you're a psychopath or human trafficker by now, but you can't hold me here, Nathan." - An angry huff left your lips as you went for your jacket.

"I won't hold you here, I'm not a monster. The thing is that the city is dangerous after dusk. And I'm cooking dinner. So you'll have dinner, a glass of wine and then I'll drive you home. And that's not a topic for a debate." - Your friend pointed a finger at you and dried his palms in a cooking towel. Immediately, you straightened and widened your eyes, putting the jacket on the back of the chair. Nate licked his lips, steering the almost finished masterpiece.

This man didn't look like the type who would be a general, but when he started to act like one, dear Lord. For a moment, there was a glimpse of something hiding under the surface.

"He stayed there overtime again?" - Nathan asked when the sudden hint of anger disappeared into the thin air again. First, you put your lips together and bit them nervously, sitting down to the table. When you came in, you didn't notice that Nate has fresh flowers on the table, but there were daisies he had picked up earlier that very day. But in the end, you nodded. - "He's there tomorrow as well?" - "No, tomorrow Mike's at home, we have some plans." - "Oh."

The rest of the evening was quiet in its entirety. It was strange to feel the fear dragging you deeper and deeper back into your head. Why was all of this so known? So reminiscing? And it all fell the lowest when you watched Nate driving off back home.

Again, you were walking back home all alone and on your own. The flat was pitch black and empty. Quiet even though the music coming from the street. Weird even though you were the leading designer of it, even though you knew every small corner of the flat... It didn't feel comfortable inside. When you sat on your couch, you let the TV turned off. Tears were streaming down from your eyes as you tried to keep it in. You drank the last bottle of wine you had in your room. Woah. Why should you be home alone when your boyfriend was caught up in your work again? You didn't see any reason for that.

Mike was honestly jealous of you hanging out with Nathan as much as you did. But why were you around the man so much? Huh? Because you moved across the fucking state when his sorry ass started to cheat on you and got caught with it. Every member of your family was back in your hometown where you met Mike and fell in love with him. And Nathan was just as lonely as you were. He and his friends accepted you as their friend and wanted to hang out with you too, at least that was what you thought this is about. Fuck Michael. Fuck him.

When you were drunk enough, you did the biggest bullshit you possibly could do. You got on your feet and left to search through Mike's stuff. People who loved and believed each other never went through each other's stuff. Huh. Funny. You didn't trust him since the first time he told you he has to stay overtime at work again. Last time he used that excuse in your hometown, you set on your journey to bring him dinner. And he was fucking one of his colleagues on his desk, moaning her name through the whole floor.

Your mom told you to break the things off with Mike immediately... But... He was sorry for a long time, he kept saying sorry, again and again. Slowly, he made you sure that all he needs is another chance. As soon as you told Mike you're willing to give him the chance, he asked for transmission to a different branch of the company where he was working. And they told him they have a good place in one city. And he accepted immediately just for the sake of your relationship.

Yet there you were fucking again. You were going through his stuff - sniffed his clothes, looked at the collars of his shirts, through his pockets and all the shit like that. And you found a small piece of paper at which you almost started to laugh. - "Amy. Amy, you motherfucker? Okay." - You mouthed and started to cry again. Her number was there too just as the heart drawn above her name.

Since that day, you hang out with Nate almost every day. He took you almost everywhere - on hikes, to have an ice-cream, roller skating, swimming, he taught you how to cook and even went shopping for your school supplies with you one day. Florence seemingly very liked you. She loved it when you joined them for dinner, you were a fun companion to have at her home.

Sully, if he'd have to be honest, was at a weird phase around you. It was beautiful to see Nate relaxed and contained after all those years of him and Elena getting further and further away from each other mentally and emotionally, but he was very much afraid that Nate will fall in love with you. At that point, you were just Nate's crush. The man was fond of you, which could be felt with every interaction you had. But Nate couldn't forget about still being a legally married man. Sure, he and Elena had a weird idea of romantic, but this relationship still had a chance to be saved.

One time, you invited Nate over when Mike was on his way to Seattle. He was supposed to stay there for the following five days, it was one of his daily work trips. You hadn't told anyone about the Amy paper you found in the pocked of Mike's jeans. But you needed to talk with someone about that. Ever since no-one other than Nate was free at that time.

"I would like to tell you why we had moved in here. We're actually from somewhere way out of the way." - You told him as you sat in front of the opened window, listening to the blasting life under your window. Nate sniffed his wine and smiled at you, nodding so you'd know he's listening to you.

"I met Mike at one party where I sure as hell wasn't supposed to be. I was... Young and dumb at that time and why I sure am older, I am not any wiser. He was this popular, funny guy who the girls went after like crazy while I was this normal girl. Dear Lord did I fell in love with him that night. Neither of us drank, we just sat down into the grass in front of the house and talked like two normal people. Honestly, Mike charmed with his humor and remarks. After that, we started dating." - While bringing up these memories, you were smiling as Nate leaned in lower into the plush chair, listening to every sound coming out of you. Even these were hard to hear at times. The man was fully focused on you.

"Because he was so much older, it naturally caught a lot of attention. But time passed by, I was almost finished with my high school and Mike had this good position at some company. He was good at what he was doing, but I noticed he's there a lot more than he should be instead of being with me. I mean, I didn't expect him to be with me every single day, no, but... We used to go to the cinema, on dates, walks when we were both free and suddenly, this seemed to be somehow problematic for him. I couldn't understand what was going on." - This had Nate to listen even more than before as he watched you gulping down the whole glass of wine at once, immediately pouring yourself another one.

"As usual, one night, I got a call from Mike who was at work way longer than he should be. And I decided to bring him some food, which I shouldn't do." - You lowered your head, furrowing at the memory. No matter how much Nathan wanted to tell you that it's not your fault, he stayed silent and watched you trying to gather yourself. - "It's strange to see someone who... Proclaims are in love with you pulling in and out into someone you've never met, telling them how beautiful they are. I thought I lost him at the moment I saw all of that. Christ help me, I was devastated." - You nodded to yourself. - "And to have a fresh start, we moved here. A good job proposition and a promise of getting it back together was what made me sure of it. But... It seems to slowly get back into the old trails."

There was a prolonged moment of silence between you and Nathan, who was slowly drinking his wine. You were extremely vulnerable at the moment, and not only that. You were also noticeably unhappy, worried, and mentally tired from the situation you found yourself at. Nathan was the man to understand all of it. He knew what you were talking about just like he felt just like you. So he decided to tell you his story.

"I met Elena through this gig." - The man giggled into his glass of wine, putting it down to his lap to take a deep breath. - "It was just after my brother was put into the sentence in Panama. Sullivan and I didn't have much money to take off to the Panamanian coast and... We needed funding. And a hell of money. That was when I saw her show on TV. It was talking about architecture and stuff. I thought it was a great idea. We wrote a business e-mail, telling her about the Panama things, about Drake and inviting her on our treasure hunt if her company pays for everything. Holy crap, they paid for every small thing Sully and I could imagine." - Nathan smiled at the memory, making you smile back at him.

"At first, Elena was annoying the living shit out of me. I swear to God, there were times when I just wanted to leave her there, but to my luck, I never did. After this thing was over, we started dating. And it was working out for some time. Soon, I realized she's the one I want by my side no matter what. Naturally, I proposed to her and she accepted - we got married, moved to a flat, started our normal life together. And it was quite nice for the first few months. For the sake of our relationship, I decided not to take any more gigs - but one day, she came home with this light in her eyes, telling me 'Nate, you're not going to believe this'. She was offered a job proposition in Europe, which is a huge thing for a journalist. I didn't tell her not to go, it was just for three months and I knew that once this will be over, she'll come back home and it will be just us again." - Nate looked at you, gently scratching his earlobe. Your head was leaned into the back of the couch and you didn't leave Nate off your sigh even just for a second.

"But then, she came with the gig in Africa, then, there was Dubai and now... She's in Thailand. Hadn't seen her for the last four months and the calls aren't as frequent as I would like them to be... But that's how things are. Elena is living her best life and she's one of the best tourism journalists out there. Y/N, honestly, I'm very proud of her..." - "But you'd like her to be here with you now rather than having her gone off the radar all the time, huh?" - You whispered, slowly licking your lips. It was an indication that you understood what he was telling you. Both of your relationships were troubled in one way or another.

Your partners seemed to be far away from you - and the closer they got, the more the distance grew. Suddenly, Nate picked himself up from the couch and checked his watch, arching his eyebrows. - "It's late, I should get going now." - The man told you quietly, hoping you'd say that you want him to stay there with you. Even for a small moment longer. But awkwardly, you nodded and walked to the kitchen to pick his jacket up from the chair.

"You're right. We both better get some sleep. The cycling today got me good." - You joked, giving the jacket to Nathan. That was the moment when your fingers crossed on the piece of clothing, yet neither of you pulled your hand back. It was fairly obvious from the last couple of days that maybe, Nathan felt something more towards you than a friendly relationship. Ever since the start, you tried to play Drake off as a witty, funny friend of yours who was just sweet and caring more than the other guys.

Although, the more time you spent with the man, the man undismissible these heavy eye contacts, inviting smiles and body language started to get husky. Not to make the saint out of yourself, thinking about kissing the man flew through your head all of a sudden a few days back too when he took you out swimming on the beach. This man was a hunk. A real one, if you'd ever seen some. But you tried to ignore it for the sake of keeping it in the friendly boundaries.

How much more obvious and harder could Nathan make it for you? Probably a lot, because you felt the tips of his fingers gently bumping to your knuckles, smoothing your fingers with his. The man's breath hitched as he moved a small inch closer to you, straightening above you to look down on your face. For the first time, he saw something that wasn't there before. The insecurity. Whether it was about what was happening or about the vulnerable side of you, which you showed him just minutes prior, the sudden vulnerability and reluctant feeling were present in your face.

A kiss was sure an option at the moment. Nonetheless, Nathan stepped away and pulled his jacket out of your palm, deciding to keep his cool. - "The hiking tomorrow. You still up for it?" - The man asked to beat the uncomfortable silence which accumulated around you. With your cheeks on fire, you smiled at the man and nodded. - "And a glass of wine at your apartment. I will be looking forward to that." - You answered as he was leaving your flat.

But really, was there any point in looking forward to something that could both of you cost your relationships? Or was it just a dumb wish?

[themelodicenigma]

So you really DON'T believe that Sora looks like Ven or Roxas??? Wtf lmao Bluerosesburnblue stuck to the facts there as usual, so why are you fighting the truth so hard? I dont want to sound rude but nothing you said made any sense. It's PERFECT for Sora to have been influenced by Ven and its basically implied in BBS.

I do like how the moment I allow anonymous asks again, the questions come flying in. Especially, when this is one of four that I’ve received talking about the same thing since those posts. I can’t tell if it’s even the same person, or if I just riled up some indignant feathers of her followers. I don’t know Blue personally, but I do feel pretty confident that she wouldn’t encourage one of the things you (probably) sent based on her comments about similar behavior during the SRT debunk. I know that the original inquirer, Mademoiseli, wouldn’t like it either. 

Well done.

In any case, you could’ve brought it to the table on the reblog/comment chain instead of in my ask box, but...

Okay.

I am pretty tired of this conversation and the impact it has had on my interaction with others, so this is probably going to be the last time I address this unless any actual new information comes about regarding this part of the story. There is something that needs to be realized though:

For one—the reason why I even commented in the first place and why the conversation took its turn is essentially linked. The reason I entered it was because I held a difference to these statements and phrases made by Blue’s first answer:

“I think it’s certainly possible that Sora’s connection to Ventus did effect his appearance in a number of ways, and out of every possibility that one seems the most likely to me.” 

along with:

“Ultimately, I can’t say for certain that Ventus had an impact on Sora’s appearance, but since there seems to be a good deal of evidence supporting that it would be possible, it’s one of the better explanations in my opinion.”

[via Blue post]

Admittedly, I was “triggered” to respond from this, which so happen to be the opening and closing statements of the posts. But, I understand that I shouldn’t have been prompted by it in the way that I was (not fully, anyway).

In that, she was primarily talking about the topic of Ven influencing Sora’s physical appearance as a probable explanation to the hypothetical question of, essentially, “Why do Sora and Ventus look alike?”. All the while, looking at how the ideal was congruent with existing concepts.

I, on the other hand, in addition to that, took it as an evaluation of, not only a hypothetical scenario, but extending to that of weighing the probability of the question and explanation becoming reality within the context.

In other words, while she was much more concerned with whether there existed congruent truths between the premise (Ven influencing Sora) and the context, I was primarily concerned with establishing whether it HAS happened and judging the likelihood of it happening at all. Between us speaking on theory and concepts or plausibility and probability—these certainly aren’t mutually exclusive, but the direction of the conversation was split between the two somehow. 

And I’ll take the blame for that, but in recognizing that our approaches weren’t completely separate, still, talking about the likelihood of the premise being true and/or introduced at a later time WAS still a relevant topic. It could’ve been its own conversation, but it was relevant, nonetheless.

Two—I am a person that, when encountered with a question, I am first immediately concerned with the facts. Always. Only after that do I inquire about uncertain material through a “possibility spectrum”, and what determines the strong end of this are the facts that suggest or support the proposition at hand. Through that, I’m never opposed to admitting my uncertainty about something or the existence of “breathing room” to probability. Not to mention, establishing the difference between plausibility and probability for its interaction in gauging truth—I could get more into that, but it won’t be necessary for the sake of this post.

Anyway, with that out of the way, I’m going to approach the rest of this post by centering it around this question [ID as premise]:

Premise: “Do you believe it’s possible for it to be explained that Ventus influenced Sora’s physical appearance when their hearts connected?”

Understanding the extensions and work around of the questions (Sora growing into the influence and not being instant), I would answer—yes, it is possible by the merit of its potential to be. However, after reviewing the explanations already established for this connection and the results created by said explanations for the topic the prompt addresses, I would say that it’s unlikely to happen.

Yeah. You read that right.

Possible, but unlikely to happen. [improbable] 

Remember to consider that there are two ways in which something can be explained for fictional media. This is typically split in what is taken from the concept of Diegesis, where in this scenario, we’re talking about explanations that function internally within and by the world, and explanations that function externally outside and by other means. Both approaches can even simultaneously exist for the same topic—there being an appropriate explanation for something in both ways.

The formation of my conclusion, actually, is based on the facts, which also don’t include any strict implication that Sora was influenced by Ven, as if to even create an equilibrium between their facial features. If anything, you could argue the opposite was done, specifically in the way of making a distinction between the two by their face.

So, let’s take a step back, and go to where all of this actually started in the game’s context. The first question revolving around this topic would essentially be this:

Q1: “Why do Roxas and Sora look alike?”

*we’ll refer to this as Q1

If not automatically generated by the events of the story itself, this question was made relevant even back in the release of the Ultimania Alpha (when Roxas was just “Mysterious Boy”). Here we could see Roxas’ face and model much more clearly than that of the picture at the end of the GBA version of CoM. The Ultimania Alpha features this as his profile header (and also on the correlation chart):

“Who does he (you) look like? The key person of “II””

- KH Ultimania Alpha—Roxas’ Profile, pg.12 

First, it’s good to establish that by design, the characters of Sora and Roxas do and were intended to [basically] have the same face, save for a few differences made. They also have other attributes that are considerate of each other, but we’ll highlight the face specifics. This is certainly non-debatable from an external application that they are to be correlated characters by design.

“The facial models of Roxas and Sora are basically the same, but the chin is slightly different. When I put on his hair, Roxas looked a little bit stout, so I made him thinner.”

- KH2 Ultimania—Tomohiro Kayano [3D Modeling Director], pg. 345

“Roxas: I traced Sora for this piece. My image of Roxas actually came first, before Sora, and I had already drawn him for the first project document. The concept of "between" was something I kept in mind: since Sora's outfit was to be black this time, I made Roxas' base color white, and I also added a black and white checked pattern. The cross on his chest isn't a necklace, it's part of his zipper, and it is the motif of the Nobodies. Also, his hair is supposed to be the exact same length as Sora's.”

- KH2 Ultimania, pg. 701 [via KHInsider]

“Roxas A lot of thought was put into this character. Based on the premise that he was 'an expression of the reverse, hidden inside Sora', I gave him pretty much the exact same face as Sora, just with slightly narrower eyes. And then, I made white the basis for his clothes, in contrast to KHII Sora. The black and white checkered pattern, 'neither darkness nor light', was to be a hint. My absolute favourite scene of his has to be the one at the end of the opening of KHII, when he says 'looks like my summer vacation is over'. I put a lot of feeling into creating that, as I intended it to feel, for a moment, like the end.”

- Nomura, KH Character’s Report Vol. 1 [via KHInsider]

The third one is the most interesting because it’s the only one to provide an explanation to the external application of the similarity—it being based on the connection that the characters shared and how they’re perceived against one another. Roxas being the “reverse” of Sora was utilized in more ways than the face, more so than what is understood by how that could apply to Riku’s design.

If considering the relevancy of correlating Sora and Roxas’ designs outside of representing their connection to one another (i.e. just by design alone in representing it—external), the answer can also be assumed from the game’s revelations. Meaning, after playing KH2, it would be reasonable that people would essentially believe that the answer to Q1 was answered as:

“Because Roxas is Sora’s Nobody”

Hah.

However, in the reality of the internal explanation that directly influences the characters, this didn’t quite turn out to be the answer that was presented. Not only that, but the question changed. BBS happened, and instead, we receive an answer that turns Q1 into a misleading question, and presents another in its place:

Q2: “Why do Roxas and Ventus look alike?”

No, seriously. It is the literal question posed in the BBS Ultimania:

“Why do Roxas and Ventus look alike? A: Because inside Sora, which is Roxas’ body, is Ventus’ heart.

As was shown in the opening to KH BbS and the ending to Last Episode, Sora and Ventus’ heart are linked (P.646). And so Roxas, who is a part of Sora, was affected by that and looks just like Ventus.”

- BBS Ultimania, pg. 616 [via KHInsider]

The answer here is pretty straight forward. The “why” is propositioned by two things: Sora and Ventus’ hearts being linked and Ventus’ heart residing in Sora when Roxas was created. Whether it was just one or both of these reasons is inconsequential—Roxas took his physical appearance from Ventus, NOT Sora. This is the internal explanation given on the topic of Roxas’ and Ventus’ appearance, not the external as previously given in KH2.

Since BBS, the idea of Roxas = Sora has essentially been replaced with the actuality of Roxas = Ventus multiple, if not every single, time appearance is mentioned or corresponding questions were answered.

"Ven has the same hairstyle, face, clothes, and voice of Roxas, but just who is he?”

“The face of the polygon model of Ventus that appears in this title is, strictly speaking, different to the one from KH BBS. The one in KH BBS was subtly altered from Roxas' face, but this time, in order to increase efficiency on motion work, we used the same model for Ventus and Roxas.”

“Yes, it is the same actor. Therefore the player will only look at Ven as Roxas from Kingdom Hearts 2.”

[blazed through because those quotes are too long]

* Keep in mind it’s usually about how VEN looks like Roxas, because Roxas was introduced as a character first. Internally for the story, it’s really the other way around.

And, in the mountains of paratextual material that has covered the two characters since BBS, it has opted to mention the similar notion of Roxas getting his appearance from Ven—this being mostly by the specification of the face. The idea that Roxas and Ventus share the same “physical entity” has been introduced and cemented by the explanations given by BBS.

So, instead of getting Q1 v.2:

“Okay? But uhh, still, why do Sora and Ventus [Roxas] look alike, then?”

We get this:

Q3: “Why do Sora and Vanitas look alike?”

The answer, of course, was explained in a similar fashion to Q2:

“How did you decide on the design for their faces?

Nomura: Well Terra’s look was already a decided thing, we just had to make him look a bit younger. I knew that Ventus should look either like Sora or Roxas, and I wasn’t sure which one to go with, but I thought Vanitas looking like Sora would have a bigger impact so I had Ventus look like Roxas instead. And there is a reason that Vanitas looks like Sora. As Sora filled in Ventus’ fractured heart, the fractured part (Vanitas) was effected by Sora and ended up with Sora’s face. So if it had been Riku who had filled in Ventus’ heart, Vanitas would have looked like Riku.” 

- BBS Ultimania, pg. 646 [via KHInsider]

Similar to the above, instead of Vanitas, who comes from Ventus, looking as such of his existential bond, instead it emphasizes that of Sora = Vanitas by the physical attributes. Interestingly enough, in the same quote is the proposition of whether Ventus would look like either Sora or Roxas in development, lending more to the idea of this separation of their appearance. Similarly, this is mentioned consistently in how Vanitas looks like Sora. This extends even beyond the Ultimania books, as even the KH3 Character Files book emphasizes that Vanitas has “Sora’s face” and resemblance. [pg.86]  

If you read my posts in the original chain, you’d understand that what I’m pointing out is that, instead of establishing an equilibrium between the four characters, it instead creates the separation of two different physical entities:

Sora [Vanitas] and Ventus [Roxas].

This would be different than what was cleanly set between Kairi, Namine, and Xion—this being accompanied by external and internal reasons that not only captured the connections between the characters, but also have literal, internal reasons applied that are part of the narrative.

“How did you go about designing Xion's outward appearance?

Nomura: It was decided from the start that she would have a deep connection to Kairi, so she was based on Kairi with her hair changed a little. We were actually thinking of changing nothing but the colour of her hair, but when designs were drawn up her hairstyle was made quite a bit different too. Even the 3D polygon model's face is the same as Kairi's, apart from the hair. So, if you look at the 3D models of Xion, Namine and Kairi, they have the same face and differ only in their hair, but unexpectedly have individual personalities.”

- Days Ultimania, pg. 485 [via KHInsider]

Actually, the quote itself is similar to the comment made by Tomohiro Kayano above about Sora and Roxas’ 3D facial models being “basically the same”, except the girls are without difference of detail to the face, with the note of being the same while the hair is specifically what differs. This turns out to be an interesting detail because, there’s never an attempt to create a distinction between the three characters outside of what has been spoken for—their hair. And, they have the internal explanation to boot for what makes it literal in and of itself.

This is different than that of the Sora [Vanitas] and Ventus [Roxas] entities, where for internal functionality, there is then a difference by the face in those two and what it means for the characters in the story. As far as I’m concerned, there isn’t even an attempt to establish that they all have “the same face, but different hair.”

Where’s the equilibrium?

The further we go into the explanations that take a different road than that of what Q1 proposes, the question itself starts to become irrelevant—the mystery of the question’s origin (that between Roxas and Sora) was instead supplied by other lore reasoning in the world. All the while, setting a distinction between the two physical entities by “the face” as opposed to just answering the original question.

At least, in an internal way.

Really, Q1 is already answered—this answer being more external, that Roxas has “pretty much the exact same face” as Sora as a way to represent their connection to one another, with the “pretty much” representing the differences that can be accounted for.

However, when it comes to an in-world, internal explanation, instead of providing a lore-based reasoning to express in the narrative, which would’ve been thought to be the same reasoning (because he’s Sora’s Nobody) as the external reasoning, instead we have an answer that makes the Q1, now, seem misleading.

To be fair, it doesn’t necessarily eliminate the Q1, just makes it seem less likely to be answered or if even to be something to be asked anymore. That’s because, in all the ways we understand what resulted from the connection made between Sora and Ventus, we haven’t exactly been given an explicit negative to the possibility of the original premise:

Premise: “Do you believe it’s possible for it to be explained that Ventus influenced Sora’s physical appearance when their hearts connected?”

or, to reintroduce it in a familiar angle:

Q1 v.2: “Why do Sora and Ventus [Roxas] look alike?”

It’s not explicitly negated, but in all the information I could find, this following quote is the closest to answering either question.

– So it’s not “Once Sora’s story is finished, another hero’s story will begin”, the hero is always Sora.

Nomura: Yes. One of the concepts behind the KH series is that the main character Sora isn’t special, he’s just a normal boy. Yes he does have connections with Ventus’ heart, among others, but he hasn’t inherited anything from them. He’s just a normal boy you could find anywhere. I wanted to make Sora a character that the player could take onto themselves and feel that you don’t have to be special. But connect to many people and you will realize your secret potential. With BbS I want to make fans excited to see Sora’s return. The secret event is a symbol of that, so I hope everyone will get to see it and wait for Sora’s next adventure.

- BBS Ultimania, pg. 650 [Via KHInsider]

Unlike the other quotes supplied for the topic of Sora and Ventus’ connection, this quote was on the conversation of Sora’s adventures post-KH3. However, the comment itself is still in retrospect of the internal attributes of Sora’s character, even specifically mentioning his connection to Ventus’ heart, putting it in perspective of that particular circumstance that happens in the game.

So, what do we have now?

That comment doesn’t completely negate the premise, technically, but it also doesn’t support it either. In tandem with everything else in what HAS been done with the connection between Sora and Ventus....

It doesn’t look likely.

There’s also the mention of Aqua pointing out how Sora is:

ENG: “the spitting image of Ven”

JPN: “ヴェンそのもの [Ven himself]”

Even though there isn’t anything conclusive to whether she, just like with Riku, was talking more about Sora and Ven’s disposition than their physical face, the BBS Ultimania does go with the former.

“Guided by a warm light, Aqua meets two boys on the island. Their atmosphere [presence] was similar to that of Terra and Ventus.”

- BBS Ultimania, pg.384

As it is, the fact remains that there hasn’t been any attempt in equalizing the appearance between Sora and Ventus outside of what could already be understood externally through Sora and Roxas. 

The understanding of it being unlikely to be addressed or to be a truth doesn’t rely on “it wasn’t talked about”. Because, IT WAS talked about—the topic surrounding this HAS been approached, it HAS been explained, and the premise at hand isn’t anything offered as actuality.

So, why should I assume then that the information we’ve received for years, that has been explained and told in so many ways, is incomplete?

It could change, sure, but it’s not incomplete as it is. As to this day, we can safely say that the literal equalization of similarity isn’t between Sora and Ventus, because it, as of right now, literally isn’t in accordance to the observable facts. It hasn’t happened, even if to predict it to happen. And if to weigh the possibility of this change occurring, after all the facts presented above and how the subject has been breached, that yes—it’s an unlikely change.

Not impossible, but improbable.

And that is VERY reasonable to say after 10+ years and an immense amount of supplemental paratext produced to say something about it.

This being by not what information is lacking, but by what has been provided. And even then, the frequency and different angles in which the information has been touched upon makes it hit much harder.

If in the attempt to play devil’s advocate on myself, I would proposition that the proposed premise would be setup by the concept behind the story of BBS:

"There is no coincidence in fate"

In which, along with the questions of “why Riku was chosen to wield the keyblade, or why Kairi met Sora and Riku”, the original question (Why do Sora and Roxas look alike?) could’ve been a part of that, and thus, explained similar to that of the Kairi, Namine, and Xion situation—that Sora AND Roxas were influenced by Ventus (and, logically, Vanitas would’ve been as well), and that being why they look alike.

But nope.

Instead, we got it all the other way around where Sora is the character influencing the other characters, and being connected to all three through that direction, not backwards. Creating, really, the impression that the visual similarity between Sora and Ventus IS fate, but through this, it is part of that scheme in which two people who just so happen to be similar are connected to one another.

Their resemblance and their connection is by the design of fate and the way it was meant to be—not necessarily due to a direct phenomenon, but that two people who have that similarity were fated to have the connection they have.

It certainly has been done in storytelling before, so it isn’t a crazy concept anyway.

Don’t know for certain, but from the information available, that actually seems more likely.

Sora has not been affected by Ventus, and the fact that this information isn’t presented as incomplete, this idea becomes less plausible to even be implemented, if not, irrelevant. This would be the same to Q1 as it is, where it was diverted by other information and questions.

All the while, in recognizing the distinction given between the two physical entities of Sora[Vanitas] and Ventus[Roxas], I much more prefer how they’ve handled it so far, where that bridge between Sora and Ventus isn’t closed by that type of phenomenon, but instead, through the efforts of capturing the connection that the characters have. This is directly through the acknowledgement of how the story has implemented understanding of the distinction between the two, particular the face, NOT just the hair. This is also in accordance to story things, in that in the connection between Sora and Ventus, this is primarily a one-sided affair in how Sora influences Ven, NOT the other way around, and I’m fine with that in how it is represented in the story.

This is especially for the sake of Sora and Roxas’ characters is very concerned with his identity in relation to his existential ties towards Sora, and Sora is the normal boy who has “secret potential” by his ability to connect with other people. I’ve of zero interest of Sora’s character being tainted with that type of effect, especially now and in everything that hasn’t [would’ve] acted in accordance to it.

Sigh.

Anyway, that’s just what it is. Don’t send me any more asks expecting me to post this, because I honestly don’t have anything else to say about it that would be that much different. My points would largely be the same. If you have concerns though (like some quotes I got myself since KHInsider didn’t have them), just message me, and I’ll send some screen shots and whatnot.

Anyway, overall, it still remains an interesting thing to thing about alongside the concepts that are implemented in KH. That, I can agree on.

[rewoundcircuit]

Oh no, I have feelings! | Chronos | Chapter 6 | MM Trial | RE: Atsuko, ATTN: Also Atsuko

Chronos couldn’t say that he felt reassured by Yoko’s supposed return to her original state. People and robots alike could claim a lot, but since when was trusting something at face value ever something good? If it turned out to help them out, then he wouldn’t complain, but at the same time, the clockmaker wouldn’t be surprised if something went awry nonetheless.

Once Mayura finished speaking, Atsuko took the word again - and who would he be if he didn’t at least chuckle at her tearing into the other girl once more? He hadn’t been able to display his feelings in that regard so freely as Orpheus Edler, but as himself? There was nothing holding him back anymore.

It stopped once she started to address him.

At first, he was simply looking at her with that same polite smile on his face, absolutely in control of his own emotions--

Before it all but shattered once Atsuko gave him an answer that he never would have expected.

“Wh... What?!”

Chronos’ voice hitched uncharacteristically, eyes widened in genuine shock. It was clear as a day that he was, for once, completely taken aback by the information he just received. If one were to study him more closely, they may even find something akin to... sadness? Or sympathy in his eyes.

“You as-- But what are the odds...?”

One of his gloved hands found itself on top of his mouth, the clockmaker looking to the side as Atsuko’s attention was drawn elsewhere. He in- and exhaled slowly, but deeply - as if he needed to compose himself.

(This couldn’t be a coincidence anymore, could it? Not only did they come from the same class, they also happened to don someone’s clothes for frighteningly similar reasons? Because both of their loved ones were--)

(What in tarnation was going on?!)

At the revelation that all of the hostages were safe, Chronos gasped quietly:

“Leonie is--”

-- but immediately forced himself to maintain a more unreadable expression on his face. Removing his hand from his face, he crossed his arms before his chest, eyebrows furrowed down more than may be necessary.

(What was he doing? He couldn’t simply believe the mastermind simply because they said so. Only if he’s seeing his sister with his own two eyes, then he can finally believe that he’d never lost someone precious to him in the first place--)

(Oh god, she’d seen him cry, didn’t she? Leonie would never let this down now, ugh--)

But that’s better than the alternative, wasn’t it?

One may have expected for Chronos to tear into Ryuunosuke as soon as it was clear that his motive had been false all along, thus making the victims of said case even more in vain than they already were. Merely thinking that Yvon, of all people, ultimately died for nothing was an outrage.

But fortunately for everyone involved, Chronos was.. remarkably silent, for once.

Aki was mentioning something that he wanted to discuss as well, but he only could bring himself to actually talk again once Sandwich was done venting his anger out. His tone was much more subdued, much more... solemn. It was akin to Orpheus’ tone when he turned somber, but still somewhat different. It sounded like as if someone merely wanted to seek the truth - and nothing else.

“Ishii-san already asked, but I would like to expand on that question a little bit more; if this is some sort of punishment for us because we were involved with Todo-san’s death somehow, then why bother showcasing it to the whole world? I do not think that many people will find your cause sympathetic if you force minors to kill each other. Was it to get back to Hope’s Peak? And what exactly happened to Todo-san? Who killed her? Was it Wei or was it someone else after all? And what about that blonde woman who supposedly knocked us out?”

“That is not all, though - you already alluded to it, but it appears as if you want to change something. You despise it if something is predetermined or forcefully moved to a certain direction. I wonder... Does this have anything to do with the 54th classes? I mean, Ishida is at least involved in this whole mutual killing game, what with most of the equipment coming from his company, but what about the others? And... why is it that both of the spring classes had the exact same accident happen to them? Is it really a coincidence or is something else at work, as... strange as that may sound?”

[misery-bled]

• 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐘:

When all was said and done in the middle of night fall, all Damon had done he had done alone. The world was quiet and somehow that gave him a sense of solitude. Moment to fade away from all the hate within the world and most importantly within himself. He could still taste the essence of life on his lips— though the source he did not know. A female from a new towns over, blonde and flirty. She had come into the Mystic Grill to visit family, but little did she know that would be her very last encounter with those she loved most. Taken all too quickly was her life in his hands, and when it was done Damon was left alone.

He didn't want to admit it, the thoughts growing louder within his conscious mind. Yet as each second passed with him sitting in the living area of the Boarding House, the immortal predator wondered what was the point of it all? The taking of lives to fuel himself when all it did was leave him completely and utterly alone. Or maybe it was the bourbon getting to his head— a part of him thought that was a more rational answer. The inner debate circled onward as another drink was poured to himself over ice in a crystal glass.

Cruel World, to you I make this drink— he thought humorously to himself. The vampire nearly smiled, outwitted by his own monologue of drunken rambles. You've done me well over this last century, showing me just what it was to be a man, and a man you have made me. The most dangerous man. Someone to be feared by humans and other creatures of the darkness alike. To you I make this drink. Finishing off what was left in the crystal— the glass was soon met with an effortless toss filled with anger.

Damon may have been smiling to himself, humored by his own words, but deep within a growing anger was beginning to surface. Even as his glass was thrown into the wall, shattering in a million pristine pieces, the act itself never quite amounted to what he felt within. Anger— a trivial word to someone like himself. Someone who had seen so many things only to always be met with the face of disgust and disappointment. No one here truly knew him— not even his own brother in many times. What must it have been like to be so noble and gallant? He humored himself cynically. Of course, someone like himself would never know.

The villain, the monster to every story. Damon prided himself in knowing that he was feared above all, yet at what cost was it achieved? Breaking down every barrier in his path, the vampire cared little for others consent or concerns. After all, no one dared to give mind to his. He was Damon Salvatore: by no means the savior of any ones story. That role was reserved to his brother Stefan alone. There was a time when Damon thought he could be heroic— prove people wrong. Yet that time was long since gone and past.

The Great War of a the nation plagued his country and the oldest Salvatore willingly signed away his youth to serve his people. Enlisting was the only thing Damon knew to his light on himself. The only true moment he hoped his father would look to him with eyes that held something more than eternal disappointment. Yet even from the day he departed with no true sign of returning, Giuseppe Salvatore gave little care for his oldest child. Damon was better of damned for all eternity in his fathers eyes, however even in the fatal truth of his life that did not matter. Duty, honor, becoming a man... whatever did that truly mean?

Damon was better off pos his father the night before leaving for war than living the rest of his human days under his scrutiny. It would have saved him an enormous amount of trouble in life— pain and headaches alike. Yet, like the noble son he wanted to be, Damon went off to fight for what he thought was right. Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw. It was in those years gone that Damon realized the true uncivil manner of humanity. The truth behind how cruel people could be. With each life he took now, Damon knew it would never amount of his malicious humans could be towards one another.

The weaker species— the fools incapable of thinking rationally. It made sense his father died a human; it was all the the pathetic man was worth.

"Damon?" A voice broke him from his thoughts, the vampires head turning quickly to the voice entering the room. Stefan. "What are you doing in here?" The Saint of vampire history, his brother, walked towards him near the fireplace and took sight of the broken glass on the floor. The alcohol still dripping down from the wall. "What..." His voice trailed off.

"I'm going to bed, brother." Damon quickly returned, knowing better than to cut this nightly encounter short. As weak as his brother was, he should have been able to smell the taste of human on his clothes. The life he took was meaningless— but Damon was not an idiot nonetheless. He knew how to cover his tracks, to take care of loose ends. As his drunken footstep walked past the weaker vampire, the dark haired male offered his brother a sly smirk. He was triumphant in his win for the night, or at least a part of him wanted to believe so. Even if he didn't have a thing to him left— he would still be the most feared predator. A man of deadly intent. "Don't worry— I cleaned up after myself. No mess for you to take care of."

The words didn't pass by Stefan with ease. The younger brother gave a sigh, and as to be expected a disappointing look to his counterpart. "Damon, you can't keep doing this."

His words annoyed the stronger vampire more than his own thoughts of the past did. He had nearly walked out of the room completely when he abruptly stopped. "And what exactly do you think you're going to do about it?" He intended to taunt him, of course. To press the exact buttons Damon knew would send him over the edge. Turning on his heel, Damon gave his brother a far too defiant smirk. There was nothing Stefan could do to stop him— no one could. "Kill me? Drive a stake through my heart? Put an end to our century long feud and finally rid the world of my existence?"

"Stop it, Damon. It doesn't have to be like that." His pleas were worthless and almost laughable. In fact, the raven haired man had o hold back a growing wave of amusement. A fool his brother was— one day he would have to put him in his place. Today was not that day— Damon had already had enough self misery to continue this trivial encounter. "I know you can be better than this."

"How do you know, Stefan?" He asked, rolling his eyes. "You have never seen me be anything other than the antagonist to your story. An eternity of misery, remember brother?" The humor on his tongue fell short, tainted with irritation. How long did he intend to uphold this exchange? "When I was human? A worthless boy? That's laughable. We both know neither you nor I are those same people— you made damn sure of that."

Finally Stefan was at a loss for words, knowing he was hold get no where with Damon on this subject. However, the older brother was not done. Ripping open the bandage left him eager to push the bullet deeper into the wound. "Even then you knew what I was capable of. I've never been the person you wanted me to be— the one anyone wanted me to be. Father, mother... I've never been enough for any of you." Sharp like a vipers bite, Damon lashed out his words with icy venom in his eyes. The winter of anger burned deep within his soul, and he wanted to make sure Stefan knew the extent of it all.

"When I returned back from the war— you did nothing to stop father from acting as he had when we were children. I was still outcasted, damned for things I couldn't control." The cynical pain of the vampire nearly bought a crude taste of humor to his mouth, but he couldn't finish. Instead, he gave Stefan one final look and turned his back once more. He was done with this for tonight, and perhaps forever. Mystic Falls and these people were nothing more than a constant reminder of a painted image he could never be. A man of noble intent. Damon Salvatore was never meant to be the savior— nor would he ever want to be. "Stop trying to control me now, brother. You never will. I will not change— this is who I am. Do not make me remind you of the things I am capable of. I would end your precious Elena's life and not think twice about it."

Echos faded down the hall and the only sound to drift in his ears was that of his foot steps. Anger and fury mixed back with growing pain, fusing themselves together into one. It pieced together all that Damon Salvatore was, making him a man haunted by the past. If he could not be the hero, he would forever wear his power like the evil villains cape. He would never be the savior of the story— only the antagonist.

[rassilon-imprimatur]

Time Lords and Alternate Timelines and Universes

Episodes of Doctor Who like Inferno or any of the appearances of “Pete’s World” can’t seem to help causing a question to pop up in the minds of some fans... 

Does this alternate universe have Time Lords? 

First off, there’s a difference between an alternate timeline and an alternate universe. We’ve seen that Time Lords are able to navigate timelines with ease (they call it “jumping time tracks”), and interestingly, Gallifrey almost always seems to be immune to to conflicting temporal pathways. However, alternate universes are very much beyond the Time Lords. 

Lawrence Miles’ The Cosmology of the Spiral Politic says it better than I ever could: 

There are many universes, and in no way is our current universe the “right” one or the “real” one. The exact number of other universes is obviously unknown, and debate still rages as to whether the number is infinite or just absurdly large (interestingly, this mirrors the far older debate about the size of the universe itself). Since we belong to a species which was born inside space and time, it’s sadly impossible for us to imagine anything happening beyond space and time, and we inevitably tend to think of these other universes as being simple geographical locations; as if we could burst through the walls of our own universe and keep travelling until we came to the next. Clearly this is ridiculous, but at the same time it’s the only way we can feasibly picture things. Since space doesn’t exist beyond the limits of the universe, even the word “outside” is badly-chosen, yet we have no other way of considering it.

There is an expanse between universes - frequently referred to, most notably by the Celestis, as an “ocean” - but it’s an expanse without either time or scale in the conventional senses. Here we’ll once again refer to it as Ur-space, though “space” is yet another misleading term, as nothing can move through it (there’s no distance there to move through). Nonetheless, we can think of universes as being “close” to each other or “far away” from each other, as long as we remember that we’re using these words purely for our own convenience. And since we tend to think about exploration in sea-going terms, we generally use the same terminology as the Celestis and imagine the many universes “floating” on the Ur-space ocean. (Similarly, it’s known that Ur-space is occupied by things other than universes, and in keeping with this nautical theme they’re often referred to as Swimmers. Unlike the universe/s we know, these Swimmers might actually be described as living beings, though in truth they don’t meet most of the requirements needed for something to qualify as life on Earth. In fact they’re vastly more complex, so it might be more useful to say that no living thing on Earth meets the requirements needed to qualify as life among the Swimmers. It’s thought, however, that they have no real intelligence of any kind. 

Intentional or not, the lore of the Void in Doctor Who episodes such as Rise of the Cybermen/The Age of Steel and Army of Ghosts/Doomsday fits well into Miles’ descriptions of an “expanse” between universe. This essay is an excellent description of how universes that occur naturally work, but one cannot help but wonder how the (oft misused) term of “parallel universe” fits in. 

In my opinion, Simon Bucher-Jones and Jonathan Dennis’ The Brakespeare Voyage has out the definitive stamp on how alternate timelines and universes work in Doctor Who’s context: 

Think of the universe for a moment as having three additional directions (alterward, paraward, and otherward) all at right angles to the ones you know (length, breadth, width and time). This is a tremendous oversimplification, but it may help.

Paraward, we find a sheath of histories which are either eternally separate from our own anchored time or which diverge and return to it so far in the past, or so far in the future, as to be – functionally – eternally separate from it in terms of the noospheres of the Great Houses. The physical laws of these universes are identical to ours, but all else is different. We call these paraward space-time entities ‘parallel worlds’.

Timelines which result in these Paraward worlds seem to branch off into their own universes. So, the Earth of Inferno and Pete’s World seem to fit this bill. At some point in this divergence, these timelines become their own functional realities, and develop the Void between them, like universes that are “spawned” naturally and float amongst each other. These paraward worlds, by being completely separate universes, seem to be the exception to the Time Lords’ defense from alternate and parallel time tracks, as David A. McIntee’s Face of the Enemy and Paul Cornell’s Timewyrm: Revelation reveal that the universe of Inferno had different versions of the Time Lords. 

(Craig Hinton’s The Quantum Archangel also confirms that the Inferno Earth was a result of a timeline divergence becoming a different universe.)

Miles’ also touches on this in The Cosmology of the Spiral Politic: 

The fact that nearby universes seem to originate from common ancestors has led to the description of universes close to our own as brother- or sister-universes, although there’s an obvious risk of this kind of language leading us to take the “genetic” analogy far too seriously. Besides which, the technology doesn’t exist in any known culture to (as it were) DNA-test a universe, so the exact relationship between one universe and another is always open to debate.

This has also, inevitably, led to the description of other universes as “parallel” universes. Although this is technically correct, the word “parallel” is potentially misleading. Generations of fiction and speculation have led us to think of parallel universes as universes which are in some way connected to our own, in which history has somehow split off from history as we know it, and this is wholly untrue. No physical connection exists between universes, at least not in their adulthood, though more than one child-universe could potentially grow inside its parent as part of a “litter”. (In fact, if you can ignore its connotations in fiction then “parallel” is quite an appropriate word. Parallel lines never meet, never connect and never intersect).

Bucher-Jones and Dennis continue in The Brakespeare Voyage: 

Alterward, we find those histories which divert, at crucial or innocuous moments alike, from ours. Here are the worlds where a toe goes unstubbed, or a vital battle is lost, where the five hundred and eleventh hair on a sloth in the forest has gone grey in one world, and white in another. Many (perhaps most of these) rejoin the main anchored universe as their micro-changes fall away into quantum uncertainty. When the million sloths are dead and decomposing, what effect will the colour of one hair have had? A few (the mathematics contains several high order infinities, so the number itself may be high) do not appear to rejoin, either eternally leading outside the ‘time-space’ horizon approachable by a normal time-ship, or curving back in closed loops longer than our normal ships can reach, beyond the futures we can access. We call these alterward space-time entities ‘alternate worlds’. Perhaps paraward is just a way of talking about extreme alternates, and alterward is just a way of talking about probability bundle universes. 

So, Afterward worlds are timelines that diverge from the standard time track, but are not independent enough or strong enough to exist in separate universes, and therefore exist as different time tracks. These are the alternate worlds that Time Lords exempt from joining (for the most part), and these are the alternate worlds devoured by the Chronovores in order to spare the limited space and matter of the universe (as detailed in Hinton’s The Quantum Archangel). Any alternate timelines that co-exist with each other in the same universe (Doctor Who’s The Iron Legion, Faction Paradox’s Warlords of Utopia) are ruled over by one version of Gallifrey and the Time Lords. 

Lance Parkin’s The Infinity Doctors strongly implies that the Time Lords, by becoming the Time Lords, made it impossible for them to have alternate and parallel versions in the same universe, regardless of time tracks/timelines...  

Gallifrey’s nameless sun rose over the Capitol Dome, as it had done since the first days of the universe. No sunlight penetrated the Dome itself, but the Oldharbour Clock that stood in the Eastern parts of the Capitol marked the occasion by chiming Nine Bells. On the ledge beneath the vast clock face, an intricate mechanical ballet began, as life‐sized animated figures emerged from their positions and set about their daily routine. They were gaily painted and beautifully dressed, certainly symbolic of something, although even the few Gallifreyans that had noticed them couldn’t agree what it might be. One of the problems was that the clock had never been built. Not in this timeline, anyway. It was a paradoxical survivor from the Time Wars, probably the only vestige of its parallel Gallifrey still in existence. It had just appeared one day, no one remembered when. The analogue Time Lords that had built the Tower had imbued the clockwork figurines with a degree of sentience and the capacity for self‐development.

... and in the same novel...

There was a gleam in Sontar’s eye. “I wonder who it was that the Time Lords fought? It must have been a glorious conflict, and a magnificent victory. Yet you choose to honour those that died by forgetting them. You should remember, Time Lord, that all your power, and this beautiful city, were not built without sacrifice.” 

The Doctor nodded. “Oh, no. Gallifrey honours its dead, as you will see. When we reach the Panopticon you will see the Flowers of Remembrance of the Lost Dead. There –’ he pointed across the city to an unassuming geodesic structure – ‘is the Tomb of the Uncertain Soldier.”

“You value a lack of decisiveness in your military? This man died because he hesitated?”

“No, no, no. This was a Gallifreyan body recovered from an alternate reality. We couldn’t identify him because that soldier, and many like him who fought in the Time Wars, didn’t hesitate at the critical moment, they chose to cancel out their own timelines for the greater good of Gallifrey.”

“An impressive sacrifice. It would please me to hope that my own men would destroy the universe rather than let it fall into enemy hands.”

The Doctor smiled forgivingly, and didn’t correct the old General.

All versions of Gallifrey that would and could exist in alternate timelines were destroyed by the fact that a Gallifrey became the dominant version. 

Cody Quijano-Schell’s Iris Wildthyme short story “The Golden Hendecahedron” retcons regeneration into a means of Time Lords circumnavigating the need to contort to and obey the pathways of alternate timelines... 

“Remember when I… the other Iris… was talking about how I don’t exist in parallel universes?  It’s a part of being a time traveller. We travel between possibilities instead of branching off down the paths of infinity.” She rubbed her fingers together slowly as if she was feeling her own fingers.

Tom noticed this Iris was aloof. Easy going. A little spacey. “So you’re saying most people, every choice they make creates a parallel timeline, one for each possibility?” He was surprised when she let out a loud, bold pleasant laugh.

“That’s right! But being adrift in time and space isolates you from that mundane reality. And that’s why travellers like me… change the way we do.”

“When you become a new Iris it’s not just your body healing itself…”

“…it’s the cosmic balance of possibilities being restored. Oh, you’ll get people trying to tell you it’s just a survival mechanism, but the change goes beyond biology or even technology. It’s temporal. It’s cosmic chance. It’s… infinite possibilities brought to life. Even removed from normal time, and all those branching quantum possibilities…the cosmos demands periodic change and new possibilities.”

... which really puts a fascinating spin on regeneration, don’t you think? 

p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Helvetica Neue'; color: #454545} p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Helvetica Neue'; color: #454545} p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Helvetica Neue'; color: #454545} p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Helvetica Neue'; color: #454545}

[gukyi]

seoksanhwa | kth

⇒ summary: may you keep your friends close and your enemies closer. watch your back, keep to the wall. always be ready to attack. do not let your guard down, for it will be the last thing you ever do. the game of love is cruel and treacherous, the obstacles high and the stakes even higher, and the royal family never did play fair. 

⇒ sageuk, joseon, and prince!au

⇒ pairing: taehyung x female reader

⇒ word count: 23k

⇒ genre: fluff, angst, light smut

⇒ warnings: death, smut

⇒ a/n: this has been the biggest beast tbh. huGE shoutout to @simplymesimplyodd for beta-ing this and generally being very supportive via text as i screamed about being lazy and not wanting to finish this.

heavily, heavily inspired by halsey’s latest album, hopeless fountain kingdom, and completely fucked over by taehyung and namjoon’s 4 o’clock, which was the worst and best thing to be released while i was in the midst of writing this. i recommend you listen to both while reading this. house of cards and love is not over could do you some good, too.

historical accuracy who? never heard of her.

As the sun gives way to the isolated moon, wading in the sea of the sky, its closest friends bursts of light millions of eons away, a cry sounds from the center of the royal palace. It pierces through the thin wooden walls, reverberating around the courtyard as the eunuchs shiver in fear and the court ladies rush to the door. The grounds are relatively empty, save for the few couplets of servants doing their rounds, tending to the flowers and the trees and the letters and the wells.

Another shriek erupts from that same barren room, much more voluminous than the last. It sends shivers down the spines of the advisors in the throne room. Their foreheads are placed to the wooden floor, resting in a bow as they pray to the heavens.

Pray, pray, pray.

They will not move from that position until they receive word.

A mere building over, the queen cries. Beads of sweat collect at her forehead, matting the thin strands of her ivy black hair to her skin. She wears but a robe, made of the finest white silk her ladies have crafted for her, though she is layered upon layered with sheets and sheets, wrapped around her for security. Beside her sits her husband, rocking back and forth as he grasps her hand. She does not notice, but his fingers are turning the slightest shade of cerulean from her ever-tightening grip. He fears that if he forces his fingers free, something will change.

Already, he’s been advised by his most trusted friend — the palace astronomer, a man who has stayed by his side ever since they were but innocent children, minds untouched by the brutal reality of the real world — that this birth will not bode well for the future royal child born. It is predicted he will be a boy, a prince, but the stars are unaligned, the seasons are astray, the timing is arbitrary. He cannot be born now, for he will never amount to anything, but he must. If not, the King runs the risk of losing his most treasured wife in the process of prolonging their child. This birth must continue.

Another cry, another push. The king knows this prince lacks the qualities that will make him a fair and just king. The queen’s first born was not nearly as taxing on her body as he is.

Another shout, another push. The king wonders what will become of this prince. What legacy will he leave behind, if any?

Another shriek, another push. Who will he be?

“It’s a boy.”

The king looks up. His wife is panting, her breaths heavy and loud as she heaves, her chest rising and falling to the beat of her own heart. She’s let go of his hand, his fingers flushing with color as he regains feeling in them. Beside her legs is her highest court lady, dressed in her finest robes, holding a boy wrapped in a blanket.

The boy’s eyes are blown wide as he takes in his first surroundings, looking from the court lady to the queen to the king. His eyes are the richest shade of brown the king has ever seen. His skin is pruny and red, a result of his growth in his wife. He is small, much smaller than his brother. The astronomer was right. He looks weak. A poor excuse for a prince.

As the king meets his second son’s big, brown eyes, the child smiles.

Later that exact month, the king receives word that the wife of his most loyal and wise advisor has recently delivered a healthy baby girl.

Knees fall to the dirt in the courtyard, then a small frame of a torso, and finally a head of pitch black hair.

“Taehyung-ah!”

Taehyung lies on the ground, his hanbok soiled by the grey dust covering his sleeves. A grin bursts across his face, then he begins to giggle furiously, his eyes scrunching up as he howls.

The older boy walks up to him, his hanbok pristine. He looks like a god from where Taehyung lies on the pavement, the afternoon sun surrounding his silhouette with a glistening glow.

“Aw, hyungnim,” Taehyung frowns as he props his little body on his elbows before pushing himself off the ground, nearly toppling over again.

“You have to stop running around,” Namjoon instructs matter-of-factly.

“Why? We have so much space,” Taehyung asks innocently, tiny arms stretching out as if to cover the vast expanse of the palace grounds, the only home Taehyung’s ever known and the only place he’s ever explored.

“You could get hurt,” Namjoon says. “It’s difficult for the eunuchs to keep track of your whereabouts. The court ladies’ responsibilities are disrupted with your scurrying.”

Taehyung pouts, whining in response. His entire life thus far has been merely instructions, orders from parents and his brother and eunuchs and Taehyung feels trapped. He’s caged in, stuck in this little box within the palace walls where people shout commands at him.

“It’s fun,” Taehyung exclaims, twirling around right there. Namjoon reaches his arm out, only a couple years older but so much taller than he.

A rustle, then a thud.

Namjoon and Taehyung both turn around suddenly, surprised by the sudden noise. Under a sturdy branch stands a girl. Her saekdongot looks as though it’s hardly been touched, the bright green shining as though it was brand new. She stands tall, perhaps taller than Taehyung, but he’s never seen her before.

“Namjoon orabeoni is right, Taehyung wangjanim,” the girl says. Taehyung is taken aback at her forwardness. She looks no older than Namjoon, who tops him by a few years at the ripe old age of five. Taehyung, ever the childish three-year-old, is curious.

“Who are you?”

“Me?” The girl asks, grinning.

“Y/N, what are you doing out at this hour?” Namjoon asks.

“Abeonim has given me some free time. I wanted to wait in the tree to see if you would come.”

“Here we are.”

“Here you are.”

“Hyungnim?”

Namjoon turns his attention to Taehyung, whose eyes are wide and brows furrowed at the intimacy of his speech with the girl. Why is it that Namjoon appears to be best friends with her, when Taehyung has lived three years on this land without ever coming across her?

“Taehyung-ah?”

“How do you know her?”

“She is abeonim ma-ma’s advisor’s daughter. Born around the same time as you,” Namjoon says simply.

“Are you allowed out, Y/N-ssi?” Taehyung wonders.

“Of course, Taehyung wangjanim,” the girl says. “I know these grounds almost as well as you do.”

The girl holds herself with a resilience not even Namjoon can match. His brother, ever the intellectual, follows rules and holds himself high. He knows his status, and while he does not flaunt it, he is proud of it nonetheless. This girl, though, she looks strong. Stronger than him, Taehyung knows that. She’s only his age and already she is brave and confident, unabashed in the most sophisticated way.

“I never see you.”

“You’ve never needed to,” she responds quickly.

“We must leave, Y/N. I shall see you soon, I hope?” Namjoon says. He grabs ahold of Taehyung’s little wrist, wrapping his hand around it to motion to the girl that they will be departing.

Taehyung doesn’t want to leave. He wants to stay, stay and get to know the girl that Namjoon already knows very well, somehow. She interests him, more than any boring ceremony or lengthy tea gathering. It is not often Taehyung stumbles across—or rather, sees jump out of trees—children his age, not when these palace grounds are so barren, so stripped of youthful minds such as he.

“Of course, orabeoni. I expect nothing less.”

The girl bows respectfully to the both of them, her hair falling forward in front of her face as she tilts her head. Before Taehyung even registers her goodbye in his head, she’s gone, disappearing into the shadows of the building and pillars that surround him.

Namjoon leads Taehyung back to where his father sits, his desk piled with letters upon letters from advisors and business workers and townsfolk alike.

Their father, King Sejong, is a man of many talents. Having gained the throne only a year prior to Namjoon’s birth, he has already begun a series of illustrious reforms to further the progress the land has made, already created a path straight to prosperity. He often sits in his study for hours on end, refusing to be disrupted by eunuchs and advisors as he is buried under stacks of scrolls and paperwork. On days like these, Namjoon and Taehyung spend time in their own studies, or with their mother, Soheon, or outside.

They approach the door to their father’s study hesitantly and silently, the soldiers guarding the entrance tipping their heads at their arrival.

Namjoon tentatively opens the door, sliding it open ever so slightly so as not to make a statement.

“Abeonim-mama,” Namjoon says, bowing instantly. Taehyung watches Namjoon go down before his mind clicks and he follows suit.

“Namjoon-ah, Taehyung-ah, what a lovely surprise,” the king says, putting down the scroll in his hands and smiling at his two children. They both rise, standing tall. “Taehyung-ah, tsk, your sagyusam is covered in filth. What did you do today?”

“We went outside.”

“They have not cleaned the grounds for a week, Taehyung-ah. You should know better.”

“It’s a nice day today, abeonim-mama.”

Namjoon pipes in. “I accompanied him, abeonim-mama. I could not stop him from falling.”

“Did you injure yourself, Taehyung-ah?” The king questions, his brows furrowed at the idea of Taehyung being so reckless. He shouldn’t be surprised, for Taehyung is always toppling over, but still, it’s disconcerting.

“No. We met a girl today, abeonim-mama.”

“He met a girl today,” Namjoon corrects. Taehyung frowns. “It was Y/N-ssi. She was outside today, too.”

“Her father is in?” the king says, perking up at the mention of the girl. He could really use some advice from her father today.

“So he is.”

“Thank you for telling me, Namjoon-ah. I must remember to speak with her father.”

“Abeonim-mama,” Taehyung interrupts, his voice light and shy. “How come I don’t know Y/N-ssi?”

“She is none of your concern quite yet, Taehyung-ah,” the king says, though to Taehyung, it feels more like an order. A restriction.

“Abeonim-mama, may I tell him?” Namjoon asks.

“Tell me what?”

“Y/N-ssi and I are betrothed,” Namjoon explains.

“What?”

Taehyung does not understand.

“She and I will be married when we are older.”

“That’s already decided?”

“Someone has to do it,” Namjoon reasons to Taehyung.

“How come?”

“I will be the Crown Prince, Taehyung,” Namjoon tells him. The crown prince? Taehyung hears these words around, listens to them being spoken by the adults he spends his time with, but he does not know what they mean. “Father needs someone stable to take after him, see that the kingdom will be left in good hands.”

“Why not me?”

The king chuckles. Sometimes, Taehyung’s naivety is almost amusing, in an innocent sort of way. Like a fish that does not know it will be plucked from the water as it approaches the man with the bread in one hand and the trap in the other.

“I am older.”

There they are. Those words, the ones that Taehyung dreads hearing. Namjoon is older, Namjoon is wiser, Namjoon is smarter. Taehyung knows he lacks the skills Namjoon is refining, lacks the regality in his actions that Namjoon possesses, but he can make those up. The one thing Namjoon will always have over him, no matter the day, month, of year, is his age.

“You are older,” Taehyung repeats. “And that makes you better?”

The king is glad that Taehyung cannot see him nodding.

“It makes me more experienced,” Namjoon corrects. Taehyung doesn’t want to have this talk anymore.

“Will my wife have to get chosen for me?”

“Somewhat,” the king interjects. “But you need not worry about that right now, Taehyung-ah.”

Namjoon shuffles Taehyung from their father’s study.

“Why not?” Taehyung asks his final question of the day.

The king smiles heartily to himself. “You are but a child, Taehyung. Bask in it.”

As the years wear on and Taehyung grows out of the hanboks he wore as a toddler, he finds that he stumbles across the girl much more than he used to. He’s five now, like how old Namjoon was when Taehyung learned that Namjoon and Y/N would eventually end up married. He’s growing every day, or, at least that’s what the lovely court ladies are telling him as they try to fit him into a sagyusam that is much too tight on his arms. His favorite color is red, he’s decided that much. His bangs are much too long, and they tickle his eyelashes whenever he blinks.

The beauty of being a child is fresh in Taehyung’s mind as he dances around his princely responsibilities by running away from them as he giggles, his cheery voice echoing down the wooden hallways. Each day he finds a new hiding place within the palace grounds, a brief respite as his eunuchs chase after him, crying for him to return back to the palace. He always does, of course, a little bit of sweat gathering at his forehead and his cheeks tinged pink, but he finds entertainment in some sort of sadistic way in the struggle the eunuchs go through to find him. Namjoon is getting busier, though he’s barely seven. Some days, he won’t leave his study, just like their father.

It’s on one of those days that Taehyung accidentally comes across the palace gardens. He’s always known that it was there, but he was never able to get a good look at it, always dragged away to his obligations before he could smell the flowers and chase the butterflies.

Without his eunuchs to stop him, he opens the gate, standing on the tips of his toes to stretch his hand towards the latch, high above his little head.

Instantly, Taehyung is taken aback by the sheer aroma of the place, a pleasant odor that reminds him of his mother’s perfume. He can’t quite pin the scent, but he does know that it smells fresh. It smells new.

Taehyung feels at home, surrounded by so many wild things, from the birds that sit on the flourishing boughs of the trees and the lizards and geckos that scurry across the garden floor, rustling the leaves in their place. He can’t understand why anyone would prevent him from coming in here. What is there to hurt him? Even though Taehyung’s studied these plants, read about them in the books he gets during his schooling, he can hardly identify any of them. Instead, he meanders around the garden, dragging his hand along the leaves of the trees and the petals of the flowers, soft to his touch.

“Wah,” he exclaims, taking it in.

He teeters as he steps on rocks instead of staying on the grass, shooting his arms out for balance. One foot in front of the other, he moves from stone to stone until the path ends. He stops on the last rock, looking up to a mountain of pristinely shaped boxwood, a wall of green. It looks as though he’s reached the edge of the palace garden, the seemingly endless landscape of color, ending.

Taehyung keeps going, curious to see how far the garden really extends. He toddles for a couple steps lining the perimeter of the garden until he pauses right in front of a small, red flower. His favorite color is red, he reasons, leaning down on his thin little knees to pick it up.

He twirls the blossom in between his fingers, admiring its beauty, when he sees a flash of scarlet out of the corner of his eye. When he focuses on the hue, he finds merely a few steps away, the same flower.

Taehyung walks towards it, reaching down to pick it up as well. He will give these to his mother whenever he returns to the palace. But just as he’s about to rip the flower from its root, he sees another.

It seems as though the path leads through the entire garden, not limited to the walls. Taehyung follows each and every one until he finds himself much farther away from the entrance than he planned.

The flowers stop at the very opposite end of the gate, two of them distanced a few steps apart right in front of the boxwood. Taehyung wonders what compelled him to keep going, and considers following the flower path back to the entrance, where he knows his responsibilities reside.

One more step and he’s right in front of the wall yet again, looking at it closely as though it’s trying to tell him something. He feels like there’s something it has to say, something he’s missing.

He gazes from the tip of the boxwood, high above his head, to the bottom, shades of green colliding, before pressing his hand to the plant.

He feels something move.

Taehyung pauses, drawing his hand away as he ponders. No wonder he was so intrigued by this.

He presses again, this time much harder, and to his surprise, a door swings open, the entire front covered with boxwood to blend in with the rest of the garden wall.

The door leads to a hidden room, one that, if not blocked off, would blend seamlessly with the rest of the garden. Taehyung is hardly old enough to take it all in, but as he enters, the hand he holds in front of him with the flowers between his fingers drops to his side, his grip loosening, but not letting them fall to the grass floor. This room can’t be much bigger than the closet that holds all of his fancy hanboks, the ones he wears for crowning ceremonies and when esteemed guests come over, but flowers unlike the ones in the main garden line the walls and at the other edge of the rectangular space sits a single bench.

There’s a girl on that bench. The tip of her head peeks out from over the top of the back, barely making Taehyung’s view. It doesn’t look like she’s noticed him, yet.

Taehyung takes a tentative step towards the bench, then another, and another. Eventually, he finds himself just out of the girl’s peripheral vision, standing right behind the bench as he ponders his next move.

“Hello, Taehyung wangjanim,” the girl speaks.

Taehyung jumps so suddenly he’s surprised his feet don’t come loose from his shoes as he falls to the floor, taken aback.

“You know me?” He asks.

The girl stands up and turns around, her face finally meeting Taehyung’s eyes, and he instantly recognizes her.

“It’s you,” he says, mouth agape.

“I don’t think we’ve met properly,” the girl says. She tips her head, bowing. “Hello, Taehyung wangjanim. I’m Y/N.”

“Hello, Y/N-ssi.”

“When did you find this place?”

“Just now,” Taehyung responds. “How long have you been here?”

“Right before the sun was highest in the sky.”

“So, a while?”

She nods. The girl makes to sit back down on the bench, but she pauses, holding out a dainty hand for Taehyung to take. He pulls himself up, still holding onto the little red flowers. She sits back down on the bench, scooting over and patting the seat, motioning for Taehyung to join her. As he gets up, he notices that neither of their feet touch the ground.

“When did you find this?” Taehyung wonders aloud, gazing around to all of the different greenery.

“Three moons ago.”

“Do you come a lot?”

“Whenever I feel as though I need to leave.”

“Am I intruding?”

The girl shakes her head, a smile breaking out across her face. “Never.”

They sit there, in relative silence, listening to the birds chirping and the leaves rustling. Taehyung doesn’t think he’s ever been so quiet in his life, so peaceful and calm. Often times, in meetings and gatherings, he is restless, his body desperate for movement and engagement as the advisors and scholars drone on. For all he knows, they could be spending hours sitting there, in the same spot, listening to the same birds and the same leaves.

Taehyung looks down at his hands, the flowers wilting ever so slightly as they use up the last of the water left in their stems, They are somewhat crushed, the petals, flattened from his tight grip and his fall to the grass. He holds the flowers up in front of him. She turns towards the movement, interested.

“What are those?” She questions.

“Flowers.”

“What kind?”

Taehyung shrugs. He’s got himself a terrible memory.

“They’re seoksanhwa,” the girl states, and Taehyung’s eyes widen. She’s full of surprises, this girl.

“How do you know?”

“The books I study tell me,” she states. “Red is my favorite color.”

Taehyung smiles, mouth open wide as his teeth show. “Mine too!”

“Really?” the girl asks. “We have the same favorite color.”

“Do you want these?” Taehyung asks, holding them out so they sit right under her face.

She’s taken aback by the sudden gesture, brows raised.

“They’re yours,” he decides, taking her tiny hand in his and wrapping her fingers around the mini-bouquet he’s made. “They match your hanbok.”

The red brings out the fire in her eyes.

“Thank you, Taehyung wangjanim,” the girl says, smiling as she brings the flowers to her nose, their faint scent dancing around her head. “They are beautiful.”

“So are you,” Taehyung says truthfully, gazing fondly at the girl beside him as she takes in the aroma of the blossoms.

“You can’t say that, Taehyung wangjanim!” She exclaims, pushing his shoulder as she grins. “I’m getting married to Namjoon orabeoni.”

“But you’re still beautiful, Y/N-ssi,” Taehyung insists, giggling. “Hyungnim is lucky to have a girl like you.”

She beams, smiling down at her lap.

Taehyung takes a single flower from the several in her hand and holds her chin towards him. As he places the flower in her hair, they do not break eye contact, their lips turning upwards at the sight of each other, innocent and pure and divine. They are golden children, sitting in the garden all alone as they share this moment. Golden.

One thing Taehyung shouldn’t be surprised about (but he is, anyway, because of course he is) is the fact that Namjoon’s bride-to-be is aggressively unrelenting at best. In her element, she is practically the exact opposite of Namjoon, fiery, loud, unchangeable. She runs across the grounds without fear because she does not care if her saekdongot gets dirtied or if her unhye gets scuffed. She is aggressive, strong like Taehyung as they chase each other around and hide behind frightened court ladies, laughing at each other. More often than not, Namjoon will decline their invitation to join them in the gardens or the forest, shaking his head as Taehyung will gaze towards the pile of books by his desk, nearly as tall as he.

On the off chance Namjoon is feeling like taking a break, he joins them outside and takes a seat on the closest stairwell as he watches over his betrothed and his brother, running as though the finish line is thousands of years away.

“Agissi!”

Taehyung first hears a court lady cry out as he sits among the bookshelves in the palace library. The king has instructed him to brush up on his readings after nine years of disregarding them, so now Taehyung is spending the rest of the day lazily strolling through the cases, pretending to pay attention to the words on the pages. Next, he hears several footsteps, all furiously fast-paced and quick in succession.

Taehyung has a feeling he knows who they belong to.

The book in his hands is barely open before he sees a flash of red and finds himself getting pulled along somewhere, a little hand grasping onto the collar of his cerulean blue sagyusam as the book drops to the wooden floor, forgotten.

Eventually, they stop, hidden in the study that sits right next to the library, obscured from any court lady’s view. Taehyung’s breathing heavily despite the fact that he is constantly running, but the girl in front of him presses her palm to his lips, her soft skin meeting his, as she waits.

“Shh!” she whispers in response to Taehyung’s gasp, eyeing the door right in front of them.

“Agissi!”

Her eyes widen and she grabs a hold of his collar again, scrunching it up between her fingers as she leads him to the armoire in the back of the room, open and empty. They climb in, their little bodies easily allowing both of them to fit inside as she pulls the door closed, their eyes peeking through the cracks in the wood as they watch the court ladies rush by the study in the continuation of their search.

Taehyung has never been in such close proximity with a girl before, other than his mother and the court ladies that bathe and dress him. He can feel her heavy breaths on his chest as she triple checks to make sure the coast is clear, pushing him into the corner of the armoire so that she has more room.

The light from outside filters through the thin cracks in the pristine wood, illuminating only slivers of their bodies here and there, part of her collarbones, her eyes, her hair. Taehyung watches in awe as she takes control of the situation, keeping quiet for another few seconds before swinging the armoire door open in relief, sighing aloud as she steps out.

“Thanks for waiting with me, Taehyung wangjanim,” she beams, her eyes crescents as they smile along with her lips. “Next time we do this, I want to braid your hair.”

Taehyung’s hand flies to the back of his head, fingering through his growing locks. He wants them to get all the way down to the floor. He follows her, crawling out of the closet and standing up, his hair making it just past his shoulders.

“I want to braid yours,” he blurts back, making her laugh.

“Mine? Can you even braid, Taehyung wangjanim?” She chuckles.

Taehyung pouts. No, he can’t braid. His mother never taught him to.

“I’ll learn.”

“I’ll teach you.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Hardly two weeks later, at a family dinner between her own and Taehyung’s, she takes the liberty of instructing him. Namjoon’s eyes, though they should be, aren’t focused on his future bride and disruptive dongsaeng, but rather his father in law, listening to the intellectual conversations between the king and his favorite advisor as though he was an adult himself. Beside him are his giggling counterparts, trying to muffle their laughter as she puts her hands in his hair and tickles his shoulders with the strands.

Taehyung reaches his little arms as far back as he can to match the movements of her own as she weaves her way through his hair, their fingertips barely touching between each ivy black strand.

“Wangjanim, please,” she whispers into his ear as she finishes up, the hair off of Taehyung’s shoulders and in a messy, loose braid down his back.

“I want to learn,” he murmurs back, almost whining.

“Try to braid mine,” she says, moving from her spot behind him to the pillow where she originally sat, turning her back to him. She holds out her hair, much longer than his, and he tentatively takes it in his hands. He definitely does not know how to do this.

Taehyung separates her hair into three different parts like she did his, but from there, he forgets. He, desperate to get it right, starts taking the strands and placing them arbitrarily along her back, the gold in her hanbok standing out against her hair.

She giggles, her entire body moving up and down with her laughter, and it makes Taehyung lose his focus.

“Stop moving,” he orders, trying to fix what he knows is already wrong.

Her hands move to the back of her head, feeling around as she glosses over the mess Taehyung has made. “You’re not very good at this, Taehyung wangjanim.”

“Don’t rub it in.”

“I think it’s cute,” she decides, content with the overlapping disaster Taehyung thinks her hair is, but she merely wraps the loose red daenggi sitting on her lap (Taehyung had no idea she had such a ribbon on hand. It blended in seamlessly with the rest of her hanbok) around the bottom of the braid, clearly happy to show it off.

Taehyung looks at her as she gets back to eating the mandu in front of her, slipping into the conversation Namjoon and the adults are having as though she had never left. And perhaps Taehyung isn’t very good at deciphering things, especially his textbooks and his father’s emotions, but he’s almost positive that what he feels for this girl is something more than friendship.

(It will take him several more years, taxing, taxing years, for him to decide that it’s love.)

“She’s very comfortable with Taehyung wangja, isn’t she?” the advisor asks the king, leaning towards him so as to whisper the words in his ear. Neither of them take their eyes off of the two, sitting next to each other and giggling to something amusing to their innocent minds.

“Yes,” the king responds curtly. He shifts his gaze to his eldest son, who sits silently as he eats his meal, not too quickly but not too slowly, either. Though he is right next to his future queen, he says nothing to her. “They are close.”

“Does that worry you, Jeonha?”

“No,” the king says firmly, shaking his head. “Taehyung wangja knows she is betrothed to Namjoon wangja. They are just friends.”

The king will not allow Taehyung to ruin the heir to the throne like this. If he states that they are friends, then that is all they will ever amount to be. Taehyung deserves company, sure, but he needs limits.

The king supposes that as they get older, their responsibilities will drive them apart.

Oh, how he was wrong.

Taehyung passes through those awkward “I’m not technically old enough to be a young adult but I’m also not young enough to be considered a child” years quite quickly, or at least, he thinks he does. Maybe Namjoon has some ugly scrolls of Taehyung’s preteen angst put into words somewhere in his study, but that’s a small price to pay.

Now, Taehyung is fourteen, and he skips around the palace grounds with just as much spunk as he did when he was four. His father says that innocent minds die as they begin to come across the true evils of the world, but Taehyung disagrees. Innocent minds never die, Taehyung thinks. All that happens is that they begin to hide. The world does not treat optimists very kindly. That, Taehyung knows.

Being fourteen is simultaneously the best and worst. Taehyung isn’t sixteen yet, not like his brother, who is buried with paperwork to help out their father daily and only ever emerges from his room to eat. He’s not twelve, either, like when he would still be treated like a little kid who still chased after butterflies in the palace gardens he was forbidden to visit.

Being fourteen is the best, because he isn’t old enough to be given the same amount of taxing work, work that prevents him from going outside and basking in his fleeting youth. His father doesn’t trust him to take care of affairs like his brother, but Taehyung supposes that that’s alright, because in return, he gets free time. Fourteen is just under the age where adults think you’re capable of doing adult things. He knows he’s getting older. He knows.

Being fourteen is also the worst, because no one takes a fourteen-year-old seriously. Nobody, not his brother, or his father, or even the eunuchs who still feel like they need to chase after him when Taehyung takes one misstep. Taehyung has things to say, he’s read his books, he’s kept up with the royal and financial affairs of his father, but whenever he opens his mouth, Namjoon speaks before he can.

Today is no different.

There’s a water crisis in the southern peninsula. The drought left last year, but its repercussions have remained in its place, the rivers still low and the wells still dry. The king refuses to allow anybody to monopolize the water business, believing that water is a right rather than a privilege, but he lacks any idea as to how to return it to the parched grass and even thirstier villagers.

Taehyung does. He thinks that the overflowing rivers in the North could provide subsistence for the time being as the water levels even out and the drought wears off if they just created a couple of canals. Once everything is stable, they can block up the canals, and life will return to what it once was. This not only solves the water problem, but it also provides some temporary jobs for those struggling to beat out the poverty within their lives.

Taehyung’s only allowed into the gathering of the ministers and advisors and his father because Namjoon is, and it’s unjust if one sibling is permitted into the meeting but the other not.

“How about buckets?” one of the advisors suggests. “People can transfer water from the North to the South.”

“That’s too long of a journey,” the king decides. “No commoner, let alone a noble, would want to make that trip.”

“The sea?” Another perks up.

“Sea water is undrinkable.”

“Canals,” Taehyung mutters under his breath as he stands in between his brother and another advisor. “Why don’t they try canals?”

“Abeonim-mama,” Namjoon pipes up from next to Taehyung, drawing their father’s attention towards them. “Taehyung has something to say.”

“Taehyung?” The king asks.

The advisor next to him laughs, like he’s doubtful of Taehyung’s competence. Smoke billows from Taehyung’s bright red ears.

“I was thinking that maybe we could try—” Taehyung begins before he’s almost instantly cut off.

“Taehyung, I appreciate the contribution, but I don’t really think now is the time for illogical ideas,” the king says. Taehyung hasn’t even gotten his idea out, but it’s already being disregarded, labelled as illogical and dumb.  

“My apologies, abeonim-mama,” Taehyung bows, rolling his eyes as his head faces the floor. He stands up straight and makes to walk out of the meeting room.

“What Taehyung was trying to say,” Namjoon says, clearly trying to give Taehyung credit where he deserves it. “Is that perhaps canals would work to distribute the water evenly, abeonim-mama?”

Taehyung’s nearly out the door when he hears the king’s response.

“Canals! That’s brilliant, Namjoon,” he cheers, applauding the boy.

Taehyung feels like his eyes roll so far back they could fall out of his ears. He shuts the door behind him, and beelines towards the gardens.

The seoksanhwa is there as always, waiting for him to open the door to the secret room behind the wall of boxwood, guiding him to the entrance. Taehyung knows these gardens by heart at this age, having spent years here already. He knows each plant like the back of his hand, each flower petal like he’s never looked at anything else in his life. So what if he can’t name more than two economic policies? You could blindfold him and hold his hand out to graze the leaf of a flower, and he would identify it instantly.

There is no girl on the bench this time.

Taehyung’s really not surprised. She’s very busy these days, as one is. When Namjoon gets busier, she does too, getting absorbed into her responsibilities as the crown princess. She has to learn medicine, sewing, languages, and literature. It’s no wonder she lacks the free time Taehyung has as second-in-line.

Sometimes it’s nice like this. Being alone, that is. Sometimes, Taehyung likes it when she’s not here. It is their space, but sometimes, he wants it to be his. Taehyung’s just short enough for him to be able to stretch out horizontally on the seat of the bench without having to scrunch up his legs, which makes for a fantastic napping location. Taehyung has lost count of how many times he’s accidentally (or on purpose) fallen asleep in here, away from the business of being royal.

Taehyung lies down, in desperate need of a cool down session after that infuriating meeting where he was treated no better than a servant offering tea.

Taehyung wishes he was taken seriously. Taehyung wishes that he didn’t live in Namjoon’s shadow, always outdone by the kingdom’s favorite prince. Taehyung wishes that for once, he could just get something that he wants.

Taehyung turns so that he’s facing the sky, the sun’s rays barely making it into his peripheral vision. He looks up into the blue of the sky, and it reminds him of the flowers in the garden, and Y/N. Last time he saw her, a couple weeks ago, she was wearing a saekdongot the same color as the sky. It made her glow.

A bird passes overhead, barely a quick flash of brown before it’s gone.

Taehyung smiles to himself. Even if everything else is taken from him, at least he has this.

He will always have this.

He hardly notices, but his eyes begin to drift shut, soothed closed by the sounds of the garden, his first and only home.

“Taehyung wangjanim! Taehyung wangjanim!”

Taehyung groans as he hears his name called, keeping his eyes closed. Maybe if he doesn’t open them, he won’t have to face whatever is after him.

“Taehyung wangjanim!” The voice repeats, getting increasingly louder.

Taehyung whines again, stretching his arm out until it hits the wood backing of the bench, making him wince in pain. As he moves to rub his fingers with his other hand, he miscalculates and rolls right off the seat, dropping to the garden floor with a thud. Taehyung thinks his entire left side is bruised now.

“Taehyung wangjanim!”

Taehyung is so tired he thinks that he could fall right back asleep in the comfort of the prickly grass. He’s just about to shut his eyes again and delay his return to his obligations when a very familiar face appears over his, looking down.

The sun is in the perfect position in the sky to offer some ridiculously angelic ethereal glow to her silhouette, dimming her face in exchange for the halo that surrounds her.

“Taehyung wangjanim,” she laughs, holding a hand out for him to take.

Taehyung gladly grabs onto it, pulling himself up from the grass.

“When did you get here, Y/N?” He asks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Even through his haze, she is as gorgeous as ever.

“Only about a minute ago,” she responds. “The entire palace is looking for you.”

Taehyung has no idea how long it’s been since he stormed out of the meeting room, filled with rage. The last thing he remembers is falling asleep on the bench. All he knows is that the sun is significantly lower in the sky than it was when he did.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she says. “But I knew you’d be here. Everyone else is looking around the different estates.”

“You found me, I guess,” he says, smiling lazily.

“I’ll always find you, wangjanim,” she decides, holding his hand. “You’ll never be lost to me.”

Taehyung looks at their outstretched arms, joined by their fingertips as they stand in the dimming light of the sun as it sets over the wall of boxwood. He can see their elongated shadows in the grass. The tassel of her baetssi daenggi blows in the wind, mimicking the loose strands of her hair that have escaped from her braid. They stay like that, watching each other for perhaps seconds, perhaps hours.

Taehyung knows that he’s old enough to be expected to be knowledgeable about the rules. He knows he can’t keep doing this, keep allowing these moments—the ones that dance on the line between a platonic and romantic relationship—when he shares them with the one girl he knows he can’t have. He knows he shouldn’t be doing what he’s doing right now, gazing into her eyes and imagining a life where he can just keep looking at them. Shouldn’t be wondering what they may have been like in a previous life, where there were no boundaries that separated them.

Perhaps, just this one time, Taehyung can blame it on his age.

Apparently, Taehyung’s sixteenth birthday is a very big deal.

He doesn’t want it to be.

All of his other birthdays were small affairs, a nice meal and a couple of good presents from his family, but this one happens to be a Very Big Deal.

In hindsight, Taehyung should have known that his sixteenth birthday would be an extravagant engagement from all of the excitement Namjoon got for his, but it came across him like a damn tidal wave.

Birthdays already tire Taehyung out more than they should. He enjoyed them as a child, where the adults would finally excuse his ruckus behavior and call it “excitement from his birthday”, giving him entertaining knickknacks and trinkets and actually allowing him to play with them. Now that he’s older, the presents are nice but everyone expects him to be capable of sitting still through a boring ceremony wearing clothing heavier than several gallons of water. At least his ceremony isn’t as long as Namjoon’s was, since he is not going to be the designated crown prince.

His dalryeongpo is the physical version of the weight Taehyung constantly feels pressing down on his shoulders.

The first snow of the season was much later than it normally is, but it made up for its delay with an extensive amount of the cold, white dust. Even a week later, there is still a decently-sized layer of snow outside the palace grounds, sitting on top of the frozen lake and covering the gardens.

Last winter season was the last time Taehyung decided he would ever go outside to play in the snow. He’s too old for it, now, too grown up. He stands nearly as tall as Namjoon at this age, and definitely taller than his mother, and he is not the child he used to be.

It’s the early morning. The rising sun shines down on the snow, reflecting off of it, but not melting it. Taehyung is wearing nothing but his jeogori, but hanging on the wall next to him is the dalryeongpo he will spend the rest of the day wearing. Taehyung eyes it with distaste, bile rising in his mouth.

He gazes outside his window, peering over the rice paper covering the panes.

“Wangjanim!”

The little girl stumbles over her own feet, hidden by the layer of snow as she runs along, making new prints in the white. Her cream hanbok blends with that of the snow on the ground, but she sticks out like a sore thumb anyway as she shrieks.

Taehyung furiously chases after her, a snowball the size of his head in his hands. It’s too big for him to hold in only one palm, so he’s dragging it around with both hands. His back is already covered with remnants of snowballs, sticking to the silk. His ears are red and his nose pink.

“You can’t keep running!” He shouts, stepping in the prints she’s making in front of them. Their feet are just barely the same size.

She giggles again, having turned around and stopped in her path, watching Taehyung approach her.

“Come and get me!” She shouts.

A fire ignites in Taehyung’s eyes, going from a spark to a flame within an instant as he pauses in his tracks, rolling the snowball between his fingers. She’s too busy laughing at the excitement of it all to realize the ball has left Taehyung’s hands, and she’s hit right in the chest, falling backwards.

Taehyung nearly apologizes, until he hears her giggle.

He runs over to her and sees her lying down in the snow, the edges of her hanbok soaking wet. Fallen snowflakes decorate her hair, and the color of her lips matches the crimson in his cheeks.

Taehyung smiles down at her as her eyes scrunch up. She’s still grinning, as though the cold doesn’t phase her. He holds a hand out (he thinks he hears his mother calling for their return) for her to grab, and she does.

Next thing Taehyung knows, he’s lying down in the snow as well.

“You should know better, wangjanim,” she squeals, their hands still connected, a warm respite in the middle of this bitter cold.

“I should,” he agrees.

“Look at the trees,” she says, sticking her free hand towards the sky.

The branches above them are bare, but they sit with the faintest line of white around them, snow that falls onto their feet when a breeze passes by. They almost look like a spider’s web. Taehyung wishes he was good at art, so he could save this image forever.

“They’re pretty,” she decides firmly, letting her hand fall to her side.

“You’re pretty.”

He feels a shove on his shoulder.

“Stop telling me that,” she says. “You say it too much.”

“I never want you to forget it.”

Taehyung blows his hot breath in her face, watching it dissipate around her head, and she laughs.

“Taehyung-ah!”

Taehyung sits up at the sound of his mother’s voice. He knew she was looking for them.

“We have to go back,” he tells her.

“That’s such a long way,” she whines.

They press their hands into the snow, the frost stinging their skin as they push themselves to their feet. Taehyung gets in front of her, kneeling down as she pauses, eyes wide.

“Get on my back.”

“What?”

“Get on my back.”

“Taehyung wangjanim…”

“Come on. We’re not going to get back any faster,” Taehyung says.

He feels her hesitantly get on his back, her hands grasping onto his thin shoulders as he takes her legs under his arms and stands up. Taehyung decides he needs to work out more, because he can barely lift up a small pile of books, let alone another person.

Taehyung hears his mother call his name again, and takes the liberty of running. She breaks out into a squeal when she feels him speed up, but her surprise soon turns to laughter the further they go.

Once they reach the safety of the balcony connected to the main estate, he kneels back down, letting her climb off of him. She gets down, her little feet stepping onto the clear pavement, beaming.

“Thank you for the ride, Taehyung wangjanim,” she says.

Taehyung smiles back at her. “Anything for you.”

There’s a knock at the door that Taehyung disregards entirely. He can see them now, running across the snow-covered lawn without a single care in the world. He wonders what that might be like, these days.

Another knock.

Knock, knock.

Taehyung walks over and opens the door to find his head eunuch bowing respectfully behind it.

“Taehyung daegun, I am here to dress you.”

Taehyung nods in response, letting the eunuch dress him in his robes as he stands with his arms out, like a statue. With each piece of fabric wrapped over his shoulders and around his torso, Taehyung feels his body get heavier.

When the eunuch is done, he steps away, admiring his work. Taehyung must admit, the eunuch has dressed him in such a way that even under the layers upon layers, he is quite comfortable.

“Taehyung daegun?” The eunuch asks.

“Yes?”

“Happy birthday.”

“Thank you.”

For the most part, Taehyung zones out during his ceremony. He really could not care less about the whole ordeal, standing on the platform with an empty smile on his face as he looks over the king’s advisors and ministers and eunuchs alike. It’s not even that big of an event, just a couple of speeches to celebrate new responsibilities because now Taehyung’s old enough to handle Adult Things. Quite frankly, Taehyung doesn’t think getting more work should be celebrated, but if he gets a nice meal and some gifts, then he supposes it’s worth it.

Even Namjoon speaks, and it is the only thing Taehyung pays attention to. He waxes poetic about Confucian principles like filial piety, but then he says this:

“Being second-in-line is difficult, because you’re the backup, the understudy, the Plan B. But you’re also just as important as the Crown Prince,” he says, looking Taehyung straight in the eyes. He has Taehyung’s full attention. “You have to be ready to drop everything at a moment’s notice, because what if the Crown Prince gets sick, dies, becomes incapable of ruling, or betrays that which cultivated him? It is the utmost duty of the second-in-line to accomplish that which the Crown Prince could not achieve. I am proud that Taehyung has made it thus far, and I know I, as the future king of this fruitful land, can always count on him. I truly hope that he can count on me as well.”

Taehyung takes the liberty of bowing, head to toe, to Namjoon, the only man in his life Taehyung is brave enough to trust.

The rest of the ceremony is just as boring as the beginning, but Taehyung takes Namjoon’s words to heart. He guesses he really does matter, and not just because there’s a gold-encrusted robe around his shoulders.

Finally, after what feels like thousands of eons standing in the king’s throne room, a dead expression on his face as he looks directly forward into nothing but a haze of court folk, the festivities really begin. Taehyung is presented with the most wondrous array of food he’s ever seen in his entire life as he takes a seat next to his brother, equally as eager to dig in. It appears as though the royal chefs have prepared all of Taehyung’s favorite dishes, though he’s not really biased towards a select few, and cherishes all food regardless of its contents.

Taehyung is too busy swallowing down the nicest dubuseon he’s ever had to notice her settling in in the seat opposite him at the large round table they sit at. She’s wearing some of her nicest clothes, too, accompanied by her father, personally invited by the King himself to join in on Taehyung’s birthday bash.

It is only when he hears her light, airy laugh that he finally looks up, meeting her eyes. Her mouth is right open, frozen in mid-giggle to something she most definitely found funny, but she closes it the second she sees him, shooting him a smile instead. It’s all teeth and hardly any lip, and Taehyung’s heart takes a tumble. He suddenly doesn’t think he can eat anything more, for his stomach is filled with butterflies, fluttering around and draining him of his appetite.

Wooden chopsticks drop to the floor, Taehyung’s hand suspended in the air. A court lady rushes over to pick them up from where they’re beginning to roll under the table, and another scurries towards Taehyung with a perfectly clean and unpoisoned pair to replace them. Taehyung almost forgets to nod in response, only remembering at the last second, but he places his new pair of chopsticks on the table beside his bowl, still half-full.

“Yah,” Namjoon says from next to him, eyeing his bowl with confusion. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Not anymore, hyungnim,” Taehyung says truthfully. Everything in front of him seems very unappealing.

“You should eat, Taehyung-ah,” Namjoon says. “The chefs made all of this for you.”

“I did. I’m full,” Taehyung says distantly. He’s trying to keep his eyes off of her and how her smile rivals the winter sunrises, but to no avail.

Namjoon follows Taehyung’s gaze until it leads him right to his future bride, sitting across from them as she laughs at something their mother is telling her. Oh.

“At least eat another dubuseon,” Namjoon says, picking one up himself and shoving it straight into Taehyung’s mouth. Taehyung coughs on the tofu, sputtering as Namjoon drops it onto his tongue. He swallows it in a single go and pounds his chest to get it down his esophagus as Namjoon laughs.

“Hyungnim!” Taehyung whines at Namjoon’s beaming grin. Taehyung is about to counter with a glassful of green tea when, out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of her. She’s nearly falling back from laughing at the view in front of her, Namjoon stuffing food down Taehyung’s throat and Taehyung about to counter, and suddenly, Taehyung doesn’t really think he needs vengeance.

Being a prince is tiring, thinks Taehyung as he is led around by his eunuchs and court ladies. They’ve obviously tried to throw him a nice birthday party—he is sixteen, after all—but all Taehyung wants for his birthday is this one textbook from China on herbal medicine and a nice day that consists of nothing except sleep.

Taehyung is in the midst of being shown the new fabrics his mother had gotten him for the court ladies to make into a new hanbok for him when he decides that he’s had enough of this party nonsense.

“Taehyung daegun, where are you going?”

Taehyung jumps at the sound of one of his eunuchs as they catch him trying to suavely move away from the festivities. He cracks a guilty smile. “Oh, just to be by myself for a little. I’ll join up later.”

“We still have things to show you, Taehyung daegun,” the eunuch says, a little heartbroken. It takes all of Taehyung’s willpower not to cave in and stay with them, just to keep the sad looks off of their faces.

“Show me them in a little bit, alright? I just need some ‘me’ time,” Taehyung suggests, eyebrows raised. His eunuchs relent, bowing as they nod. Taehyung smiles at them before trying his darnedest not to immediately bolt, walking patiently away from them until he dashes when he knows he’s out of sight.

Unsurprisingly, Taehyung ends up in the secret room in the palace gardens, but someone’s already there.

“Tired, Taehyung wangjanim?”

Taehyung is taken aback by the sudden words. It seems that every time he comes here when she’s already arrived, she doesn’t even have to turn around to know it’s him who walked through the door.

“Yeah,” he sighs, walking over and sitting down next to her. He’s too tall to lie down on the bench anymore.

“I figured you’d be, sooner or later,” she says, sliding over to give him more space. Subconsciously, he starts playing with her hair at the same time she starts playing with her thumbs.

“You know me so well, Y/N,” he chuckles. She is silent.

“I have a gift for you, wangjanim,” she says, and Taehyung perks up at the mention of a present. “For your birthday.”

“You do?”

She gasps, a hand pressed to her chest with an accosted expression on her face. “Did you really think I would fail to get a birthday gift for my best friend’s sixteenth birthday? Do you even know me?”

Taehyung chuckles, continuing to twirl the ends of her hair in his hands. “What is it then, Y/N?”

She moves away from him, her hair escaping from in between the pads of his fingertips. Taehyung watches closely as she feels around her hanbok for his present, eventually pulling out a long red ribbon, worn-down at the edges.

“Here.”

“A daenggi?”

She laughs to herself. “It’s not just any daenggi, wangjanim. Don’t you remember?”

Her hands move to the back of her head, feeling around as she glosses over the mess Taehyung has made. “You’re not very good at this, Taehyung wangjanim.”

“Don’t rub it in.”

“I think it’s cute,” she decides, content with the overlapping disaster Taehyung thinks her hair is, but she merely wraps the loose red daenggi sitting on her lap (Taehyung had no idea she had such a ribbon on hand. It blended in seamlessly with the rest of her hanbok) around the bottom of the braid, clearly happy to show it off.

The memory comes back to Taehyung like a burst of light, like a star falling from the sky as the moon watches it leave.

“You kept it?” He asks softly as she places the ribbon in his hands. He rubs his fingers along it, looking down in awe as he takes in the nostalgia of it all.

“Of course,” she giggles. “It’s yours.”

Taehyung beams.

“Turn around,” she instructs, and he does so, his back facing her. She taps his shoulder and out of the peripherals of his vision, he sees her hand, extended out. She curls her fingers in, motioning for him to give her the daenggi. He does, hesitant at what she may be doing, but he feels light fingers holding onto his hair, at the end of his braid. She loosens it before he feels it become tighter, and when she’s finished, the daenggi no longer rests in her hands, but is instead wrapped around the bottom of his braid. “I like it.”

“So do I.”

Taehyung turns back to face her as she turns away from him, eyes gazing all over the place, from the snow-covered boxwood to the remnants of flowers, dead from the bitter cold.

“I feel like it’s been ages since we’ve done this,” Taehyung says.

“Years?”

“Maybe not years.”

“When was the last time we were here?” She wonders aloud, gazing off into the sky. “Together, like this.”

“Too long ago,” Taehyung replies.

“We are both so busy nowadays, Taehyung wangjanim,” she tells him. It’s such a shame their youth has escaped from their grasp. “I have things to attend to with my father’s position in the court, my mother’s infirmary, and my engagement.”

“Yes, the engagement,” Taehyung says, more to himself than to her. It’s almost as if it’s a reminder to himself that what he feels for the girl beside him isn’t permanent, can’t be permanent. “How’s that going?”

“It’s going,” she says, clearly worn out from the countless hours she’s spent dealing with it. “Namjoon orabeoni is taking care of most of it for me, which I really appreciate. We’re not even technically engaged yet, and I’m already tired.”

“When is it official?”

“A few years. Abeonim says that a sixteen-year-old girl is too young to get married, and while I’ve seen younger, I’m in no rush either.”

Taehyung needs to change the topic before he says something he’ll regret. He feels the words coming up his throat, threatening to spill out off of his tongue.

“He’s right.”

A serene sort of silence settles in between them, neither of them really knowing what to say to keep the conversation afloat. It’s like this a lot more than it used to be. Taehyung doesn’t want to think that they’ve drifted apart, but they must certainly have lost the flair their younger selves had, more often at a loss for words than bubbling with excitement.

“What are you doing these days, Taehyung wangjanim?”

She feels like a stranger.

“Why call me ‘wangjanim’ when I have a new title?” He counters.

“Because wangjanim reminds me of the little boy who used to sit in this exact spot, picking the wild seoksanhwa from their roots in the grass,” she says, and Taehyung’s heart skips a beat (no, several) at the nostalgia behind it.

He feels a blush rising on his cheeks. “Am I not that boy, anymore?”

“You’re certainly much taller than he was,” she jokes.

Taehyung laughs, a hearty one that reaches his eyes. “Is that the only difference?”

“Your hair’s gotten longer,” she says, combing her fingers through it. It hangs loose down his back, having consistently refused putting it up like Namjoon does. He knows he should and that his refusal to is childish, but he’s always liked the way it’s looked down.

“Nice to know I don’t look seven, anymore,” Taehyung says.

“Don’t you wish you were, though? Seven again?”

“Sometimes,” Taehyung admits. “I wish we could run in the snow again. I wish we could chase each other around the gardens again. I wish we didn’t have any adult responsibilities and I wish we could see each other now as much as we did then.”

“Don’t you wish anything for yourself?” She asks. “Why the both of us?”

Taehyung is too honest for his own good. “You’ve always been and will always be by my side.”

Taehyung is too genuine for his own good.

“Taehyung wangjanim…” she says, the words dying on her lips as she meets his gaze, soft and sad and sure.

Taehyung is too reckless for his own good.

Before he allows his mind to register it, he’s leaning in, his hand sneaking its way up from where it sits on his lap to her neck, thumb brushing her cheek. His eyes are closed—he doesn’t want to see the look on her face when it happens—as he turns her head towards him and presses his lips to hers.

It’s a sight to behold, Taehyung thinks. He can’t imagine what this may look like to an outsider. There they sit, against the setting sun just barely shining over the wall of snow-covered boxwood, only silhouettes visible. Perhaps, to an outsider, they are not royalty and nobility, they are just kids, kids desperately in love and relishing in the feeling of their lips against each other’s.

All Taehyung feels is warm.

Warm, warm, warmth.

She is the sun setting against the horizon, her lips rays that make his blood boil.

They might kiss for hours, or mere moments, but Taehyung doesn’t know. He loses track of time the second his lips are on hers.

They part, soft as ever, breaths heavy but not too heavy.

“Wangjanim?” She asks quietly, bringing her fingers to her lips, still tingling.

Taehyung is breathless at the sight of her. “You’re beautiful, Y/N.”

“So you’ve told me,” she muses.

Taehyung is a little bit daring, and pecks her on the cheek another time, making her jump in a pleasant surprise. “And I will never stop telling you. Every day of my life, Y/N, you are beautiful.”

Maybe they’re golden again. Just this once, in the glow of the evening light, they are golden.

Secret kisses and silent giggles follow them throughout their days. It is the best year of Taehyung’s life, hands down, and one where his beaming personality shines through the most. It seemed as though his youth had always been out of his grasp, but finally, Taehyung can stretch a little bit more. Just enough.

She meets him whenever she can, wherever she can. Though they find themselves only growing busier, any chance to see each other is a chance they welcome with open arms.

Autumn leaves fall outside the window to Taehyung’s study, where he’s been trapped for the past several hours, paperwork piling up. Namjoon is much too busy these days to do anything but work, so Taehyung hardly ever sees him. Shades of orange, red, and brown cover the grass outside, bits of green peeking through open spaces here and there as Taehyung sighs, closing another textbook and crassly flinging it across his desk, tired. He’s nearing seventeen, but the king still does not trust Taehyung with affairs that matter, leaving the trivial occurrences under his wing. Namjoon says that everything Taehyung does, down to his bathing schedule, matters in the grand scheme of things, but Taehyung doesn’t really think so.

Taehyung makes the executive decision that watching the leaves fall from the trees, swaying down in the air until they peacefully land on the ground, is more interesting than the scrolls in front of him, turning around to stare at them rather than his freshly-inked quill and blank parchment.

He stays that like for a couple minutes, allowing himself a respite from the work he was never meant to do. His mind clears and for once in his life, Taehyung is silent, silent and sleepy.

There’s a knock.

Taehyung’s eyes burst open as he frantically looks around, about to turn to the door when he hears the knock again. As Taehyung looks out the window, he makes eye contact with her through the aging panes, her bright eyes lifting his mood. She waves at him briefly before shaking her hand wildly, signaling her desire for him to join her outside, and it’s all the encouragement Taehyung needs to forgo his work entirely.

He breezes by the eunuchs waiting outside his study with a quick greeting before he dashes outside, eyes searching. His immediate thought is to go straight to their garden, which has more flowers in it than Taehyung’s ever seen before, but he soon hears a pitter patter of steps amongst the sound of the brisk wind, and he follows them.

He finally finds her by the river, where she sits on the bank and lets her hanbok dirty, mud imprinting itself on the fine white silk. She’s tossing in little pebbles, not trying to skip them across the water.

“Y/N?”

She turns to him at the sound of her voice, gleaming.

“Wangjanim,” she replies simply, patting the soft ground next to her.

Taehyung wastes no time sitting down next to her, ignoring the feeling of his clothing sinking into the mud, and picks up a couple of stones as well.

“Why did you want me, Y/N?”

“I just wanted to see you,” she hums back, hardly looking at him.

“You’ve seen me.”

“That I have.”

The stone drops into the water with a splash.

“I missed you,” Taehyung says.

Splash.

“You say that every time we see each other,” she giggles.

“I miss you whenever I am not with you, beside you, near you.”

“Wangjanim,” she says, much more shy this time.

“I miss you like the moon misses the dawn, almost there but just a hair out of its reach. I miss you like the trees miss the grass, right below its feet but not close enough to its branches. I miss you like the stars miss each other, so close together from far away, and so far away from close up. Every day, I wish you are by my side.”

Splash.

“You are sweet, wangjanim. And kind,” she says, turning to him. Taehyung feels a gentle hand press its palm on his cheek as she leans towards him, lips smiling but eyes unreadable. “Your wife will be lucky.”

Taehyung reaches a hand up to meet hers, holding onto it like a lifeline. “My wife should not be a concern of yours nor mine. We are here together, and even so, I miss you.”

He finally presses his lips to hers, letting himself get engulfed in her taste, her touch. Every kiss shared between them feels brand new, the sensation foreign each time. Perhaps Taehyung is drunk on her touch, but how can one be drunk on something that changes each time?

He does not know it, but it is a mistake of his to disregard the future. He has always put off mentions of his future bride, opting to live in the present, for there is no better place to be. But living in the present does not erase the future, and Taehyung might not get drunk on her love but he is drunk on her, and it does no good to be addicted to something that, inevitably, leaves.

When they part, she breathes out, light and heavy at the same time.

“This must end, wangjanim,” she says.

Taehyung leans in again, his lips on her cheek. “Fuck the end.”

The end comes on a fine day at the end of summer, where it begins to cool down but the weather is still humid. It is Namjoon’s coronation, meaning that his bride will finally become the official designated candidate for crown princess, and Taehyung’s ever-slimming chances are slipping right through the cracks between his fingers.

This day has been a long time coming. It’s been in the works for nearly twenty years, preparations being made since the prince’s birth to ensure the stability of the throne. Namjoon has never been more ready.

Taehyung has never been less ready. He dons his finest clothes and his fakest smile, knowing fully well that once the ceremony is over, she is officially no longer his to hold, to cherish.

This day has been a long time coming, but Taehyung wishes that time were even longer.

It’s not as though Namjoon doesn’t have the slightest idea as to how Taehyung’s feeling. He has eyes, and he’s used them over the years to watch his younger brother fall in love with the girl meant to be his. He’s not oblivious, but his father is, and both Namjoon and Taehyung would like it to stay that way.

“Taehyung-ah?”

Taehyung whips his head around to face the entrance to his bedchamber, where his brother is standing, decked out in the most extravagant silk. He wears sort of a sad smile on his face, Namjoon, out of place for a man about to be given the title of crown prince.

“Hyungnim?” Taehyung asks, eyebrow raised. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready?”

“I am already, for the most part,” Namjoon shrugs. “How are you?”

Taehyung feels like he’s about to vomit.

“Fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Why are you asking?” Taehyung says, wary. He has a feeling he knows where this conversation is leading, and he doesn’t like it one bit.

“Taehyung-ah,” Namjoon repeats, defeated.

“Hyungnim, I’m fine,” says Taehyung, trying to put a little strength in his voice to convince his brother. “Really.”

“Don’t lie to me, Taehyung-ah. Don’t you trust me?” Namjoon questions like it’s something he truly needs to think about, and that breaks Taehyung’s heart.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Taehyung says, voice cracking. “Just… I’m fine.”

Namjoon gives up at that point, seeing how distraught Taehyung is without even outright mentioning the topic at hand. He sends him a smile, the same sad one that Taehyung hates seeing on Namjoon’s bright face, before bowing out.

All peasants want to be royal, but Taehyung has always wished there was a way to rid himself of the crown atop his head.

For the sake of his own sanity, Taehyung zones out during the ceremony. Nobody thinks twice about the blank expression on his face, as they’re all focused on his brother anyway. Taehyung would rather be anywhere else in the world right now.

When Taehyung finally comes to, he catches a glimpse of his brother in all of his glory. Namjoon stands tall, robes encrusted with gold dragons and a solemn look on his face as he swears to uphold the duties a crown prince must maintain. He looks powerful. He looks wealthy.

He looks like a king.

And Taehyung, Taehyung when he looks down at himself with his finest clothes and fakest smile, he looks like a child.

Taehyung spends the rest of the day avoiding his brother and camping out in the palace garden, comforted by the birds and the geckos and the sway of the flowers. He lets his mind wander, following the brisk breeze blowing through the trees. Taehyung should have known not to get too attached, and here he is, heartbreak on the horizon.

He hears the door to the secret room open.

“And here I was, thinking that I was the only one rude enough to escape my own festivities,” Taehyung says aloud, and he hears the light rumble of her chuckle in response.

“I figured you’d be here, wangjanim.”

“I figured you wouldn’t come find me.”

She scoffs. “Are you kidding? I’ve told you before, I’ll always find you.”

Taehyung sits up at that, meeting her eyes. She’s still fully dressed, not a single hair out of place, and the sight of her almost makes Taehyung fall back to the garden floor. Her clothes are but another reminder that she is now unattainable, merely a star floating in the midnight sky, beautiful, but too far away to hear it.

He can’t help but selfishly think that it should be him who gets to see her like this. It should be him who she’s about to marry. It should be him who gets to create new life with her. But instead, it’s not, the universe is cruel, and fate unchangeable.

“Surely you should be back with my brother,” Taehyung says, a little biting, unfitting for such a boy like himself.

She simply laughs, walking over and joining him on the bench. Her robes spread out as she sits down, taking up much more space than Taehyung is. “You’re too kind, wangjanim, but I would much rather spend my time with you.”

This time, it is she who interlocks their fingers, letting them rest on the wood in between them.

“I’m sorry, Taehyung-ah,” she whispers. It’s the first time she’s ever called him that.

“Sorry?”

“I’m sorry that it has to be like this,” she continues. “I wish that destiny was not so unforgiving.”

Taehyung feels a bout of anger come across him. “But why must we let destiny come in between us? Why must we conform to fate that was not meant for us?”

He leans in, pressing his lips to hers, and for a brief moment, he forgets. His vision blurs and all he sees is the girl in front of him, the gold in her robes catching the afternoon light, reflecting in shimmers along her body, and for a second, he lets himself believe that she is dressed like this and that they are here, together, because she is his. It is a selfish thought, but it is enough.

When they part, Taehyung sees her glossy eyes and catches a tear that trickles down her cheek, wiping it away with her thumb as she smiles. It is the same sad smile that Namjoon gave him.

“Oh, Taehyung-ah, don’t you know? We’re royals. Even if we broke away from the path that fate has left us, we’d never truly be free.”

Taehyung is not in the room when it happens.

In fact, he’s nowhere near the room, lying on his back on the riverbank, cloudspotting. It’s such a beautiful day, Taehyung thinks, and now that Namjoon is the crown prince, Taehyung’s responsibilities have freed up immensely. His hands rest under his head as he makes shapes out of the fluff, letting time tick by during his nineteenth year. Each cloud reminds him of her.

He’s on the verge of falling asleep, his eyes already pressing closed, when he feels himself rattled, a hand shaking his side. Taehyung shoots up at the feeling, eyes puffy from sleep, and sees a frantically frazzled eunuch crouched down next to him.

“Yes?”

“Taehyung daegun!” The eunuch cries. “Your father… Jeonha…”

“My father?” Taehyung asks, concerned.

“He has fainted!” The eunuch exclaims.

Taehyung’s puffy eyes go wide as all of the sleep fades from his body. He’s up in an instant, caring less about the mud on his back as he begins to dart towards the palace, the eunuch close behind him. At first, he hasn’t the slightest clue where to go, but he follows the herd of court ladies, advisors, ministers, and eunuchs, all headed for the throne room. Taehyung is normally much more polite, but today he is shoving his way through the crowd without apologies, ordering his subordinates to move, that’s my father!

There is already a conglomeration of nurses surrounding the body lying on the wooden floor, but Taehyung spots Namjoon and his mother a few steps away from where the king is. His mother is on the verge of tears, a hand over her mouth as she watches, helplessly. Namjoon��s brows are furrowed.

“Hyungnim!” Taehyung calls.

Namjoon looks up at the sound of Taehyung’s voice and watches him make his way over to them, eyes worried at the sight of their father.

“Hyungnim, what happened?”

“I don’t know, I just got here. I heard he was walking from his throne, tripped on the last step, and fell to the floor in a crumple, but I can’t imagine why,” Namjoon says, clearly shaken. “He hasn’t had any previous health concerns.”

“I’ve alerted the royal doctor,” their mother intervenes. “He’s on his way.”

“Will he be alright?” Taehyung wonders. The king is pale, much paler than he’s ever been, and his skin looks sallow, almost tinted green. Taehyung watches in horror as the nurses wrap his unconscious body in blankets, the stiffness of his limbs almost frightening. “Will he die?”

“Gods, I hope not,” Namjoon replies. “I’m not ready to be king.”

Their father lives.

He wakes up the following day, sweating profusely as he rids himself of the layers of clothes and blankets atop him. Beside his bed sits a large bowl filled with water, and he dunks his entire head into it, letting it cool him down.

Within the next ten minutes, Taehyung comes in to replace the towel resting at the foot of his bed to see the king wide awake and breathing heavily.

“Abeonim?” Taehyung asks, dropping the fresh towels in his hands and letting them softly thud to the floor.

“Taehyung-ah,” the king says. “How long was I asleep?”

“A day,” Taehyung musters out. “The-The royal doctor said you wouldn’t wake for another couple days.”

The king chuckles heartily, more to himself than to Taehyung. “Guess I proved him wrong.”

“Are you okay?” Taehyung wonders, rushing up to the king. He reaches a hand out to feel the king’s forehead, see if he still has the fever he fainted with, or perhaps he is still as cold as he was when they brought him to his bedchamber, but he pushes it away.

“Where’s Namjoon-ah?”

Taehyung’s outstretched hand falls instantly to his side. He wishes he could say he’s surprised at the king’s obvious favoritism, but it’s something he should have expected, instead.

“I don’t know, perhaps in the library?”

“Please let him know I’m awake. We have royal affairs to deal with now that I’ve regained consciousness,” his father asks of him, and Taehyung can do nothing but accept the order.

When Namjoon comes into his father’s bedroom, he dashes to his bedside, dropping to his knees as he feels all over his father for any signs of illness. Taehyung stands by the doorway, watching the two of them as Namjoon trips over his words in a desperate attempt to convey all of the news to the king.

“You-you fainted and then—doctor said you were almost dead—heart nearly stopped—irregular pulse—suspected arrhythmia—was so worried you wouldn’t wake up—eomeonim’s beside herself—”

“Namjoon-ah, calm yourself,” the king says smoothly, like he’s speaking to an overwhelmed child on the verge of tears. In a way, he is, though Taehyung will always be more like a child than his brother. “It will take much more than a simple heart palpitation to get rid of me.”

Namjoon curls into the king as they hug, the king rubbing the back of Namjoon’s matted hair, smoothing it down with the palm of his hand. Taehyung smiles to himself, almost bitterly, thinking that perhaps if he were born just a little earlier, he would be given the same love and respect the king has for Namjoon, everyone’s favorite prince.

As the week wears on, their father gets healthier. Two days and he’s freed from bedrest, three and he’s allowed to be exposed to mildly strenuous work, four and he can finally join the rest of his family for a hearty meal as the sun sets low in the sky.

Taehyung’s a little late to this one. He is almost never punctual, always busy getting lost in some daisy field or staring at the passing clouds to be aware of the time, but he has a legitimate excuse this time. The daenggi, the same one that was given to him just over four years ago, is not in its normal place. Taehyung keeps it atop a navy blue silk box, where he stores the rest of his hair accessories, but he seems to have misplaced it. He spends fifteen minutes scouring his room for the ribbon before he inevitably gives up and joins his family. They watch him sit down as he shoots an apologetic smile, hair messy from the breeze he made as he was rushing down the hallway to the dining room.

“Sorry, got caught up,” he says, picking up his chopsticks.

Namjoon nudges his shoulder. “Busy picking wildflowers, Taehyung-ah?”

“Excuse me, but just because they’re not selectively bred doesn’t mean they deserve any less love,” he jokes back, pretending to be offended.

Namjoon chuckles as he begins to pile the meat on top of Taehyung’s rice bowl. “You know how much I hate duck.”

“Like the back of my hand,” Taehyung singsongs, gladly taking the roast duck in front of him and gobbling it down. They carry on like this, bantering like friends rather than brothers, amusing their parents as they go back and forth between their little retorts.

Maybe Namjoon is the boy marrying the love of Taehyung’s life, but that doesn’t mean he is to blame. They are princes, after all, and blood is much thicker than water.

“Open wide!” Taehyung teases as he dangles a piece of peppered tofu in front of Namjoon’s face.

Namjoon’s nose is crinkled up in disgust as he sniffs the pepper in front of him, dancing by his lips. He’s never liked black pepper very much.

“Get that heathenish thing away from me!” Namjoon cries, trying to move his hands to push away Taehyung’s taunting chopsticks.

Taehyung presses further, the tofu nearing his brother’s mouth, before Namjoon catches a great big whiff of the pepper and sneezes. The noise shocks Taehyung so much that in his haste to remove the tofu from Namjoon’s nose, he knocks over Namjoon’s cup of water, spilling it all over the tablecloth.

“Oh gods, my bad,” Taehyung mutters to no one in particular. He immediately gets up with Namjoon’s empty cup in hand as his brother begins to dab up the mess he’s made, heading towards the side table where the water pitcher, freshly filled, waits. He refills Namjoon’s cup to the brim before walking back over, spilling some water on the floor with his uneven steps, and placing the cup right next to his bowl.

“Oh, you didn’t need to get me another cup. I had the nicest tea before I came here, so I’m not very thirsty,” Namjoon says, beaming as he pushes the cup away. “But thanks anyway, Taehyung-ah.”

Taehyung grins back, happy to see his brother smiling so much these days after the king’s bout of sickness. “Anything for you, hyungnim.”

Taehyung is in the room when it happens, this time.

It’s hardly an hour after they finished eating, but they’ve retired to Namjoon’s room and are playing a pick-up-sticks tournament, one game after another.

Namjoon’s beating him four to three, but Taehyung’s bringing it back this round. His eyes are trained on every move the sticks on the floor between them make, watching them with exact precision, when Namjoon makes a move that sends them flying.

“Yes!” Taehyung cheers, pumping a fist up in the air in celebration. They’re tied now.

He’s so thrilled that for a brief second he does not spare a glance at Namjoon, but a thud catches his attention.

Namjoon has collapsed on the floor, his fingers still resting on the stick that brought upon his loss.

“Hyungnim?” Taehyung asks in a sweaty panic. “Hyungnim?”

He leans down to shake Namjoon awake, thinking that perhaps he’s finally given into sleep after so many nights without it, but that is hardly the case. The pulse on his wrist is weak, the one by his ear even weaker, and he does not budge, despite Taehyung’s aggressive shaking of his body.

“Hyungnim!” Taehyung shouts another time, furiously grabbing onto Namjoon’s arm. It’s a lifeline, the final connection between the crown and his youth.

Taehyung is on top of his brother now, knees spread over each side of Namjoon’s lifeless body as he moves his hands all over, a desperate attempt to wake him. Perhaps a minute passes, perhaps an hour, but Taehyung loses track of time as he does anything he can to stir some movement in Namjoon, but all are rendered useless. He only becomes fully aware of his actions once he feels himself being dragged from Namjoon’s body, which is soon surrounded by eunuchs, court ladies, and nurses alike. Taehyung loses it in the corner, screaming and scratching at the eunuchs that hold him down as the nurses prepare his brother for transport, the only word on his lips Namjoon’s name.

“He’s been poisoned.”

Taehyung’s mouth drops to the floor, almost comedically, as the words leave the royal doctor’s mouth. Namjoon rests in his bed, eyes closed peacefully as though he is merely sleeping, with Taehyung, their mother, and the King all standing beside him, listening to what the royal doctor has to say.

“Poisoned?” His mother asks, deeply concerned. Taehyung can see it in the wrinkles that are etching themselves along her forehead.

“I believe so,” the royal doctor confirms, making Taehyung sink to his knees. Who would want to poison Namjoon?

“How can you tell?” The king asks.

“Telltale signs. He is perfectly healthy but fainted without warning, has no irregular heartbeat nor any previous conditions. I’d say any higher dosage and you would have a dead crown prince on your hands.”

“I will not let the fool who poisoned my son get away with this crime,” the king states with a fury so violent even Taehyung is a little scared. “He shall pay.”

“Will he be alright?” Taehyung asks the royal doctor, eyeing Namjoon with worry.

“If given proper care, he will be back on his feet in no time,” the royal doctor assures him, though Taehyung feels everything but assured. Seeing Namjoon like this, so weak and helpless, has Taehyung buckling with worry.

“You are responsible for the recovery of my son,” bellows the king as he looks the royal doctor in the eye. Though they are roughly the same height, Taehyung’s father appears so much larger than the man in front of him. “If he does not return to his full health, you are the sole one to blame.”

The royal doctor bows. “You have my word that your son will be back to fulfilling his duties as soon as he is able to, jeonha.”

The king seems relatively satisfied with that answer, turning around regally and marching out of Namjoon’s room, his wife close behind him. Taehyung stills sits on his knees, watching as the doctor replaces the cold cloth resting on Namjoon’s forehead. Once he is finished, the doctor bows to Taehyung and exits the room, leaving Taehyung alone with the unconscious body of one of the only people Taehyung cannot afford to lose.

Taehyung spends every waking moment in Namjoon’s room, by his bedside, as he waits for his brother to wake up. He believes that if he keeps vowing that Namjoon will open his eyes, he eventually will. Perhaps Namjoon is unprepared to be king, but Taehyung even more so, the mere thought of him becoming the ruler giving him chills.

It is two days after Namjoon’s poisoning that his crown princess arrives, a bouquet of flowers in her hands. She spots Taehyung, as he does her, and they meet eyes for just a second. She looks worried, but Taehyung looks sad.

“Wangjanim,” she says, practically speechless. She rushes over, placing the blossoms on the side table, pressed up against the wall with all sorts of herbal medications resting on it, and sits next to Taehyung, pressing a soft hand into his palm as the two gaze at the crown prince.

“You came,” he whispers.

“How could I not? My betrothed has been poisoned,” she replies. Taehyung holds onto her hand a little tighter.

“He will get better,” Taehyung says. Maybe if he repeats it enough times, it will become true.

“And you? Will you get better as well, wangjanim?” She asks, turning to him for the first time since she sat down next to him.

“With time,” Taehyung muses in response. His eyes are still trained on his brother.

She gets up, and even though Taehyung isn’t watching her, he knows she does, feeling her hand leave his grasp.

“I should not want to overstay my welcome,” she says. “Please place the flowers in a vase so that they may quench their thirst.”

He reaches out to grab her hand, making her stop in her tracks. His voice breaks, on the verge of tears. “Stay.”

“Pardon me?”

“Stay, Y/N. Please,” Taehyung begs, words hoarse. “I-I know that Namjoon’s right here, and-and that we need to stop, but he’s asleep. Please, just stay.”

“Taehyung-ah…”

“I-I know it’s selfish but I just… I can’t lose you too. Stay with me. Please. Just this once.”

She turns around and takes a seat, on the floor right next to the chair Taehyung rocks back and forth in, resting her head on his arm. Taehyung allows sleep to take him.

Namjoon wakes up the same day the king pinpoints the source of the poison. Though he himself is still recovering from his dance with death not even two weeks prior, he has enough strength in him to investigate.

Taehyung is more than relieved to see Namjoon’s sage brown pupils, nearly bursting into tears of joy at the sight of Namjoon opening his eyes. The elder merely chuckles to himself, pleased to see how much he means to his brother.

“Missed me that much, Taehyung-ah?”

A tear rolls down Taehyung’s cheek as he smiles. “Always, hyungnim. I can’t live without you by my side.”

However, Taehyung does not get much time to rejoice, as before he knows it, he is being summoned by the head eunuch, requesting that Taehyung come with him to see the discoveries the king has made in his investigation.

“Hyungnim, I’ll be back to make sure I’m not dreaming,” Taehyung promises as the eunuchs open the door for him.

Namjoon nods. “I’ll still be here, Taehyung-ah. Take all the time you need.”

“Don’t die on me yet, hyungnim,” Taehyung orders as he approaches the doorway, pointing to his brother. “We still have so much more to experience.”

Taehyung bounces down the hallway, cheerful that his brother is finally awake, as he meets the king in the main throne room, who is less than such.

“Abeonim,” Taehyung says, grinning. “Hyungnim woke up.”

“He did, now?” The king asks, hardly looking up at his second son. “What wonderful news.”

“I know? I’m so glad he did,” Taehyung says even though he knows the king is no longer listening.

“I looked into his poisoning, Taehyung-ah, and I believe I have found the cup that delivered the deathly dose,” the king says, and Taehyung jumps up at the mention of the source. He will do anything to find the coward who tried to murder the crown prince.

The king motions for Taehyung to come up to the table he stands behind and observe, so Taehyung marches up. On the table between him and the king rests a single palace cup, one typically used for water or milk and found in abundance in the castle’s kitchen cabinets.

“You think it was this one?” Taehyung asks, picking up the delicate thing to inspect it closely. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, no glaringly obvious signs of a deadly substance along its rim.

“Almost positive,” the king says.

“So this means it’s from the kitchens? Someone who has access to the kitchens did it?” Taehyung wonders aloud, trying to piece together the clues of the crime to solve the puzzle.

“I believe so. However, when I had the eunuchs search the kitchen for any more items worthy of inspection, one came across another object, so out of place that it was almost laughable that the criminal would leave such an obvious clue behind,” the king continues, and he has Taehyung on his toes at the mention of another hint. This is the most that Taehyung’s been involved in a royal affair in months.

“What is it?”

The king tilts his head, and an eunuch scurries over with a wrapped up piece of cloth, bowing as he places it gently in the palm of the king’s hand. The king nods to him and the rest of the eunuchs dash off, leaving Taehyung alone with the king, about to reveal the second piece of evidence.

Light hands place the cloth softly on the wooden table between them, and Taehyung is eager. He is rocking back and forth from his heel to the balls of his feet as he watches the king unwrap the cloth to reveal a single item inside.

Taehyung stops.

Resting, ever so gently, among the regal cerulean blue, is a single red daenggi, worn at the edges.

Taehyung lifts his head to meet the king’s, and the king posses almost a cruel expression on his face, and Taehyung knows. His eyes go wide.

“Second Prince Kim Taehyung,” the king declares. “You are assumed to be the criminal behind Crown Prince Kim Namjoon’s attempted murder. Your trial begins tomorrow at noon sharp.”

A door slams shut as Taehyung vomits, retching onto the floor of his bedroom. He’s broken out into cold sweats as he dry heaves, no food or water left to regurgitate out of his mouth. Taehyung nearly keels over onto the floor, only managing to steady himself on the wall at the last second.

He’s in shock. That’s what it is, Taehyung thinks. He’s in shock and this is all a dream and soon he will wake up to find Namjoon alive and the real criminal caught, locked away in a cell. This cannot be real. There is no way that this is real. How could someone ever accuse Taehyung of trying to poison the only person he trusts more than himself?

Taehyung stumbles forward, drunk off of panic. His face is red and his eyes are bloodshot as he takes it all in and pushes it away at the same time, reeling on his toes.

He is lost. He sways back and forth, clueless. A notepad and a calligraphy brush catch Taehyung’s eye as he unintentionally tilts his head towards his desk, and he trips over his own feet to reach them. He has to organize his thoughts. He has to figure this out.

I do not know who poisoned my brother.

I do know that I did not poison my brother.

I do not know how my daenggi was found in the kitchen.

I do know that I lost it a day or so before my brother collapsed.

I do not know who would want to frame me for this crime.

I do not know how to clear my name.

His characters are sloppy, dragging all over the page and the sleeve of Taehyung’s hanbok, dirtying it. He can barely read his own handwriting, a poor attempt at ordering his thoughts so that they are not crushed into a single jumble in his mind. Taehyung stares at the parchment, looking at it desperately like it will tell him something he doesn’t already know. He then proceeds to crumple it up in his hands, shaping it into a ball as he throws it against the opposing wall, defeated.

Taehyung does not know what to do.

Taehyung does not know how to save himself.

Taehyung does not know who is to blame.

Taehyung does not know.

Taehyung collapses, sliding down the back wall of his bedroom and coming in contact with the floor, slamming himself onto it as it sends a surprised jolt throughout his body. There is nothing he can do.

He has dug a hole for himself that he didn’t even notice, forgetting about it until he took a single step forward and fell straight in.

Taehyung stares at the books on his bookcase, outlining every single one of them with a brush in his mind, until the door bursts open.

“Taehyung-ah!”

Taehyung makes no note of her as she rushes over, falling to her knees in front of him as she presses her hands everywhere, on his chest, his chin, his cheek.

“Taehyung-ah, please…” She begs, willing him to finally look at her. He catches her right as a tear escapes from her eye, rolling down her cheek, alone. “Please, Taehyung-ah. Tell me they’re joking. Tell me they’re lying. Anything, please. Anything.”

“They aren’t,” he musters out, voice so soft and weighted that she almost misses it.

“Taehyung-ah,” she says, a full sob wracking her body. “Please, Taehyung-ah. Tell me it’s not true. Lie to me, Taehyung-ah. Just this once.”

“I can’t.”

“Taehyung-ah!” She cries, desperate. “How can you just sit here? How can you let this happen to yourself?”

A hiccup escapes from his lips as Taehyung jumps, tears threatening to spill from his eyes. He wipes them away with the clean sleeve of his hanbok, refusing to cry in the face of what appears to be imminent death.

“I have nothing to prove myself innocent, Y/N,” he says, a tear falling anyway. She sniffles in response, trying to stop her crying with little success. His hands have somehow found hers, just like they always do. “It is over.”

They spend the rest of the night together, weeping silently together on the cold floor of Taehyung’s bedroom, neither very good at calming the other down.

Taehyung has many objections to the accusations made by the king and the royal court, but he refuses to display said objections with tardiness. At five minutes before noon, he allows himself to be lead by none other than his favorite eunuch from his bedroom to the courtroom, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead as he leaves her be, peacefully dreaming on his floor.

The courtroom is a familiar place. Taehyung has been in here many a time to watch royal trials take place and affairs be handled, but not once did he ever believe he would be the poor soul seated in the defendant’s chair.

It takes no chains or ropes to hold Taehyung in place. He is perfectly willing to sit through the trial like a man. Like a prince.

The hopes that Taehyung has stored in the back of his mind, the ones that think that this will all go perfectly smoothly without a single hitch, they are childish. He knows what lies in wait for him on the parchment in front of the minister that stands before him. Taehyung has never been good at playing the game of royalty, but the king is undoubtedly the champion.

When the sun moves the slightest bit, perfectly perpendicular to the ground below, the trial starts.

“Second Prince Kim Taehyung,” the minister reads from a scroll. “You stand before us today as the man accused of poisoning Crown Prince Kim Namjoon. Do you admit to these crimes?”

Taehyung stands in response, bowing. “I do not.”

“Very well. The trial continues.”

From prior experience, Taehyung has always known the trials held within this courtroom do not go down in favor of the defendant, despite whether or not the victim is present.

Taehyung takes a seat and listens to more advisors, senators, and ministers rattle off quite useless information, speaking of what occurred the night Namjoon was poisoned and what Taehyung’s whereabouts were.

Namjoon is not here. He’s been prohibited to attend by the king himself, apparently, or at least that’s what the eunuch told him on the way to the courtroom. Taehyung is even more uncomfortable without him, shifting in his seat, befallen with worry. How does he have any chance of clearing his name without the victim doing it for him? How will people take his alibi seriously when they still believe he is a naive child?

Taehyung is still not paying attention as the king takes the podium.

“Taehyung-ah,” he bellows, finally catching Taehyung’s eye. “Taehyung-ah, I know you.”

Taehyung highly doubts that.

“Ever since you were a child, Taehyung-ah, you have always been overshadowed by your brother. I know that,” the king begins, and the harsh honesty in his words makes Taehyung wince. “Nobody pays attention to second-in-line, younger prince Kim Taehyung, who bounces around in fields and tries to catch butterflies. You were never anybody’s favorite. Not even mine.”

The words sting.

“You always had things to say, but Namjoon did too, and his were always better. Always more intellectual, more realistic. You had your head in the clouds and I’m afraid that while it was up there, it became envious. There is nothing a son wants more than respect, and nothing a prince wants more than power. You were blinded, Taehyung-ah, desperate for the crown you so craved, and now look at you.”

Oh, how the king has never been more wrong.

“It is so like you to be careless, Taehyung-ah,” continues the king. He holds up the daenggi as though it’s nothing but a bamboo skin, just as useless. “But your disregard for everything has shown, and here you are, caught in the act of trying to kill your own brother in a last ditch effort to gain the throne.”

Before Taehyung can respond, the crowd of advisors, senators, and ministers watching all hum in agreement, nodding.

“You were wrong, abeonim,” Taehyung finally speaks, standing up firmly. “It is not the crown that I want, nor is it the man who will soon be under it.”

The king raises an eyebrow and smirks, almost as if to say, oh really?

“It is the woman by that man’s side, betrothed to him for all eternity. She is who I want. You thought you had done a fine job of separating us, keeping us in our own reserved bubbles, but you were mistaken.”

Taehyung is sentenced to death by hanging for attempted regicide.

His bedroom has never seemed more like a prison than it does now. Though a convicted criminal, Taehyung is still a prince, meaning he has too high of a status to reside in the cells meant for prisoners. He is restricted to his bedroom, guards placed all around the building so as to deter him from trying to escape, an act Taehyung sees as a useless final attempt to free himself. Only a man afraid of death would ever try to leave.

He must admit, it is a nice place to sleep for his final night. It gives off the illusion that tomorrow will be just as normal as any other day, where Taehyung prances around the palace grounds, smile wide. Even if it’s just for a mere moment, a second of his ever-shortening lifespan, he can forget that the whole kingdom views him as a traitor, and instead believe that they view him as a boy.

There is no god to save him now. No deus ex machina, no giant crane extending from the sky and plucking him from his personal prison. This is no drama, no elaborate plan to save him. This is the fate that he had so foolishly hoped to run away from, but he had failed to realize that destiny is always one step ahead.

Taehyung wills himself not to cry. He must be strong in the face of death, ready to stare it down as though if his gaze is intense enough, he can beat it.

Someone knocks on his door. Perhaps it’s a court lady with a cup of water, poisoned by the same free man who poisoned his brother, offering a sweeter, faster release.

It’s just Namjoon, limping into his room.

“Taehyng-ah,” Namjoon says, and the crack in his voice alone is enough to make tears fall from Taehyung’s eyes, but he refuses to let them.

“Hyungnim,” Taehyung whispers in return. “Do not pity me.”

“How can I not?” Namjoon asks. “How can I sit back and watch my only brother be hanged for a crime he did not commit?”

“You and I both know you will not try to change this,” says Taehyung sadly, the finality in his tone making his entire body shake.

Namjoon takes a seat next to Taehyung, the both of them side by side on his silk comforters. Taehyung allows his head to rest in the crook between his brother’s neck and shoulders as they stare off into the air that settles around them. Every now and then, Taehyung will hear a sniffle coming from the man beside him, and he can do nothing to console him.

“This is outrageous,” Namjoon mutters, and from the softness in his voice Taehyung knows that it was a comment not meant for him to hear.

“Hyungnim?” Taehyung asks, removing his head from Namjoon’s shoulder as the elder stands up, expression much darker.

“This is outrageous,” he repeats, much louder this time. “Surely… Surely there is more evidence lying around here. Surely we can find some way to clear your name before you are executed. I will search the kitchens, and I will get Y/N to ask the court ladies, we can fix this.”

“Hyungnim,” Taehyung says, grabbing onto Namjoon’s wrist as his hands curl into fists.

Namjoon’s voice wobbles. “Surely… Surely there is a way we can save you.”

“Hyungnim.”

Namjoon collapses back onto Taehyung’s comforter, and for the first time, Taehyung does not see his brother as the brave man the kingdom believes him to be. Instead, Namjoon is defeated, at a loss for words.

“You are dying in my place,” Namjoon comes to realize. “Instead of me, you are the one who will lose their life.”

“Rather me than you,” Taehyung says sadly, almost laughing. “I would never make a good king.”

“Don’t say that, Taehyung-ah. You would make a brilliant king. You are so smart, so brave. Look at you,” Namjoon says. “You are staring death down without so much as flinching.”

“But you are loved. The people love you, they trust you. You have their respect and their utmost loyalty, and you are ready to be king. I am not.”

Namjoon starts to cry. “You are loved, Taehyung-ah. More than you know.”

“Only one may live while the other dies, and it looks like my time has come,” Taehyung is choking on his own words, his resolve fading as he watches his brother cry in front of him, helpless.

Taehyung lets Namjoon sit there, sobbing into the silk of Taehyung’s hanbok, leaving damp patches in his wake. There is nothing he can do except wait for his brother to stop weeping, any attempts to comfort him only making him bawl even harder. Time stops as they remain there, the silence deafening. It is their final moment together, two brothers who share the same wish, dreaming of a life where there are no burdens on their shoulders, no titles resting atop their heads, and they can just be.

Namjoon breaks the quiet, still hiccuping even though the tears have now ceased. “There is no one I’d rather have by my side than you, Taehyung-ah.”

Taehyung smiles to himself, letting his eyes drift shut.

Namjoon continues, taking the silence as a ‘thank you’. “In the darkness of this unforgivable world, you are the flame that illuminates the path to the sun, and you are dying, the last link to a universe filled with light.”

Taehyung does not expect any more visitors for the night, though he can’t say he’s displeased to see her bursting into his room. Unlike Namjoon, she’s already beside herself, cheeks stained with the remnants of tears and a hand over her mouth. Taehyung’s heart breaks at the sight of her, and she stops dead in her tracks when they meet eyes. Hers are glossy, bloodshot from who knows how many minutes of crying, and his are devastated.

“Y/N,” he says, almost at a loss for words. “My love.”

“Taehyung-ah,” she chokes back.

Before he allows his mind to register it, she’s darting towards him, practically falling into his body as giant weeps wrack hers. The scene before them is anything but pretty, Taehyung beginning to hiccup and sniffle again like a child with the flu, her loud sobs too real to be romanticized.

“It’s fine,” he says, cradling her head in his arms as he rubs his thumb along the soft expanse of her cheek, wiping away the seemingly endless tears. “I’ll be fine.”

She merely cries in response.

“Everything will be fine, won’t it? I’ll be okay, I promise. I’m not going to leave so easily, you know. I’ll be back, everything—” Taehyung stops, a hiccup escaping his lips as he tries to sooth her with meaningless words, “—everything will be okay.”

“How will I manage, Taehyung-ah?” She asks him. “How can I allow myself to live a life without you in it?”

“It will grow on you, Y/N,” Taehyung assures her. “Pretty soon, you’ll forget about me entirely.”

She finally smiles at that, lips wet with tears that had dripped down to meet them, the smallest bit of relief from the cruel reality of the remainder of Taehyung’s life.

“Do you really think I’d forget you that easily?”

“It would relieve the pain,” Taehyung reasons.

“Sometimes pain is worth the pleasure.”

“You need not worry, Y/N,” Taehyung says. “The king cannot get rid of me that easily.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am positive,” Taehyung promises, his voice so sure that it makes his heart ache to know that she thinks he is telling the truth. “We must spend this final night wisely. We’re together after all, aren’t we?”

She looks up at him, craning her neck to meet his glowing expression. “And how will we do that, wangjanim?”

“Do you trust me?”

Taehyung turns his head down to see a small grin growing on her face, taking over her lips.

“Forever and always.”

They finally meet in the middle, each of them desperate for a taste of the other, pressing their lips together forcefully, as though this is what they were truly waiting for. It is so easily to fall into the rhythm of her heartbeat, letting the steady thump guide his own as they kiss, over and over, getting high off of each other’s touches and not once wishing to come back down. It is just kissing, an act that they have done with each other countless times in the shadows of bookcases and in between walls of boxwood, giggling as their noses tickle each other. But this time, something feels different, and Taehyung cannot quite pinpoint it with the feeling of her lips of his alone.

She kisses with a fervor, a sort of desperation that he has never experienced before, a foreign sensation on the cracks of his lips. She does not stop, kissing him like the world is on its last legs before imminent annihilation, like time is slipping through the cracks in their fingers as their hands roam each other’s bodies. She holds onto him tightly, refusing to let go and Taehyung knows why, knows what will happen the second she releases him. She kisses him with such urgency because it should be there, because the both of them know they will never have each other like this again, not in this life.

Time slips through the cracks in their fingers, but maybe if they keep their hands interlocked, it will stop altogether.

She gasps the second he removes his lips from her mouth, attaching them to her earlobe, biting down, his tongue trailing the edge of the skin. His hands are everywhere and nowhere all at once, aching to feel every part of her under the pads of his fingertips. Breathy moans leave her lips as Taehyung trails down to meet her jaw, her neck, pressing kisses anywhere he can get his hands on.

Their hands finally meet each other’s, connecting almost instantly as they kiss, kiss, kiss.

“Taehyung-ah,” she sighs out. “Please.”

It is not a plea this time, not a desperate request. She does not wish to gain much from this, just enough.

Their clothes are lost in a flurry of fabric, the soft silk sliding off of their bodies with ease as they gather in piles on the floor beside his bed. With every inch of skin exposed, Taehyung cannot get enough, finally allowing his hands to roam everywhere they please, her body warming up to his touch.

“You are beautiful,” he whispers, fingers dancing between her breasts, leaving but a light, tingling sensation behind. The words are no different than the ones he’s told her countless times, but they mean a little more this time.

“You are golden,” she responds breathlessly.

They cannot keep their hands off of each other, understandably so. Their touches are gentle, the two of them hardly pressing on each other as they maneuver themselves around. Her hands make their way to his hair, wrapping around bunches of his strands and tugging ever so lightly as his move down towards her center as she gasps.

Eventually, as time passes and she begins to place kisses all along his bare torso, covering the endless expanse, Taehyung pushes in, allowing himself to be wholly devoured by her, savored. He strikes up a familiar rhythm, moving to the beat of their hearts, synchronized as one, because in this moment, they are one mind, one body, one heart, one love. He feels nothing but the greatest pleasure, a feeling he knows he must treasure for the rest of eternity.

She smiles at him the entire time, eyes crescents as he thrusts in and out, letting herself kiss and be kissed and love and be loved. Her voice only raises when she approaches her high, Taehyung easily able to tell from the way her grip on his hair grows tighter. With a final shallow push, she releases, pressing her lips to his as her moans enter his mouth. Not long after, he follows suit, pulling out of her and subsequently collapsing on the bed, their chests heaving.

Later, when they are all cleaned up, they sit, resting along the wall which Taehyung’s bed is pushed against. Her head lies in the dip between his neck and shoulder, and they sit, relishing in their final moments together.

“I love you,” Taehyung whispers, and the words feel like gospel from his lips.

She does not budge, remaining in the same spot and glancing down to where their hands rest across their laps, interlocked.

“I love you, too.”

Wrapped up together in Taehyung’s sheets, where one body melts into the other, it is the first and last time Taehyung will ever utter those words to her. He hardly notices, but tears have begun to roll down his cheeks, softly dripping off of his chin and onto his torso, but he does not make to move them.

Taehyung looks at their hands, tracing her arms all the way up to her delicately shut eyes, letting her fall asleep on his shoulder. He wonders what will become of them, who she will be when he is not there to accompany her. He wonders how she will rule over her people, and has no doubt in his mind that she will treat them with grace and respect. He wonders if they will meet in their next life.

That’s a lie. He has no doubt that they will, knowing that the red string of fate tied around their pinkies will never steer them wrong.

Hopefully, in their following lives together, searching for each other in an endless hunt for love, they will not be reincarnated as royals.

For the final time, in the light of the isolated moon, the saddest as they come, they are golden like the stars that make their separation inevitable. All star-crossed lovers are the same devastating shade, and that is golden.  

Taehyung takes his last breath the moment the sun sits perpendicular to the land that it shines on.

As he walks to the podium, dressed in a drab white hanbok, one reserved particularly for traitorous princes such as he, he twirls the stems between his fingers. In his right hand, held tightly behind his back by a palace guard with a firm resolve, he holds some little red flowers, picked from the garden he will never sit in again. They are the final touch of color in his world, his skin pale and his clothes paler, his last link to his old life, dying before his eyes.

Neither she nor Namjoon are present for his execution, and Taehyung’s glad. He does not want them to see him like this, does not want the memory of his limp body, hanging from a rope as it dangles in the air, in their minds. He does not want their last thought of him to be him dead, his soul vanished from the world on land.

He makes the mistake of thinking about their current whereabouts, what they might be doing as Taehyung is led to his death. Namjoon is probably in his bed, waiting for his recovery as it creeps upon him like a snail, bored out of his mind. And she, she is probably in the garden, sitting on the bench waiting for a boy who will never walk through that door again.

Never.

There are so many things Taehyung will never do again. He will never cloudspot, never toss rocks into the river, never hug his brother, never kiss her again.

But he will always love her, always cherish their moments together, always be on the lookout, always smile.

Perhaps in his next life, if he remembers, he can boast about how he was always smiling, even as the grim reaper stared him down and gave him chills.

As Taehyung stands firmly on the wooden construction, a dull beige rope wrapped around his neck, he thinks of a little girl sitting on a bench in the secret room of a garden. The wind blows through her hair, showing off the strands that did not make it into her braid. She is humming to herself, ever so softly, blissfully unaware of the young boy that approaches her with the sun illuminating the chestnuts in his eyes. In his hands, his fingers curled tightly around them, is a handpicked bouquet of all of his wildest dreams, right in front of his eyes, in the form of little red wildflowers. As the girl begins to turn around, finally recognizing the presence of another, the boy smiles.

So does Taehyung.

Hours later, long after the body swaying in the confines of the rope has been removed, tossed outside—traitors are never given proper burials, no matter their status—and beginning to decompose in the tall grass at the edge of the palace grounds, the seoksanhwa lie, still on the podium, fallen from the hands of the boy who loved them so.

The poison dealt quite the amount of damage to Namjoon, as it is several days past the original incident and he is still bedridden, restricted to his room by his father in the hopes that he will make a full recovery.

It’s boring, really, as he is forbidden from receiving any work to keep his mind occupied nor is he allowed to have very many visitors, his father truly pulling out all the stops to ensure that the health of the crown prince is at its highest level.

Namjoon loves his dad, but this is truly getting to the point of unbearably uneventful, the days ticking by much slower when he has nothing to do. He’s probably read every single book in this household by now.

On the better days, Namjoon has a visitor. She is the only person truly capable of lifting his mood up to the highest it can be. They are engaged, after all. She never visits empty handed, often times carrying a book with her, and if not, a glass of water or milk or something for Namjoon to indulge himself with. She will sit by his bedside and read to him, perhaps it is a book he’s read a thousand times, or one he’s never stumbled across, and he will listen, taking in every word uttered from her sweet voice.

Some days, Namjoon can hear it. She does an excellent job of hiding it, but some days, Namjoon will hear the brokenness, the pain masked by a chirpy ‘hello’, sad eyes and a glowing smile.

He does not comment on it. The silence in between them after she finishes up the chapter in the book, it is welcome rather than unsettling. Namjoon hears lots of silence these days, and it allows his buzzing mind to take a rest.

Neither of them say it out loud, but it’s apparent to both of them that Taehyung’s death has brought them closer than they ever were when he was alive.

They are especially close on the days that she comes in, the bowl of food in her hand trembling with every step, tears in her eyes. Those days, Namjoon does not eat. He lets her sit on his bed, pushed up against his legs, and cry. He has no reassuring words, nothing of comfort to offer her, for Taehyung is dead and not even the most powerful of sorcerers could ever bring him back.

Less often than she, Namjoon will cry when she walks in, almost everything she does a reminder of Taehyung, from the way she wraps her new red daenggi around her braid to the way she enunciates some of her words. And she will simply stroll towards him, sitting down in the same place on his bed that she sits every day, and lets him cry, rubbing his shoulder, the only comfort she can provide him.

They are the closest when they cry together, both overcome with grief and guilt as they think of Taehyung. She is foolishly in love with him still, and Namjoon keeps his mouth shut about how loving the dead keeps them living only in memory, souls stuck on Earth as ghosts until they no longer harbor a connection with the real world. Her love for him is as deep as the Korean sea, and it is not Namjoon’s place to tell her otherwise.

They would have made a fantastic pair.

The sun seems a little dimmer, the days when they cry together. The nights seem a little darker, too.

About a week and a half post-poisoning, Namjoon is finally allowed out of bed. At least, that’s what the royal doctor is telling him, saying that he’s perfectly healthy at this point and any more excessive time spent lying down in bed would merely be overkill. He has doubts that his father agrees with that sentiment.

For the most part, Namjoon is merely desperate for a taste of some of his favorite tea, the kitchens having run out nearly two weeks. Now that he’s permitted to be mobile, he can go and check to see if they’re restocked the cabinets, because he refuses to live any longer without the scent of chamomile wafting in the air in front of his nose.

It’s nice to be up and moving, if Namjoon’s being honest. A week and a half of bedrest and all of the bones in his body are stiff. He casually greets the kitchen staff, smiling and waving at them as they bow in response, beelining for the place he knows all the tea is kept.

As expected, the clay jar typically filled to the brim with chamomile tea leaves in empty, not even crumbs left at the bottom. Namjoon frowns into the jar, pursing his lips.

“Are you looking for your tea, wangseja?”

The voice nearly makes Namjoon drop the precious clay jar, his clumsy hands catching it right before it dropped onto the countertop. He turns to see one of the royal servants, looking at him with bright eyes.

“Oh, yes, as a matter of fact I am,” Namjoon says, grinning. “Do you know where it is?”

The servant tips his head. “It rests in a basket by the doorway to the stables. Forgive us, we have been too lazy to place it in the jar.”

“No worries,” Namjoon smiles, pleased to know that his tea is available for him whenever he pleases.

“You are not the first one to seek it out,” the servant comments. “A couple of weeks ago, one of the advisors, Advisor Oh, was looking for that same one. Came searching through the kitchen, just like you.”

Namjoon raises an eyebrow, the smile on his face suddenly replaced by a frown. He is suspicious. “No advisor is allowed to be present in the kitchen without permission from a member of the royal family,” he states, the question mark in his head growing.

The servant gasps, eyes blown impossibly wide as he suddenly drops to his knees right in front of Namjoon, attracting the attention of the rest of the kitchen staff as he falls to the ground. “Wangseja, I deeply apologize for allowing such a man into the kitchen without checking to make sure he was permitted inside. Pardon me,” the servant begs, clearly fearful for his life.

Namjoon looks awkwardly at the rest of the gawking kitchen staff, a blush growing on his cheeks. “No harm done. I pardon you.”

The servant breathes a heavy sigh of relief, but when he gets back up, Namjoon is gone, the empty jar resting on the counter as though it was untouched.

He finds her outside, lying by the creek that flows through the palace grounds as she points to the clouds, talking with no one in particular. Her gleaming expression paints a smile on Namjoon’s face as he approaches her.

“Y/N,” he says, making her sit up quickly. “Y/N.”

“Namjoon orabeoni?” She asks, a hand over her forehead so she may block her eyes from the sun he stands against.

“I think I figured something out,” Namjoon says. “About the poisoning.”

That makes her stand up in a fury, nearly tripping over her own hanbok. “What do you mean?”

“I think I have a lead.”

It’s quite fitting that the moment Namjoon was finally released from his bedrest, he immediately started a new investigation into his poisoning. Only he would dive into an affair so deep right after getting poisoned.

Digging through other records, Namjoon hunts for any information he can on Advisor Oh, coming across only writings about his career and his actions as a member of the royal council. But these records hardly provide anything, it is what she tells him that is of much greater importance.

“According to one of the court ladies, Advisor Oh had been asking around for your personal servants for at least a week prior to your poisoning,” she tells him.

“Which court lady?”

“She wanted to remain anonymous, in case she’d get in trouble for it.”

“If our lead is correct, she’d be rewarded for providing such crucial information,” Namjoon reminds her.

“I know, but I will honor her request,” she says. Namjoon’s always liked that about her, how she does not see people as below her, only equal. “Besides, we should focus on what she said, anyway. Advisor Oh was trying to get in cahoots with your servants. Clearly, he was planning something.”

Namjoon’s brow furrows.

Hardly a day later, he returns to their unofficial official meeting place by the creek, the same place that they met the first time Namjoon had a new development, with more information.

“Orabeoni!” She shouts as she sees him running towards her. Once he reaches her, he leans over, chest heaving as he regains his breath. Perhaps he should have joined in with her and Taehyung as children when they ran around the palace grounds. Then, he might not be so out of shape.

“I have something,” Namjoon says between heavy breaths. “More news.”

“Like what?” She asks, a hand on his upper arm as she guides him back up, holding him as he stands tall.

“I spoke with some of Taehyung’s favorite eunuchs. They’ve been demoted now, did you know? Since Taehyung—” Namjoon pauses and looks at her. Neither of them like speaking of the topic very much. “Well, you know. Anyway, he was telling me that Advisor Oh had been seen leaving Taehyung’s room, but when questioned, merely stated that he was searching for him.”

“That smells fishy,” she remarks. “I don’t trust it.”

“Neither do I, but I believe it’s enough to require an official assumption.”

She grins.

Namjoon has never been so thrilled to issue out an arrest warrant.

Namjoon is still too weak to go out and personally capture the man, but he has some very helpful castle guards by the names of Jimin and Jeongguk, and they are more than willing to do the job for him.

A man is thrust down in a seat in a dark room, hands tied behind his back and Jimin and Jeongguk hold him down, standing guard right behind him to ensure that he does not budge.

“Release me!” The man shouts to the guards, struggling against their tight grip. “How dare you disrespect your seniors like this!”

Namjoon steps into the view, the candles on the table illuminating little bits of his body, here and there.

“They have a perfect reason to hold you down, Advisor Oh,” Namjoon says, smirking as he approaches the man, palms flat on the table in between them. “Do you know what that is?”

The man shakes his head.

“You put poison in the tea given to me two weeks ago, did you not?”

The man is firm in his seat, resolve strong. Namjoon’s is stronger. “I did not. Unfortunately, wangseja, I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Liar.”

Namjoon merely frowns, but he continues nonetheless, trusting Jimin and Jeongguk to keep the man planted in his seat as he begins to pace before him. “A witness informed me that you were sighted in the kitchens, without being given permission by any member of my family, in search of some chamomile tea. Chamomile happens to be my favorite kind of tea. Did you know this?”

“No.”

“Liar.” Namjoon grows more displeased by the minute. “Secondly, I found out that you happened to be asking around for my personal servants, whom I trust with my life, as though they were merely throwaway toys. Do you admit to this?”

“No.”

Namjoon scoffs. “Thirdly,” he begins, still pacing back and forth, “you were also spotted leaving my deceased brother’s bedroom before my poisoning.”

“I was looking for him.”

“And what did you need him for, hm?”

The resolve breaks. The man begins to stutter, clearly unprepared to answer such a question, and Namjoon smirks. He continues, finally stopping the pacing as he turns back to the table, hands angrily pressed down on the wood.

“Finally, I believe you were snooping through my brother’s room for one of his belongings, and just so happened to stumble upon this object right here, seeing it as the perfect piece of evidence to frame him for the crime.”

A court lady runs over, a folded blue cloth in her hand. She places it on the table without making eye contact to Namjoon, before scurrying back into the shadows. Namjoon unfolds the cloth, revealing none other than the worn red daenggi, practically unused since its discovery in the kitchen.

“Do you or do you not recognize this object?”

“I-I-”

“Do you or do you not?” Namjoon repeats, bellowing. He knew his resolve was stronger.

“I do!” the man cries, making Namjoon stand up straight in victory.

“Do you, now? And why do you recognize this?”

“I planted it,” the man finally admits. “I hoped to murder you in revenge for my daughter not being considered a candidate for the crown princess,” he hisses. “And I would’ve succeeded, had it not been for that no-good son of a bitch, the deceased prince, the one that saved you.”

Namjoon spits in his face. How dare he. “You desired wealth and power, did you not? As far as I remember, you work for one of the most insignificant sections of the council, correct? Useless as they come, eh?” He asks the man, looking up at Jimin and Jeongguk. They merely nod in response.

“I am worth so much more than the shitty position your father gave me,” the man says, biting. “I could do great things.”

“Not anymore, I’m afraid,” Namjoon says, shrugging. “Advisor Oh Honggyu, you are convicted of attempted regicide. You will receive no trial and are scheduled to be executed at once.”

He is hanged that same night, and now, Taehyung may finally rest easy.

In the early morning hours, the night after the true criminal is executed, Namjoon is awoken by the sounds of his doors bursting open. His heart immediately jumps up his throat, terrified for a moment that the criminal seeks revenge for his capture, but the worry immediately subsides the second he hears her choke down a sob.

“Y/N?”

“Namjoon,” she says, eyes swimming in her tear ducts. She dashes over, wiping her eyes as she does, and collapses on his bed.

“What’s wrong? Why are you awake at such an hour?”

She begins to full-on weep, bawling as she breaks down on his comforter, tears leaving marks in his silk sheets. Namjoon’s sitting up at this point, leaning over to rub her back, trying to provide any amount of comfort he can. It’s been awhile since they’ve shared a moment like this.

“This isn’t fair,” she whispers between hiccups.

“What isn’t fair?”

“Taehyung…” she says, trailing off. “We could have saved him.”

“Oh, Y/N,” Namjoon says, suddenly realizing what this is about.

“No, Namjoon orabeoni, we could have. If we had just—If we had just looked for more evidence when he was first convicted, asked around like we did just now, he would be here,” she says softly. “He would—He would be with me.”

Namjoon says nothing.

“He could have been spared, he’s gone just because we didn’t care enough to dig deeper, didn’t care enough to want to save him. He’s gone,” she says, and it only occurs to Namjoon then that the realization that Taehyung no longer walks this Earth with the rest of them has come to her. “We could have helped him, we could have cleared his name. We could have—” She hiccups. “We could have—”

The world is full of could-haves, but could-haves mean nothing because they are things that didn’t happen, they are nothing but regrets, unfulfilled requests. They are what the human mind thinks of too late, the shooting star they just missed. Could-haves do not make things haves, and that is all the difference.

Namjoon does not find that the need to sleep overtakes him for the rest of the night. Instead, he holds her, holds her as the sobs rattle through her body, rocking back and forth with gentle whispers of “I know, I know.”

Namjoon and his betrothed, after nearly seventeen years worth of a nearly unbreakable promise, are married three months after Taehyung’s death. It is, for the most part, a quiet affair, even though it may be the most exciting event the kingdom has seen in years. However, without the electrifying laugh of a boy whose life could have been spared, to Namjoon, not much is exciting anymore.

Nine months later, the arrhythmia that once allowed his father to dance with the grim reaper himself returns, claiming him for all eternity. Namjoon becomes King of Joseon on the exact anniversary of Taehyung’s death.

These days, Namjoon keeps a small vase filled with little red wildflowers on the desk in his study, visible to all who visit him. He picked them from a hidden room in the palace garden, shown to him by the girl who wishes for the return of her youth, long gone.

glossary, in order of appearance:

hyungnim: used by a male to refer to a close male friend or relative older than him saekdongot: tradition hanbok worn by noble and royal girls wangjanim: used to refer to any prince prior to receiving any other titles abeonim: father orabeoni: used by a female to refer to a close male friend or relative older than her mama: majesty sagyusam: the topmost layer of a royal/noble boy’s hanbok unhye: a type of women’s shoes made from silk, reserved for wealthier women due to their high price agissi: used to refer to a royal/noble girl by someone lower in rank than them dongsaeng: a relative or friend who is younger than the person speaking daenggi: a ribbon worn by young princesses and noble girls around a braid jeonha: king baetssi daenggi: a small head accessory worn by females of high ranks dalryeongpo: a robe worn by princes not designated as the crown prince jeogori: the undergarments worn beneath a hanbok daegun: used to refer to any prince other than the crown prince once they are of age eomeonim: mother wangseja: crown prince 

leave any feedback/requests here and check out my masterlist here!

[rumbelleshowdown]

Wishful Thinking

by Riddled

Prompts: Satin ribbon, Secret diary, Blue

Belle forgets about her dinner when her phone alerts her to the update of her favorite online story, right after she has seated herself at Granny's. Clicking on the link to A Lady's Secret Diary, she is immediately lost in the life of Lady Belle in the Enchanted Forest. She was rather surprised when Neal recommended this kind of story to her, but she's very glad that he did.

The heroine of the story is as adventurous and brave as Belle tries to be in her own life. They have the same first name and, coincidentally, have pale skin, dark hair and bright blue eyes. But yet more than her formidable characterization, she enjoys the character's relationship with Rumplestiltskin the most.

The imp courts Lady Belle like just about every other suitor in the realm. He may have reptilian eyes and skin, loathed by everyone, but because of his genuine affection and wit he's the one she wants to marry.

Now they're finally in the lady's chambers for the first time, just the two of them. Rumplestiltskin is as timid as ever, but eventually hands and mouths are wandering with almost tangible excitement and eagerness.

Still, just when it seems that the imp is finally going to give in to their mutual desire and toys with the satin ribbon in the lady's hair, Belle has reached the end of the chapter.

She sighs in disappointment and delight alike, immediately scrolling back to read the chapter again. Clenching her thighs, she sees herself in the place of the leading character who is like her in so many ways - except for the most enjoyable part.

Really, how wonderful it would be to have a friend and lover like Rumplestiltskin, all generous devotion, gentleness and passion.

Reaching the end of the chapter again, Belle shifts restlessly in her seat as she taps on the name of the author. His profile is as empty as it has always been, revealing nothing at all about the writer who arouses her more than someone in her real life ever has.

Finally getting started on her by now cold food, her eyes instinctively land on Mr. Gold. The solitary landlord physically obviously hardly resembles Rumplestiltskin, but she finds herself thinking that his lithe build, crooked nose and shoulder length hair, not to mention his snarky wit and old-fashioned manners, aren't all that much unlike the sorcerer.

Out of nowhere, Belle wonders what he would be like as a lover… what he would be like with her. Somehow, the mere thought of being with him just like the couple in the story affects her yet more than the fiction itself did.

She admires him when he gets up to leave the diner, his movements graceful and confident. His rear may not be clad in tight leather, but the sight of it is very pleasing nonetheless. She follows him with her eyes until he is out of sight.

Quickly finishing her meal, Belle is eager to get home, to the privacy of her bedroom to be exact. Her eyes glued to the screen of her phone, she imagines Mr. Gold and herself as the romantic couple when she reads the chapter for the third time.

When she reaches the stairs leading up to her apartment above the library, she bodily collides with someone in the dimly lit alley. She would have fallen if it weren't for two strong but gentle hands on her arms, keeping her steady. Her phone however goes flying.

Before she can reach for it, the other does so as well. A jolt almost like electricity going through her at the accidental touch, she quickly reaches for the item at her feet which the other must have dropped.

The item in question turns out to be a small, much used notebook. Her eyes widen when she reads the words which are neatly written on the front.

A Lady's Secret Diary.

Her gasp is mirrored by the person opposite her. Her heart beats rapidly in her chest as it dawns on Belle that she in all likelihood has found the author of one of her all time favorite stories, in her own town of all places… and that they still hold her phone displaying its latest chapter.

"I believe this is yours," a hoarse voice says, the person it belongs to handing her phone back to her.

"Thank you, yes, I…"

She falters when she looks up and finds that this person is none other than Mr. Gold. Finding out that he is the one who wrote the highly sensual fantasy of two characters resembling both of them closely, is yet stranger than if she would have encountered Rumplestiltskin himself here in Maine.

"You're writing this?" she asks, taking her phone from him to hold the display up for his inspection.

He tenses when he reads its contents only then, clearly recognizing it.

"You're reading this?!" he exclaims, looking rather pale all of a sudden.

"I am," she says softly, taking this chance to examine him now that she's closer to the distant landlord than she ever thought she would be.

"I… I'm awfully sorry for this, Miss French. I never intended for you to know… That's hardly an excuse, but please believe me that I had no malicious intent when…"

"What are you talking about?!" she asks, rather distracted by the elegant shape of his face and his delicious scent.

"I… you… you read that, didn't you? So you must know…"

"Must know what?" she inquires when he falters, gesturing at her phone helplessly.

"The characters in the story, they're obviously…"

"They're us."

"Again, I'm so sorry that you read that, Miss French. I can only hope… I hope that it doesn't make you feel uncomfortable. I'll obviously take the story offline and destroy the physical copy."

He reaches for the notebook she's still holding, but she keeps it out of his reach, cradling it almost protectively against her chest.

"No, please, don't! There really is no need for that. I didn't make me feel uncomfortable; in fact, I really, really like it. I'm glad that you wrote this, and I'm glad that I read it."

"You… you are?"

"Yes! Although I wonder why you wrote it if you yourself are uncomfortable with it?"

"You don't want to know that, Miss French."

"I very much do, Mr. Gold."

"It's because… this is the only way I can ever be with you - in a work of fantasy fiction."

He lowers his head, his beautiful features shielded by his hair. He doesn't see that her mouth falls open - before forming a broad smile - when he all but professes his love for her.

"My son encouraged me to publish the story online when saw me writing so often," the landlord continues quickly, as if to tell her everything now that he has found the courage. "He obviously didn't know what I was writing about. I didn't think you'd ever read it, otherwise I would never have put it on the internet."

Belle almost burst into laughter at how wrong he is in thinking his son doesn't know about what - whom - he is writing… and how grateful she is to Neal for recommending the story to her after persuading his father to make it available online.

Still, the landlord avoids her gaze, even when she questioningly rests her hand on his lower arm. Belatedly, she realizes why he's so embarrassed: Mr. Gold doesn't see Rumplestiltskin's unique look and character as something to be intrigued by, to desire, but as a metaphor for a wholly unlovable person.

"Did it never occur to you that I might like you very much as well? That this story made me see that I want to get to know you much better… that I want to be with you?"

He looks up after all, but his expression is one of complete confusion and disbelief. No matter how good he is with written words, he doesn't seem to be very accomplished at listening to them.

Sensing that the only way forward is to show him how she feels about him, Belle steps closer towards him and tentatively cups his cheeks in her hands. When she leans in, he does the same.

The brush of his lips against hers is hesitant at first, but soon he's kissing her back in a way which even puts Rumplestiltskin's somewhat clumsy but very enthusiastic and enjoyable kisses to shame.

"I very much like to think that non-fictional people can have a happy ending too," she says after they break away eventually. "Why don't we go somewhere more comfortable? I'd love to hear your thoughts for the next chapter of the story."

He nods eagerly, offering her his arm. Knowing Rumplestiltskin and by extension Mr. Gold, there'll hardly be a consummation anytime soon. But both impossible men doubtlessly have other very enjoyable ideas which they can't wait to share and try with their Belles.

[puckish-saint]

/breaks down door/ Can I get a ficlet with Lucio trying to heal the s/o he hasn't confessed to yet but like the wounds aren't closing up quickly because ~complications~ and it's too severe. Like, Needs-Mercy-miracle-severe. You decide whether the s/o dies or not but I just need a whole lot of angst and aaaaaah. But uh, only if ya want. Please and thank. Also, I love your writing! Keep up the good work. /sheepishly puts door back up/.

Hi yes I enjoy pain. I was wondering if you could make a mini fic or some headcanons (I'm not picky I just need more of everything in my life) where Lucio's S/O ends up seriously hurt on the battlefield, possibly loss of limbs? Thank you for making the light of my life suffer

Lúcio knows he has it bad. When youstalk the social media of someone who’s sitting right next to you,you have it bad, period. And he’s three years deep into yourphotos. One wrong like could ruin his life. He throws you a glancefrom the corner of his eye until his nerves get the better of him andhe turns back to his phone, pretending he isn’t harbouring thebiggest crush he’s ever had.

Before you all took off for the nextmission, Hana advised him to just grow a pair and flirt with youalready.

“You’re a superstar.” she hassaid, and still gives him pointed looks over it. “People are liningup to get a piece of you.”

And that’s true and it’s not likehe doesn’t know he has qualities, he does. He has skill, goodlooks, has accomplished some pretty major things in his life. But atthe end of the day he’s still just a musician. You arebadass. You’re a professional hero, you’ve been saving the worldten times in the time it took him to help out his favela, and eventhat he didn’t do alone. For all the things he’s got going forhimself, there’s just no way he can compare to you.

You touch down on a field at thefringes of a small Russian town. Or what remains of it. Zarya and herpeople have hunkered down somewhere in the smoking ruins, holding theline until Overwatch reinforcements arrive. Every few seconds a redfloodlight gleams through the smoke and disappears just as quickly.

“Tracker units. They are searchingfor human survivors..” 76 says. He wears a grim frown as he looksover the all too familiar battlefield. Lúcio swallows, turns awayfrom the place. The snow falls heavily and muffles all sounds, butthere should have been screams and shouts. Gunfire, from omnic andhuman soldiers alike, as they fought over the terrain and thecivilians. But there’s nothing. Those tracker units are searchingfor survivors in a town once inhabited by almost a hundred thousandand find none.

Your hand lands on his shoulder, warmand heavy.

“Are you going to be okay?” you askand he stares at his feet and nods sharply.

“Sure. Just gimme a sec. I’m ... “not used to death on this scale. Under Vishkar people died, yes, butit was never like this. Vishkar killed people by scamming them out oftheir money, their labour and health. During the protests accidentshappened. But they never gunned people down where they stood.

He’s never been in a warzone. Hedoesn’t belong here, between you and 76 and Hana.

You squeeze his shoulder, stay by hisside a quiet and steady presence, until he’s gotten a hold ofhimself. He’ll help no one if he just stands here.

Hana takes point, looking impossiblysmall without her MEKA, but it would be too loud to slip past theomnic forces undetected and meet up with Zarya. She feelsuncomfortable in the sturdy combat armour, that’s nonethelessnothing against several inches of pink painted steel, and has optedto stick with her handgun rather one of the larger rifles like 76uses. The street leading into town is jampacked with broken downcars, most doors thrown open, windshields shattered by inhumanlystrong fists. The frantic steps of thousands have muddied the snowand the still running engines keep more from settling. At the firstintersection Hana stops and crouches behind a truck, ordering you tohide as well. You drag Lúcio with you into cover, from where you cansee Hana and 76 as well as the omnic patrol coming down the otherstreet. They are armed, accompanied by omnics he’s never seenbefore but that, by the red lights coming from their heads, have tobe the Tracker units 76 spoke about. Some of what he thinks of asregular omnics still wear their clothes. They’ve been torn fromtheir homes the same as these civilians have. Never given a choice ifthey wanted to fight.

Focused on the patrol, Lúcio neverspots the sniper. Hana does, however and breaks cover to get 76 outof its sightline. Mid-flight she tells him where to aim at and whileall hell breaks loose around them he fires his helix rockets into abuilding behind them. The patrol, almost having passed them,turns around and engages. While Hana calls for a MEKA orbital drop,Lúcio turns on his speed boost, allowing you all to find betterpositions. The first rattling of machine gun fire and he switches tohealing, keeps an eye on the internal heat of his equipment while hegives you covering fire. His sonic blaster couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn from a distance but it forces the omnics to keep theirheads down and allows you to lay down some heavy fire.

Hana takes the main patrol head on,Jack eliminates the threats greatest to her and you pick off anyflankers that try to come through the side passages.

“Good work and all!” Hana says overthe comm. “But we really need to get out of here before the wholeomnium is on us.”Unfortunately while you manage to defend yourposition, you can’t break the omnic lines. And with every one youkill, two more arrive, until they overwhelm you.

Hana gets their attention for a whilebut their combined fire forces her out of her MEKA. Jack covers herexit and somehow they slip past the enemy lines.

“Go!” you signal them and they do,run for relative safety while you provide a distraction.And thenit’s just you and Lúcio, alone save for the two dozen omnics. He’sof no help, can’t even duck out of cover long enough to use hisgun.

The first shot rips through yourshoulder, the second tears a hole into your gut. You stagger, fall toyour knees.

He shouts your name, crawls closer tocheck the damage. He might be able to still the bleeding if he ampsup his tunes now, but he won’t be able to do it again soon.

“Save the music.” you answer hisunspoken question. “I’ll face- WATCH OUT!”You pull himaway, both of you crashing to the ground as rockets hit the exactspot he was just a second ago. More rockets hit, dust and snow kicksup and makes it impossible to see. Lúcio holds onto you as best hecan while you crawl backwards into a niche between an upturned carand a doorway. You urge him to get on top of you, and he goes,deafened by the sound of rockets and guns.

“Play dead.” you whisper in hisear. “Amp up your tunes. Through the interference from your sonicequipment they won’t be able to confirm our lifesigns.”“Howdo you know that?” he asks.

“I don’t.”

“Wh-”“Shh.”

The mayhem dies down, replaced first bysilence, then heavy footsteps. Lúcio breathes as shallow as he can,but his clothes are soaked in blood and it’s worse knowing it’snot his. The healing boost closed smaller wounds but little more.You’re bleeding out underneath him and he can’t do a thing.

With his eyes closed he can’t see theomnics approaching them but he hears them not three feet away. Theychatter among themselves, not with human speech but their own lingo,that mix of binary and morse code. It doesn’t sound friendly. Infact, lying on top of you not knowing if you’re still just playingdead, he’s never been more afraid.

Then the omnics’ chatter gets louder,more agitated. Lúcio hears them bring their guns up and knowsthey’re aiming at his head.

They shoot, you move and then the wholeworld explodes.

Lúcio wakes to something that soundslike a friendly argument. To be fair, to him the whole Russianlanguage sounds like one big friendly argument. He’s lying in abed, real blankets on top of him but the pillow, he finds after somebrief investigation, is a backpack filled with hopefully cleanlaundry. His head is killing him.

“Good morning.”

Lúcio shoots up, forces his eyes toadjust to the blinding light without blinking. There’s another bedat the foot end of his and that’s where you sit, propped up againstseveral backpack-pillows. You’re alive. Heavily bandaged and alittle pale around the nose, but alive. The shock of almost losingyou clogs his throat and so he just waves, a helpless crooked smileon his face. You wave back with the stump of your arm and his facefalls. You follow his eyes, shrug and hold up your other arm, thatone also amputated just below the elbow.

“I was going to rock-paper-scissoryou over my last bar of chocolate.” you say with a shrug. “Butyou’ll get the bigger half if you can unwrap it for me.”

The joke doesn’t land. He keepsstaring at you, doesn’t know what to do, if to ask what happened,to offer his help or to lie down and cry on your behalf.

“Better my arms than your head.”you continue, more serious as you realise he’s not in a good placefor jokes. “The omnics picked up your vital signs and were about toexecute you. I used my forearms to shield your head and they were sodistracted by my awesome heroics they never even noticed 76 and Hanastorming the place with Zarya’s people in tow. They mopped thefloor with those omnics. We’re at their hideout by the way. There’scabbage piero- Lúcio, I don’t think you should be getting out ofbed.”

“I’m not.” he says, crawling onhis hands and feet forward and over his end of the bed into yours.Dizziness almost overwhelms him but he keeps going forward until hehas reached you.

“What -”You never finish thequestion. Lúcio takes your face between his hands and kisses you,tasting salt on his own lips and a hint of copper on yours. He gaspsfor breath, kisses you again, and again.

“I love you.” he says betweenkisses. “I’ve been crushing on you for months and thought I hadtime to sort it out, but you almost died, you were bleeding out andyou would have died without me ever telling you and you almost died,I almost lost you, you-”“Lúcio.” you say and he shuts up,doesn’t even care if you tell him you’re better off as friends.You stroke his back with the remains of your arm. “Hell, you justsurvived your first day in a goddamn war, emotions are running high,I know how it is-”“No, no. No, don’t do that.” he saysand kisses you again, because it’s the only way he knows how to gethis point across. “I really am crushing on you. You can ask Hana,you can check my Instagram history, I- I love you. I really do.”

“Okay.”

You nod to yourself, then gently bringyour forehead against his.

“Okay.” you say again, with a smilethis time. “Because I happen to crush on you a little, too.”Hereturns the smile, takes what feels like the first fresh breath ofair in days. After a while he notices you’re still stroking hisback.

“... do you need me to scratch yourarm for you?” he asks and laughs when you practically shove thestump into his hands.

“God, yes please. It’s been itchingfor hours.”

[pegtl]

Landlocked Blue (3/10)

COMMISSION

PAIRING: Mikasa Ackerman/Annie Leonhart

SUMMARY:The Ackerman and Leonhart families have been warring over the control of Maria City for years, their conflict only intensified by the events that happened nearly half a decade ago. Seeking compromise, the heiress of the former family decides that forming a friendship with the latter’s heir would be the best course of action. However, circumstances are never on her side, and Mikasa must decide who she’s really loyal to.

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Mikasa works.

Mikasa had been completely and utterly aware of how much they were expecting her to fail, and it’s with just as much disappointment in herself that she expresses to Levi that she did, in fact, fail. Unlike what Eren or Armin might’ve done, she doesn’t soften the knowledge with words, but instead tells him bluntly that the deal didn’t work out, and that Eren had actually threatened the Leonharts for noncompliance. As if he wasn’t aware of the fact that they were the underdogs in this situation, where the Leonharts could easily crush them if they wanted to.

Levi’s hooded eyes, which always manage to look nonplussed no matter what information he’s exposed to, merely blink. “I had expected as much,” he drawls, and that somehow seems to make Mikasa feel even worse.

She knew full well what his intentions were, and yet he was also the man who helped take care of her after her parents passed. Always particularly distant, knowing he could never replace his sister and her husband, but caring nonetheless. Technically her backer, technically someone who was on her side, if only for his own personal reasons, but still family nonetheless. It did hurt, knowing that in some way shape or form, he didn’t believe she would succeed.

“However,” Levi continues, rising from his plush leather chair to walk over to her, placing both hands on her shoulders, “that gives us an opportunity to let loose. They may think we’re incompetent in terms of negotiation, but they also believe that negotiation is the only tactic we have left. A bit ambitious of us to make demands –– what else would you do, though, if you were on your last leg, and still proud? That means we still have an opportunity to redeem ourselves. As far as the Leonharts are concerned, we’re back here licking our wounds, trying to find some way to apologize. They could do without us, and they think we couldn’t do without them.

“They aren’t going to expect us to mount a counterattack. Luckily for you, there’s a portion of the city that we’ve been keeping an eye on. It’s near the borders of Leonhart territory, but they’ve decided, for whatever reason, not to keep it heavily guarded. Quite a tactical disappointment on their part, a boon for us. I say we make good on Eren’s threat, take them on and make them regret ever denying those very, very simple terms.”

Mikasa swallows; this is the exact opposite of what she wanted. Although her whole plan of ‘making nice’ didn’t exactly work out, she still didn’t want to resort to backstabbing and other forms of violence, continuing the cycle. Even her parents had the same idea. Then again, it’s what got them killed. Maybe it was time to take things back by force. Lord knows it would at least keep the serum off the streets, and a happy Eren meant no broken things.

As if sensing her thoughts, Levi squeezes her shoulders, almost apologetic. “I know this isn’t what you wanted. If I had my way, everything would’ve worked out four years ago and we wouldn’t be stuck in this situation now. But they’re not going to back down, you know, that right? The Leonharts think they can take everything, that the world owes them something in return for fucking potatoes, and that it’s perfectly okay to ignore first come, first serve because of it. We made this place our own, and they just want to tear it from us –– well, they’ll have to do it from our cold, dead hands. The world isn’t ever what we want it to be, Mikasa. I learned that when I was young; it’s time for you to learn that too.”

She knows he’s right. Their line of work doesn’t usually end in mergers and peace and everyone getting their fair share. Anything involving guns doesn’t end until a higher power decides it’s time for them to stop –– and the fact that the Leonharts are run by a council rather than a single head means that agreement is probably never on the horizon for them. Even if one posited the idea of ending the conflict, it would have to go through several other people, who probably all had different stakes in the fight. They would never capitulate. So her attempt was the only solution they’d had, and it failed.

Might as well deal with the reality of the fallout –– retaliation. Better to strike first than be struck first, for obvious reasons.

And yet, she can’t stop thinking about the girl who came to them that night. Mikasa never caught her name, the girl never offered it. She had to be some sort of grunt, then, to find revealing herself irrelevant and time-consuming. Mikasa never introduced herself either, but that was because the Leonharts knew she was sending herself to broker the deal, and anyone they decided to send in return would surely know the fact.

The Leonhart council would never have to come to see her; they figured themselves too powerful to lower themselves to an Ackerman envoy, even if said envoy was the current Ackerman leader. But they also wouldn’t have sent the lowest of the low, because that would’ve been considered an offense and they weren’t dumb enough to do that.

But who was she?

She was pretty enough, Mikasa figured, but she looked like she belonged in a life like this. There was a hardness to the other girl –– a large nose that offset most of her other features, but enhanced her attractiveness rather than detracted it. Even beyond that, there was something about her, a aloofness, distance and detachment that made her seem like she didn’t really care as much as she really did. If Mikasa were an outsider looking in, she’d think the other girl was… cool.

Except, she’s not an outsider. She’s an enemy. They’re on opposite sides of a war, so there’s no point in admiring someone she’s supposed to hate. Even if the nameless girl was someone who seemed far better suited to this world than Mikasa herself, the knowledge would spell nothing but trouble. She might become a thorn in her side, after having been so thoroughly rejected by the Ackerman heiress.

She makes a note to task Armin with sending out some inquiries about the girl, just in case she becomes a pain in their asses somewhere in the near future. At the moment, though she’s more preoccupied with the idea that Levi’s set before her. Mikasa hasn’t been in the field for a long time, but to get back in it would win back whatever respect she lost by letting her plans fall through.

She needs to save face, so that’s what she’s going to do. She can’t have the others believing she was too temperamental to allow the negotiations she’d pushed so hard for to pass, because if there’s anything worse than thinking she’s too soft, it’s her enemies thinking she’s too volatile –– which, if anyone who knew her could attest, she was anything but.

Levi’s brows are furrowed as he watches her, arms crossed as he leans against his desk. He never comments on her elongated silences, instead preferring to observe his niece as she works through things herself. He must’ve realized there’s some sort of caution hardwired into her brain that doesn’t allow her to make any great moves without deep introspection. In many ways, she and her uncle are very alike.

Perhaps that’s why he’s so intent on making sure she remains in power, and why he thinks he’ll have no problems controlling her when she’s there at the top. She wonders if he knows that she knows.

“Are you going to do it?” Levi says, finally. Must’ve gotten sick of her silence.

She looks up at him, and then nods. It would do her some good to get some fresh air, as well. “I will,” Mikasa says. “Let’s wreak a little havoc.”

––

Levi’s always right, and the absolute holds true even as she and Eren (with Jean and Marco trailing not far behind) go along the sliver of city that is right on the border of Leonhart territory. It’s a nice enough spot to be doing business, what with the nearby river and tourist shops lining the pretty view. That’s a good amount of people to be taking cuts from, although Mikasa is sure that the Ackermans would demand a much smaller price than whatever the Leonharts were holding over their heads.

The riverbank is empty for the time being, no tourist of Maria City ever wanting to wake up particularly early to take in the sights and sounds of the location. It was nothing but birds chirping weakly as they too struggled to awaken themselves. But Mikasa was more than awake –– arguably tense, but that was just her natural state these days.

Mostly, at this point, her mode of action is going door to door, speaking to any of the shop owners who are currently within their business at the time. Barely getting ready for actually opening, it becomes easier to pick them over to her side, since there aren’t any witnesses or random citizens to help prevent any sort of altercation into occurring. Many of the people selling things on the riverbanks are of the older generation, people who decided to relax in a not-that-competitive market, despite there being dozens of other stores selling similar wares along the entire street. People will duck into any shop with a friendly looking senior citizen to buy a keychain.

Which means they also sell a lot of keychains, and that’s some profit you’d be stupid not to tap into.

Most of them come willingly. It’s only a few exchanges of words, and they’re usually tempted by keeping a bigger cut than they usually get from the Leonharts, who demand forty-five percent of earnings –– the Ackermans’ thirty percent gets a lot more favorable response. The shop owners keep the majority of the money they make and the Ackermans get paid for their protective services. Those who agree must appreciate the fact that the Ackermans also provide reliable bodyguards, since it seems their Leonhart protectors are nowhere to be found. Maybe it’s because it’s so early. Well. Slackers never prosper.

There are some who hold loyalty towards the Leonharts, for various reasons Mikasa can’t fathom. The territory wasn’t originally Ackerman, it belonged to a smaller gang before the Leonharts swept in and took control. Probably for the best, since tinier syndicates rarely ever did so well with their extortion. They took, and there was no give. Bigger groups were smarter –– they knew that business like these were just as liable to get robbed as any other, and by offering protection in exchange for money, they would be readily accepted.

Because the Leonharts got there first, they were able to ward off any thieves a lesser posse would’ve let slip between the cracks. So Mikasa can’t fault them for denying her. If simple words can’t break them, then she has Eren to cracks his knuckles. Although there isn’t much difference between herself and her brother in terms of height, there’s still an intimidating quality about Eren. The unhinged look in his eyes, more than likely, is what causes them to capitulate.

There’s only one person who refuses to budge, and she really should’ve known better than to push, because there seemed like there was absolutely nothing that would convince the obstinate man of Ackerman superiority, arms crossed and scowl set perfectly on his face. It was the confidence of having the rest of the side of the street on her payroll that made her inner perfectionist absolutely need to have everyone in agreement.

This was a mistake, as it bought the store owner enough time for his original protectors to arrive, and none too happy. There’s only three people that show up, but they seem more than capable of taking care of Mikasa and her three companions. The largest of the Leonhart trio is a blond boy built like a monster truck. He’s all broad shoulders and muscle and there’s so much meat coiled underneath his clothes that they look like they’re ready to burst. The boy next to him is taller by a few inches, and the thin counterpart to the other’s hulk.

In between them is the nameless girl, Mikasa’s mystery woman. She’s dressed more warmly than she was last night; her hood is pulled over her head and a denim jacket serves as her third layer of clothing. There’s a disinterested look in her gaze –– brief recognition flashes across her visage, then promptly disappears –– and she seems more content to just stare them down than actually do anything.

“What do we have here?” she drawls. As if she didn’t know. The lanky boy to her left rolls his eyes.

Mikasa can hear Eren rolling on the balls of his feet. The rustle of fabric as he puts his hands up. There’s absolutely no way she could resolve this peacefully, not when they’ve just been caught trying to sway the Leonharts’ backers and not when Eren’s nothing short of raring to go at them. Well, it wasn’t like she was expecting anything to go the path of least resistance, not after that little disaster she’d be better off forgetting.

The girl cocks her head, looking faintly amused. “You know this is nothing short of a declaration of war, right? Trying this shit was enough to put us on alert –– good thing we had that panic button installed in here, by the way –– and now, thinking you can… what? Take us? That’s going to do nothing but bring down a world of hurt on you Ackermans. Do you really think you could handle it?”

“Wouldn’t have tried it if I didn’t think so.” Mikasa tips her chin upward. A cocky gesture that makes the other girl tsk.

The Leonhart meathead cracks his neck. He must think the gesture looks intimidating. He looks to the girl for confirmation. So she isn’t as low as Mikasa originally considered her to be, if he’s waiting for a go-ahead before trying to bash their heads in. Could it be? Did the Leonharts actually decide to send someone of import to their ill-fated liaison?

Such a shame. Mikasa really doesn’t want this to end with spilt blood on this nice carpet, but she’s rarely ever gotten her way in such situations. Marco is decent enough at combat. He’s not quite suited for it, and is probably better off working a desk job than being on their side. What matters at the moment, though, is that he can hold his own. The disconcerted look on his face aside, it doesn’t look like Mikasa or Eren will have to be babying him. If anything, it looks like the job falls to Jean, not that the other would mind.

Someone lets out a muffled yelp behind her –– probably the store owner –– and the spike of noise is followed by the shuffling of feet. Good. She didn’t want any civilian blood on her hands. This was a display of dominance, but it wasn’t as if she was trying to assert it on the man himself.

No one is particularly sure who throws the first punch. No doubt when both go back to their respective heads (at least, she hopes the Leonharts will be able to go back; it doesn’t look like Eren is particularly fond of easing up) that they’ll be pointing fingers at the other. It all ends up as a blur, anyways.

Eren, the daring young man that he is, goes straight for the blond. He’s got a good foot, give or take, of height against Eren, but that doesn’t stop him from nearly climbing on top of the man as they grapple. Mikasa doesn’t have enough time to watch the outcome of that spat before she finds herself ducking under a quick jab.

How very Vin Diesel, Fast and Furious of them, to have the girls locked in a fist fight. The Leonhart is fast, a steely iciness in her blue-gray eyes. Mikasa would be impressed, if she weren’t so focused on trying to avoid lasting brain damage. The girl’s fists come in a flurry towards her face, but Mikasa finds an opening and drops and goes for a jab against the girl’s ribs.

She manages to dodge, but the hit still grazes her side, and the elbow she meant to jab in the center of Mikasa’s back loses some of its strength. The girl huffs and goes quickly to the offensive. Her knee comes upward and Mikasa does a quick flip backwards to avoid it.

She takes a moment to size the other up, loose in her stance. She’s always been more of an MMA girl, and furthermore just one who would do anything it takes to come out on top, but it seems the other’s a trained boxer. Her stance is very closed and guarded. The only reason Mikasa got an opening was because of their proximity. The Leonhart girl didn’t expect her to be so fast on her feet that she could sidestep her. If Mikasa were her, she’d have kept her distance. It’s the best way she can get any hits in, now knowing the other’s speed. She has yet to gauge her accuracy, and doesn’t get to analyze any more before she’s hoisted off the ground by a pair of burly arms.

The Leonhart girl takes that as an opening. She swings in close, but Mikasa tucks her legs in and kicks with all her strength. It ends up bracing against the other girl’s forearms, but it’s enough to ward off the attack so that she can wiggle her way out of her captor’s grasp.

Somebody behind her shouts, “Hey!” and the boy holding her suddenly grunts in pain. His hold loosens, and she twists in his grasp to dig a knee into his ribs. He lets her go, and she drops on the ground with a thud. There’s a brief sting as she lands awkwardly on her ankle, but she’s otherwise unharmed.

The boy twists around to look at who distracted him, and gets a face full of Eren’s fist. Before Mikasa can fully recover herself, another set of arms wrap their way around her neck in a headlock. For a brief moment, she had forgotten the other girl was there. Stupid of her, to ignore a threat that she had barely managed to abate. She coughs and struggles before sinking further downward onto the floor. It presses the arms further against her windpipe, but it also brings the other girl’s head closer towards her as she tightens her grip. Reaching around her, Mikasa smacks her hands against the girl’s head, open-palmed. The other lets out a strangled noise and releases her. She wobbles on her feet, dazed.

Mikasa uses the opportunity to throw a good left hook. It isn’t her dominant hand. The resounding crack as the girl’s head swings and her hands stick out in front of her to catch her fall.

The look on the other’s face is, were it not for the current circumstances, nor Mikasa’s own ethical feelings towards them, nothing short of comical. It looks as though she’s never been hit in her life. If she had, it had been very long ago. Mikasa usually likes knocking people down a few pegs, but there’s something about the devastation in the girl’s features that makes her a little uneasy. The ruckus around them seems to have stopped, and she takes a cautious survey around the room.

Both of the Leonhart boys have the same look of abject horror on their faces, as if they’d never expected a hit to land on their partner. Eren breaks the silence first by taking advantage of their surprise to start wailing on them. The action resumes, almost like someone’s pressed play on a paused video.

The girl screeches, almost inhuman, and lunges at Mikasa. She moves to grab her around the waist, and Mikasa moves with the hit, dodging any sort of lasting damage that might’ve made her winded by the movement. As they topple over, she swings her elbows down at the girl’s upper back. She makes contact, but it doesn’t seem to faze the other very much; it’s like she’s gone berserk. It’s all Mikasa can do to bring up her arms to guard her face. The other girl still gets a few hits in, and Mikasa knows she’ll be forming bruises by the end of the day. She manages to avoid a black eye, though, and twists with all her might to knock the other girl over. They’re dangerously close to a marble pillar along the wall of the store. If the girl were to throw her weight into flipping Mikasa over, she’d more than likely crack her head over it.

She grabs the girl by the lapels of her jacket and drags her upwards. Mikasa doesn’t want anybody cracking their heads on any pillars, even if they are a Leonhart. The other girl tries to shove her, but Mikasa again falls with the movement. She plants her feet on the other girl’s midsection as she lies flat and flips her roughly. With some luck, the other girl won’t land on her head and break her neck. So much for safety.

Luckily for Mikasa’s conscience, she doesn’t. The girl sways on her feet. Disoriented is a mild way of putting her condition. Mikasa scrambles to her feet, just about ready to tell the girl to step down and take a breather. She has no intention of murdering anyone. Eren is gleefully beating the Leonhart’s compatriots to a pulp, but even he knows that killing them is stepping over the boundary. Lethality needs to be authorized, first. War was brewing anyways; it was just a matter of how quickly they wanted to escalate it.

The girl again tries to lunge. This time it’s sloppy. Her previously guarded stance is nowhere to be found. At this point, she’s just hoping the action won’t be a swing and a miss. Unluckily for her, Mikasa’s just barely out of breath, and it doesn’t take much to twist her arm behind her back and dig another elbow into her shoulder. The girl cries out, and then drops.

Like a ragdoll.

The Leonharts turn tail and run –– that’s the only way to explain their behavior as the girl crumples to the ground. The boys stare with wide-eyed horror when she struggles to get back on their feet, and lunge forward to grab her. They haul her up by the arms and make quickly for the door, muffled curses following their every movement. The girl resists, though, kicking and flailing. Mikasa would think that last hit would put her out of commission, but it seems that she’s driven more by rage than anything else.

“The fuck are you doing?” she shouts. One of her eyes is beginning to swell, face red from the pummeling she took. Mikasa’s knuckles feel a little tender. The girl’s attempts to free herself from her two companions don’t exactly pan out, seeing as they’ve successfully managed to toss her into their car (headfirst, and even Eren has to give a little wince at the thunk of her hitting the opposite door) and speed off.

She turns back to her crew. While she’d been preoccupied with one person, they had two giants to take care of. Eren has a split lip, because he can never control his biting when he’s worked up. Jean and Marco look slightly worse for wear. She probably should’ve helped them out more, and she feels a twinge of sympathy as Marco presses tentatively against his right side and winces. She surmises, though, that they’re okay, for the time being. It becomes easy to forget that others aren’t always as good as taking and dishing out hits as she is. Something she apparently inherited from her uncle.

This wasn’t exactly the confrontation she planned out, but it did end up working in her favor, so who is she to complain? Mikasa tosses her brother a look, and Eren shrugs. Jean and Marco look nonplussed. She supposes that she can consider this a job well done, then.

“Um,” the shop owner pipes up. Mikasa had forgotten he was even there. “How much did you want per month, again?”