Chapter Text
The tip of the blade is beginning to rust when Yoongi cuts it against his palm, blood like sin against the pristine white of the freshly fallen snow. It will infect possibly, skin turning yellow with a sickness he invites with open arms, neither the blade nor the bare cold as biting as the truth that faces him with the rising of the eastern sun.
“ Jeonha .” It is Namjoon for maybe the ninth time that hour, his voice shaken with fatigue, not straying too far from under the shadowed roof of the shelter. “Please, come inside. You’ll catch your death in this winter.”
Yoongi doesn’t respond immediately, breath frosting in the air before him almost glass-like, almost brittle enough to break. Let it come he thinks, a touch obstinate, let it catch me if it can. Instead he sighs, half-defeated, raising his head to look at the moon, nearly full and lustful against the blanketed black of the early morning sky.
“A dragon knows no cold, Namjoon-ah,” he rasps, words harsh with lack of use. “A king knows nothing but to burn.”
In his mind he knows he is being child-like, self-indulgent almost. He feels the gazes burning into him when he turns his back, curious and unsettled. If he inspired less fear and more freedom he is certain he would hear the laughter he feels so distinctly. But, either in good fortune or not, he has sown enough fear to turn all laughter to pleas for the next decades to come.
Good, he decides it is. If a king must sit his throne lonely at the top it is with greater safety knowing those beneath are groveling and not snapping their jaws with words of revolution. Besides, fear often has a less spoken effect on its anxious subjects, peace. And if Yoongi will not be remembered as a kind ruler at least he will be as a peaceful one, the price of that peace though often keeps him up at night.
“Hyung.” The voice is quiet now, a mere step behind him, Namjoon having moved close enough to be out of ear from the guards. “Come inside. Talk to me.”
Yoongi drops the blade, lifeless and a little more than dead as it buries itself into the snow, a flash of silver before it disappears, drowning into milky white. He turns, head heavy, heart heavier still, Namjoon watching him with a gaze so intense it chokes him. For a moment the words grow in his chest, large and ungainly. They grow in tangled, nonsensical sentences, creepers of incoherent thought making their way up his throat, pushing at his lips, begging him to speak. For a moment he is just a boy held fondly in the eyes of his closest friend, a burden heavier than sin across his heart.
But he is no boy. He is no man either. So he doesn’t speak, simply tips his head back skyward, feels the kiss of rain-promised breeze across his cheeks.
“I have no words for you,” he says softly, perhaps he never will. “Goodnight, Joon-ah.”
Yoongi’s bride comes to him dressed in spring.
She is beautiful, more so than the stories made her out to be, as beautiful as she is high-ranking, the colour on her cheeks a gentle proof of her innocence. Or so Yoongi hears his right minister muttering when he meets her at the Detached Palace, her head bowed demurely as she greets him. She has completed her royal training in the wake of her coronation. He hadn’t gotten a proper look at her on that day, the distance between the ceremony and his pavilion too great. What had struck him that day was the lack of desire to see her, something almost akin to reluctance in its place. And if he could avoid his impending nuptials by a simple turn of the head it was a simple decision to make. But now, at the very end of the six rituals with only the wedding feast left before them, there is no direction Yoongi can look that will save him from his fate.
Which is not to say Yoongi resents Park Joohyun in the slightest, he doesn’t. A small, boyish part of him is almost excited to meet her, excited to love her. But loneliness brews apprehension and Yoongi knows the ascension he has made to the throne has been anything but smooth. He has enemies everywhere, perhaps none more so than his new father-in-law himself. But Namjoon had assured him a marriage alliance would not only guarantee him the spoils of the best orchards and fields in the kingdom but also the neutralizing of a great threat to his crown. So Yoongi allows himself a moment as he looks out upon the thronging hordes of his people all pressing as close to his open carriage for a small glimpse of the cursed King himself, a moment of anticipation.
As wretched as he feels for his poor bride to be, his mind imagining and reimagining her face upon looking upon her deformed husband in the night to come, he allows a moment for agitation as well. He is not naïve enough to have never expected this day to come, rather he didn’t expect it to come so suddenly, so deprived of his own will. He never expected to set eyes upon his beautiful bride and feel nothing. Not desire, not affection, not even lust. Still the heart can be trained to love anything, or so the woman he called eomma in secret hallways used to say. And he will learn to love his queen, even if he must train his heart to do so one beat at a time.
He only hopes she can in time learn to love him too, or at the very least, not fear him. For a moment Yoongi allows himself hope.
…..
The face that stares back at Jungkook from the freshly cleaned looking glass is as foreign as the hints of powdered rouge dabbed upon his cheeks. He looks different, pretty even, not too unlike the young weaver’s daughter he saw flirting with his brother at the village market just a moon before. It seems like a lifetime ago now, sitting on the steps outside their house, his head against Jimin’s knee as they laughed at passing clouds and passing fancies. It had felt so simple, so ordinary. Now, his lips painted the red of sin, his hair braided down his back, silken cloth over his skin, nothing feels simple or ordinary.
There is a plan to kill a king.
A brave one at first. Not that the virtue of it matters Jungkook could not say no either way. He could never say no, he didn’t want to. Or so he told himself. He told himself over and over till the words chanted through his mind like a prayer, over and over till they started to resemble the truth.
It begins in the dead of night as most such plans begin. It begins with Jimin’s gentle fingers in his hair, a word whispered in his ear to rouse him. The man he has learnt to call abeonim is back from the palace a fortnight before he is expected and he calls for an audience with all his children. All of them, even the one not birthed but bought at the market square.
He has no time to tidy himself, hair unbound, a half-stitched fur to protect the thin covering of his night clothes, his shadow monstrous on the wooden walls of the house. Jimin is already seated upon the floor, stoking the fire to life, Joohyun pouring tea into five cups of the finest bone china.
“You’re late Jungkook.” His voice is mild, pleasant, but there’s that slight ghost of disappointment to his voice. The kind that breaches the barrier of Jungkook’s skin, curls around his lungs and tightens and tightens till he is nearly breathless with the need to right any invisible wrongs he may have committed. Breathless until it is replaced with anything else, contentment, pride, affection, anything else.
“Forgive me abeonim ,” Jungkook settles on the straw mat beside Jimin, bowing deep and low till his forehead feels the cool stone of the floor. It is excessive, he feels Jimin stiffen next to him, Joohyun stilling in her actions, but he has no time to feel shame or humiliation, the beat of his heart more erratic than usual. Something is wrong this night, he feels it in the pounding of his veins.
“That’s alright my boy, sit up.” The usual fatigue on Left State Councillor Park’s face is concealed tonight, his eyes glinting with a ferocious sense of victory Jungkook hasn’t seen in years. The bamboo door behind them slides open, Kim Taehyung stepping through soundlessly, his handsome face the opposite of Councillor Park’s. In his gaze there is death, something of death to his walk too as he folds himself into a seated position. It is the first time Jungkook is seeing him since his graduation from the royal academy, first time as an apprentice to his father, and yet he doesn’t raise his head to meet either Jimin or Jungkook’s eyes, his hands folded tight.
“ Appa , what is it?” Jimin, ever impatient, lips pursed as he shuffles closer to the table to lift his cup of tea. “What brings you home early?”
Councillor Park takes his time to answer, thin lips stretched in an unrestrained smile as he sips elegantly from his cup, draining it in one go before setting it firmly down.
“The King has chosen Joohyun to be his match.”
Beside him Joohyun startles, the colour fleeing her face as though frightened by some other worldly apparition, knuckles white against the table. She looks at Jungkook, his own emotions reflected on her face, panic blooming in his mind turning all coherent thought to fragmented utterances.
“What?” The rage in Jimin’s voice is unmistakable, his posture rigid and brittle. “How is this possible?”
“Out of all the applicants submitted, Joohyun was found the most compatible by the State Council. In bone rank too, she is the nearest to the King. They have made their decision and I have come to think it is one that may do us good.” Councillor Park smiles genially, lifting the pot to pour himself another cup, obscured by the haze that spilt out of it.
“Why would you accept abeonim?” Jungkook asks, voice soft and tempered unlike Jimin’s but the threat in it much the same. “You of all people know what kind of a man he is.” Under the table Joohyun grips his thigh, in warning or comfort Jungkook isn’t sure but he slips his protectively over hers. “If there is still time we can make apologies and withdraw, he-he’ll kill her.”
The words are said too loud, echoing in the heat of the small room, too large to be confined by walls.
But it is a truth all of them know. Stories of the young King’s cruelty precede him, each tale a little wilder than the one before. He was christened the divine ruler at birth, blessed by the sun and the flames, the heir of the dragon himself. It wasn’t long before the people began to realize what they believed to be a blessing was in fact a curse. He killed his own mother in womb, killed his own father being too impatient to wait for the crown, maimed his own face out of boredom. The stories spread like wildfire so long and wide that Jungkook knew to fear him before he ever set foot in the capital.
Despite having lived the last eight years a stone’s throw from the palace, Jungkook has seen him only once. Unmistakable with hair like spun gold, a scar red and bruising down the centre of one eye, though it was neither feature that distinguished him from the crowd.
Min Yoongi walked like he was a God fallen amongst men, descended to bring them nothing but the pain of immortality.
“No he will not,” Councillor Park says simply.
“ Appa how can you believe that? You yourself have seen the things he has done,” Jimin pushes back his hair, restless as though he intends to ride to the palace that moment to behead the King. “I’ve grown with him. I know what he is capable of. He will bring nothing but harm to Joohyun.”
“Yes, I do not doubt the cruelty of our young King, Jimin-ah be calm.” Councillor Park raises a hand to placate his son. “But Joohyun shall not be the one to wed the King. Jungkook will.”
For a brief moment Jungkook is unsure he has heard correctly.
He has had a fever once before, so torturous he felt aflame both within and without, his mind constructing figures and words around him that weren’t all there. He had been about six, still with the travelling theatre at the time becoming learned in the way of the Namsadang , the frigid stone floors of the temple the only rest he could turn to. He had not known sickness then, hadn’t really known anything but dance and music and to be weightless in a world ruled by gravity. He had known death though, and sitting on the rain-slick steps, his head encased between his trembling knees, tears the size of raindrops dripping down his cheeks – he was certain it was death that awaited him should he open his eyes.
Now, all eyes in the room turned to him, the moments between each heartbeat lengthening till he is unsure whether it beats at all, he is certain it is death that waits upon him once again.
“Forgive me,” his voice comes out harsher than he intends, something feral rearing its head deep within him. “I think I have misheard you abeonim .”
The corner of Councillor Park’s mouth twitches upward, he sits back smoothing his hands over the creases in his hanbok. “The King has no living family. No mother, no father, no brothers, no sisters. No one. There is no ‘next in line’ until he sires an heir.”
He raises a hand to silence Jimin even before the agitated words can reach his lips but it is Joohyun who speaks, a near hysterical venom in her voice. “So what, Jungkook can’t sire that heir for him can he?” she spits, not caring for the obvious anger in her voice. “ Appa I would rather risk my own life than send my baby brother to the dragon’s bed just because he comes from the-the-,” she cuts herself off, cheeks suddenly red and blushed, gaze not meeting Jungkook’s. The fanning of warmth Jungkook had felt spark in his chest at her calling him her brother replaced by a sudden sense of distance, of isolation. He had once been proud of his roots, of the almost circus-like troupe he had called family.
But ever since he has been taken in by Councillor Park all he has felt towards his past is shame.
“Of course not my brave, strong little girl, you think I would condemn any of my beloved children to that fate?” He turns to Jungkook, eyes brimming with that warm affection that makes Jungkook’s heart swell. “Our Jungkookie is going to take your place in the marriage chambers.” He cups Jungkook’s chin gently and tilts it up. “And then he’s going to kill the King.”
It is not a revelation when the words find their way home, burying like knives one after another into his soul. It is an old fatigue, a familiar haunting, a single sentence’s explanation for almost a decade worth of kindness. A prophecy Jungkook somewhere always knew was his to fulfil.
“ Appa what are you saying?” Joohyun has gone paler still, her hands shaking slightly as she clasps them over her knees. “Jungkook can’t,” she lowers her voice, a worried glance at Taehyung, “ kill anyone, let alone the King. This is madness he’ll be executed for treason.”
“Oh forgive me, my dear I didn’t realise you wish to live out your days as the bride of one of the most notoriously inhuman beings this Kingdom has ever been home to.” Councillor Park sighs, too heavy, too burdened. “I am doing this for you Joohyun. For all of us. Of course I won’t let Jungkook get hurt.”
“Poison?” Jungkook asks softly, “or blood?”
“The first, if failing the second.” Taehyung says, the first words since he’s entered, voice low and rasping.
“I don’t understand, the entire family will be a part of the wedding party, one of us can poison him without entering the bedroom.” Jimin is anxious, restless as he gets to his feet and begins to pace, uncaring for decorum. “Before or after the actual wedding.”
“There is no time a man is as unguarded as when in the throes of passion Jimin-ah. If we succeed with poison we simply exchange Jungkook with Joohyun and she is Queen to a crownless Kingdom. If we must resort to violence we’ll declare Jungkook rogue, place a bounty on his head and take him safely to hiding till this blows over.”
Jungkook stiffens, his mind not having reached the aftermath of the actions asked of him. Hiding. He is to be erased once again when he was just beginning to draw his identity with stronger ink, just beginning to spread his damaged wings and hope for flight. But it is his sister, and looking across the room at the determination on her face, the seriousness to her brow, Jungkook knows in a heartbeat that if asked he would die for her.
“I will go instead.” Jimin’s voice startles him, too naïve in his understanding of this fragile situation. Too naïve in thinking that to Councillor Park he and Jungkook are two players of equal weightage. For a moment it tastes bitter at the tip of Jungkook’s tongue, the stupidly trusting way in which Jimin can look upon the world, the innocence with which he is allowed to live and to love. But just as easily it dissolves to pain, a knowing of care from the person he treasures most in the world.
Councillor Park seems to mull over the idea, a performance at thought Jungkook knows he is not sparing the suggestion. Jimin sits forward on his knees, hands clasped in his robes, breath baited. To him it is a very real possibility, a simple replacement of one name with another.
“I’m afraid Jungkookie will be able to do a far better job than you, Jimin-ah.” Councillor Park places a comforting hand on Jimin’s shoulder. “He is skilled in the ways of knives and cunning, and of course the Namsadang has taught him well of the art of passion.” Jungkook feels the heat against his cheeks, a fleeting memory of stories dead in the night, Hoseok’s hands gentle as they carefully braid his hair. “Tell me, Jungkook-ah, were you Sutdongmo or Yodongmo ?”
It is not entirely a question, Councillor Park knows the answer well enough. It is knowledge wielded like a blade, sharp and cutting, meant to spill blood when it cuts against Jungkook’s skin. If he was less aware it may even have seemed innocent. It was a source of curiosity often enough with the Namsadang being an all-male entertainment group, who played the Sutdongmo , the butch, and who played the Yodongmo , the queens.
“ Yodongmo , abeonim .”
Councillor Park smiles, victorious. “So it shouldn’t be too hard for you to pass as your sister, should it, Jungkook?”
Jungkook raises his head to look at his father, to remind himself of the years of pain and sacrifice the man has undertaken just to raise him. Later he will be asked why he didn’t protest, why he didn’t make trade, his life for perhaps another. His answer will remain the same, he doesn’t want to.
“Of course, abeonim .”
It begins to happen so quickly the rhythm trips up the cords of Jungkook’s heart, the new, unfamiliar beat drumming false notes of safety and success into his mind.
The family moves together into the detached palace as is tradition. Joohyun takes her lessons preparing her for Queendom by day and slips into Jungkook’s bed to whisper them into his ear by night. He doesn’t need them all of course, his role to be complete rather early on. But Joohyun holds him a little too tight, a little too close, the silk beneath their heads sometimes wet when she rises to leave. So Jungkook doesn’t stop her, simply holds her tight, holds her close, counts the moons to the day this deed will be done and he will never see her again.
In moments it is easy to forget. In moments it is just Jimin, Joohyun and Jungkook, Taehyung if autumn allows, just the four of them sitting on the floors of the newly constructed palace, almost carefree before the darkening of dawn.
Joohyun is absent most often, whisked away in a flurry of gossamer and scented oils while Jimin follows, off to study the roles and duties of the head of the Queen’s maiden family. He loses Taehyung in his father’s wake, their shadows morphing into a many-headed beast of authority, one face genial the other savage. Jungkook is left to his leisure and the maze of his own thoughts, trapped hurrying back and forth between possibilities he cannot distinguish from reality, unsure which outcome he desires the most and which the least. Yet there is comfort in uncertainty too. There is assurance in not playing with weighted dice.
This is simply how things are to be.
Jungkook, Kingslayer, Kingmaker, Nameless forevermore.
And it is right, until it is not.
Joohyun wakes him before the first threads of gold begin to weave through the midnight blue of the night sky. It is different than their nightly conversations, she is not supposed to be here today. Something is wrong, Jungkook feels it instinctively, the tremor to her unshakeable hands, the wetness of her cheeks, he sits up, heart misplaced within the fragile cage of his chest.
“Who hurt you?” He rasps, already reaching for the blade-like comb he keeps beside his pillow, his sword locked away to familiarise him with its absence.
“No one, not yet.” She pushes her hair back, a little wild in the pale moonlight. Her breath is hitched, leaving her body in soft, restless pants. “Jungkook-ah, I cannot do it.”
Jungkook sits up fully, confusion and unease clouding his mind. There is a strange tautness to his body, a warning coursing through his veins. He reaches for her hand senselessly, drawing her near to him, his voice barely audible as he speaks. “Noona, what happened?”
“The coronation is today,” she says, shifting closer to whisper directly into his ear. “I cannot swear a false oath.”
For a moment Jungkook feels the room tilt. It slips on its axis, the walls unanchored coming crashing into him, the roof above spiralling down. He is six feet under water, the words reverberating through his ears, heart pounding rapidly trying to draw breath. He understands it quick and all at once. The way a pointed blade cuts skin, a neat incision, no proof of violence. He struggles to draw himself together, stitch his thoughts into coherence, this is one thing he will not do. One thing he should not do.
“Noona, it is no false oath,” he whispers, trying and failing to temper his breaths. “Once-once,” he lowers his voice further, “once the throne is empty you shall be Queen still. This Kingdom shall be yours.”
Joohyun shakes her head, drawing away, her arms wrapped as feeble defence before her chest. “I shall swear a different oath at that time. I cannot do this today knowing I am to break it. I cannot lie before my ancestors.” She looks up at him, eyes glassy and desperate, “But you-you-“
Have no ancestors. Have no faith. You live outside the grace of God already.
“Noona,” Jungkook says, his hands fisting in the sheets, the world around him suddenly still, suddenly hollow.
“Please,” she looks at him, imploring and weak and Jungkook understands. He has seen her every day, never missing a prayer nor a ritual nor a chance to do good by the ones she worships. He understands.
But a small, hissing voice in his head does not. A small part of him wants it as well, wants the warm protective shroud of religious belief, of dedication, of being good.
But it does not belong to him, it dances, ever tempting, at the tip of his fingers, always out of reach. Beautiful, but only meant to be seen, never touched.
“Please,” she pushes back his hair, gathers his hands in hers and brings them to her damp lips. “You must.”
And so he does.
And now it is his wedding day and it is a crown and a curse that he wears upon his head, rouge and painted jewels for his face, crushed rice powder to whiten his cheeks. The Queen’s carriage is always closed, making it far too simple for Joohyun to pass her ceremonial robe to Jungkook.
He can distantly hear the roar of the throngs outside, each cheering for their King, chanting for their new Queen. He can hear their voices distorted over the deafening thrum of the blood pulsing through his ears, his own ragged breathing choking him. There are waiting maids around him, each with a handsome gift or two from his father tucked away in their clothing waiting to do his bidding. Yet unease gnaws at him from the inside, a sea-sickness as the carriage is tossed about on the unfamiliar waves of Yeongnam Road. He glances back over at where Joohyun is now huddled beside Jimin, his strong arms wrapped around her as they sit in the little alcove at the back of the closed carriage.
Even now, even amidst this chaos, they are calm. Still. Unmoved. The thrashing waves of doom to come not strong enough to shake them.
But Jungkook is made of the land and the earth and of all things that bare roots, he has never been further from home than he is now.
“Please Mama, ” the waiting lady closest to him whispers, her grip iron-like on his arm, keeping him steady. She has been with him since the very beginning, one of his sister’s companion’s, Jungkook has seen her equally proficient with knives as she is with oils. “Breathe.”
Jungkook shuts his eyes, lets his lungs fill with air, his hand unconsciously grazing over the knife stitched into the lining of his undergarments, the press almost painful though comforting.
“It is merely sand,” Hoseok says, an hourglass upturned, Jungkook’s cheeks swollen and wet with tears. “Once it runs out, it will all be over.” He kisses Jungkook’s freshly bandaged knee carefully, a gentle hand to cradle his face. “No matter how much it hurts during, it will run out, it is fickle that way. Time has no mastery over you.”
“We approach,” Jimin’s hands are warm, too warm, unshakeable on his shoulders. For a moment he rests his cheek against Jungkook’s, his breath steadying and calm, Jungkook matching it without realising. “Will you be alright?”
It is a naive question, foolish almost. Poison or knife, successful or failing, dead or alive, the deed will be done come nightfall - and with it he shall be erased from the memory of the world, doomed to a lonely existence of quiet suffering. Yet, if all goes well, one day he shall be able to rejoin those he loves, one day he shall be free again, a curse and a crown long forgotten.
“I will be fine,” Jungkook whispers back, “I’ll see you soon, brother.”
……
The sun has already begun to set when the doors to Yoongi’s chambers are closed, preparations for the Gyobaerye set before them. It is almost deafening, the silence, the loud humdrum of a victorious Kingdom locked outside ornate doors, the aftermath of a thousand cheering cries still ringing in his ears. It is more than farcical, Yoongi is not a beloved King, nothing but fear to greet him in his subject’s eyes on less eventful days. Yet for a wedding, a royal wedding that too, there is nothing but cries of joy and prosperity.
His bride has already been seated on the West end of the room, her painted face turned Eastwards, towards the rising sun, towards Yoongi. He sits too, his limbs as though leaden, unwilling to move, his gaze settling anywhere but on her. It is foolish in a way, a set of boyish hesitations, yet he cannot rid himself of them too easily.
He has seen her properly for the first time earlier that day. He had arrived at the detached palace to greet his future in-laws, Councillor Park’s practiced genial face bestowing him with a thousand blessings. His bride had been there too, demure and smiling as she bowed to him, a face of unparalleled beauty. Yet Yoongi felt nothing, just a resigned sense of completion.
The servants move around them quietly, filling drink and food upon the table, Yoongi feeling the absence of Namjoon and Seokjin beside him more strongly than he ever has. Still, he had made a promise to himself, a promise to his future wife, he would not violate it so easily as to have never tried.
Yoongi bows, feeling his action mirrored from the other end of the room, the air between them breathless and dry. He raises his head, forcing his wandering gaze to settle, his breath immediately catching in his throat.
He isn’t certain whether it is the soft, yellow light from the candles or the few cups of wine he has had to drink since the start of the day but his bride looks different to him. Somehow both stronger and softer, her features more rounded and gentle though the way she holds herself is proud, unbowed. There isn’t a trace of a smile on her face, only loss. And yet she is more beautiful than when he regarded her earlier that day.
Yoongi raises his cup, offering it across the table, his bride taking it and holding out her own. Their fingers brush, her skin too warm, almost fevered, there is a flush to her throat that is barely visible over the dip of her ceremonial robes. Yoongi presses his lips to the brim of his cup and she takes it as a signal, the entire thing drained in a single flick of her wrist. He hesitates, somehow unwilling to let the wine fill his mouth. It is odd, a little painful, watching the woman he is to bed seem so hungered to forget every moment that there is to come. He feels somewhat duty-bound to remember at least some of it. He takes the smallest of sips, enough to play a binding role in the ritual, and sets the cup back down.
They eat in silence, Yoongi lacking both the words and the will to speak. There will be more than enough of that in the days to come, in the months, the years, their shared lifetime. Even so Yoongi can’t help but watch her eat, his own movements slow and languid, the shape of her lips around her chopsticks, the crease between her thick brows, the slight hitch to her breath every now and again as though she is trying to stop herself from speaking out loud. Or perhaps crying. He can’t help the mirthless chuckle that makes its way to his lips unbidden, he had promised Namjoon he would try and enjoy his wedding nuptials. His bride clearly took a different oath.
“ Jeonha.” Yoongi breaks his gaze from Joohyun, turning his head the slightest in the direction of the palace maid speaking low in his ear. “If it so please you, night is upon us. Allow us to ready you for the first night rituals.”