#states cannot exist without violence | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

junplusone · 1 month ago

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daughter of the sword, son of the wild ; jeon wonwoo

SUMMARY. you were supposed to kill him, he had no reason to keep you alive - and yet, the universe works in mysterious ways. what will you do when your path begins to unravel? how long until you realize the sword you wield can very well be used against you?

PAIRING. jeon wonwoo x f!reader

GENRE. enemies to lovers, rebel!wonwoo, assassin!reader, historical au, angst, some fluff towards the end, lots of introspection, junhao speak cantonese with each other in this universe

WARNINGS. language, mention of drinking, main & side character death (multiple character deaths), violence & blood (not graphic), kissing - slightly suggestive? but not really? read at your own discretion

WORDS. 34.54k

NOTES. um so... let the record show i did not originally intend for this fic to get this long. but! i can't believe it's finally done! this was a very engaging story to write and i genuinely enjoyed every moment of it. huge huge thank you to jay @ppyopulii & calli @hhaechansmoless for letting me scream about this and brainstorming along with me this fic would absolutely not exist without them!! so sorry for causing all of those crashouts guys... i love u so much i promise. anyways, that's all i have to say - i hope you enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing! xx (oh also if you see weird gaps between paragraphs that's the shift + entering i had to do to fit this in one post oops)

TAGS. @mochacoda @ppyopulii @jiabae @nerdycheol

PLAYLIST. tsunami - niki / gemini - jun / do i wanna know - arctic monkeys / sailor song - gigi perez / the cut that always bleeds - conan gray / close to you - gracie abrams

The night is quiet – a little too quiet, an eerie kind of silence that cannot be ignored. Wonwoo gets goosebumps on the back of his neck, hairs standing on end, and he knows immediately that something is wrong.

Silently, he taps Jeonghan’s shoulder twice. A signal. The older man raises his eyebrows, hand instinctively moving to his sword.

“We are not alone,” Wonwoo cautions him, taking careful steps forward. It’s a lucky thing that he’s mastered the art of staying calm in situations that are as suddenly critical as this. He and Jeonghan were only hoping to return home after a long day of travel, but now he has the feeling someone wants to prevent that from happening.

Out of the corner of his eye, Wonwoo suddenly catches an unmistakable glint of something that can only be metal. After all, the moon never lies.

Jeonghan has noticed it, too. “There,” he says, sword drawn, “behind that shed. Do you see them?”

“That cannot be any less than fifteen, at least.”

“Only fifteen? This could have been a lot worse.”

Wonwoo is very familiar with that look, the impish smirk that Jeonghan always wears. Nobody knows what it’s meant to mask, but it has become something of a comforting sight.

“Do not get in your own head,” Jeonghan advises, offering him a firm pat on the shoulder. “Remember what we are here for.”

“Right,” Wonwoo nods, before ducking instinctively. The knife, having come out of nowhere, just barely misses the top of his head. We are surrounded, he realizes, surveying the area around him. There is no easy way out.

Jeonghan says nothing, bringing his blade out to parry an unsuspecting blow, slashing the man’s chest with one fluid motion. Wonwoo wonders how many years of this it’s taken him to draw blood with such an indifferent expression.

How much practice does it take to effortlessly kill?

Well, the resistance will not fight itself, he tells himself as he sinks his daggers deep into his attacker, blood splattering onto his face. The metallic scent is not new to him.

There has always been a certain headspace that Wonwoo enters in situations such as these; everything aside from the battle is nothing but a blur. Seungcheol had always liked this about him, and praised his state of focus.

Now, Wonwoo wonders if it is just a way to bottle up his fear.

Every wound he inflicts feels like a cut on himself. He can’t freeze up, he can’t – this is the mantra he repeats to himself in his mind, keeping Seungcheol’s advice with him. All he can do is hope it serves him well now.

The thoughts distract him only for a second. But that moment is enough, he realizes, bearing the brunt of a strong kick to the chest. Wonwoo stumbles backward, just barely dodging his assailant’s sword to his neck.

Close calls in this line of work are one too many, too often.

Belatedly, he feels blood trickling down his cheek. He must have gotten nicked somewhere, comes the afterthought, as he spins his daggers between his fingers, stepping closer for the final blow. He braces himself again before letting the knife fly. The sound is sharp, but subtle. Wonwoo just barely misses flesh, the edge cutting through the fabric covering most of his attacker’s face instead.

For some reason, he freezes at the sight of your prominent cupid’s bow, and the way your skin glows under the moon’s light. You freeze, too, sword halted in mid-air.

Wonwoo doesn’t really understand what’s going on, until he looks into your fiery, lash-framed eyes, and it hits him.

A woman, he realizes, bewildered. It is unheard of, nearly impossible – the emblem stitched onto the side of your robes tells him exactly who sent you, and he thinks his eyes are playing tricks on him. Nobody associated with the palace would even consider sending a woman into the field, even with their best fighters.

And yet, here you are.

Wonwoo’s shock must have been mirrored on his face, because you take advantage of it and slash at him furiously. He’s fast – he’s trained for this, feet quicker than light – but not enough, for you manage to nick his torso with the edge of your sword.

Wonwoo falls back with a grunt, throwing a quick look over his shoulder. Jeonghan is making quick work of the men, his blade swirling around with effortless speed and precision. Bodies lie all around him; some dead, some hardly clinging onto their last breath. It makes Wonwoo sick to his stomach.

He staggers with every parry, trying to ignore the metallic smell that rises in his nostrils. You match him in skill and strength, he notes, strike for strike, and for the first time he finds himself struggling to put up a good fight.

And then, as aggressive as you have been, you back away for a second, alarm clear in your eyes. It catches Wonwoo off guard, the way you suddenly glance behind him to survey the empty valley and slink away into the darkness.

“Wait!” he calls out gruffly, sprinting in your wake, but he’s already lost you. You are quiet, and leave no trace – the night is concealing, and amidst the tall grass and sparse roads, Wonwoo does not know where you have gone. The others have followed in your trail, and soon the valley is as silent as if nothing had occurred in the first place.

There is something akin to guilt. A stronger man would have been able to finish the job, he thinks, reminded faintly of Seungcheol. Empathy is a vice, for people like him. He should not have wavered at the sight of your face. Wonwoo could have finished you then and there, if not for the hesitation that held him back.

Jeonghan approaches slowly, wiping his sword against the grass and staining the blades dark red. “I cannot believe several of them still got away,” he says vengefully. “After this sort of ambush I should have wiped them all out one by one.”

“You say that like you were the only one fighting.” Wonwoo gives a sheepish half-smile. “It is my fault too, hyung.”

Jeonghan seems to soften a little at this. The vexed expression is gone from his face, replaced by something kinder, more forgiving. Carefully, he brushes the dirt off of Wonwoo’s robes, giving him a reassuring pat.

“Are you hurt anywhere?”

“No.”

“I know when you are lying,” Jeonghan points out. His fingers graze the wound on his shoulder, and Wonwoo winces involuntarily. “Make sure you tend to this later.”

The journey home is mostly quiet. Wonwoo is not one for many words, and Jeonghan is not normally inclined to fill the silence, choosing to bask in it instead. It is late, and all Wonwoo wants is to be able to bathe himself and drift off to sleep before another day arrives. Maybe Mingyu is still awake, he muses, painfully aware of the hunger in his abdomen. It has been days of travel, and there is nothing like being back home.

Wonwoo can feel dawn coming on by the time he has returned to the familiar cluster of small houses. Surely nobody is still up, he tells himself, bidding a good rest to Jeonghan and gently letting the curtains fall behind him. He is carefully silent as he washes up, scrubbing away dried blood and bandaging his wounds in the small yard behind the house.

“Jeon Wonwoo, what have you gotten yourself into this time?”

Oh, dear. He would know that voice anywhere. He turns to find Hayun standing behind him, arms crossed sternly, and he thinks he’s never been more intimidated by her before.

“What are you doing up so early?”

Hayun purses her lips, frowning, and chooses to ignore the question.

“Is my husband aware that you’ve gone and gotten yourself injured again, or do I need to inform him?”

Wonwoo sighs through his nose. “Please do not do that.”

She softens at this, a little. The look in her eyes shifts from disappointment to concern.

“You must not put yourself in harm’s way on such a whim. How many times has Mingyu entreated you to look after yourself? What on earth even happened?”

“Jeonghan hyung and I were returning from the capital when we were attacked. He is not hurt,” he adds quickly, “but I am inclined to think it was a planned ambush.”

“You boys must be careful,” she emphasizes, taking a seat on a tree stump. “It is more important now than ever.”

He knows she is right. One wrong move, and it will all be for nothing. “Has Mingyu been well?”

“Better, I suppose.” Hayun’s fingers fiddle with the hem of her sleeves. “He is still recovering. But he is able to hunt on his own now, and walk without much pain.”

“That is good news,” he agrees, memories from the fateful night of Mingyu’s injury flashing in the back of his mind. “I have not seen him in a while.”

“Well, you are home now. He will be very glad to see you, and quite upset about your wounds,” she says pointedly.

“He will not know what I do not show him.”

“If you must.” Hayun rises, brushing the dirt off of her hanbok, and pauses. She is several years younger than Wonwoo, but the look in her eyes is one of motherly concern.

“We will be careful,” he insists. She does not respond to this, just smiles wistfully and pats his shoulder.

“Sleep, Wonwoo. It is nearly sunrise, and you have not gotten any rest. You will need it.”

He struggles for words. He does not know how to tell her that sleep has rather successfully evaded him lately.

“Alright,” he says finally, and watches her retreat back behind the wooden door. Still, he does not move. His legs suddenly feel too heavy to stand, and his wounds ache with sorrow for all the blood he has drawn under the dark cover of the night.

Sparse light begins to filter through the sky, harkening the arrival of another dawn. The clouds split, and Wonwoo wonders what he could have been in another life.

Thirty-two casualties, eight injured, three missing. The numbers are against you, and you know it.

You have not had a moment of peace since arriving back at your quarters. This palace is much smaller than the king’s, and therefore busier, but you would not dare to complain. If anything, having company at all times is better than perpetual isolation.

“I do not think His Highness will punish you,” Seokmin assures you. As your right hand man and faithful friend, it is duty to say such things, even when he might not be absolutely certain he is correct.

“He is not a generous man. You know this,” you tell him, undoing and redoing your braid in frustration. “We are looked after as long as we serve his purpose. Tonight was the exact opposite of that.”

Seokmin’s silence vindicates you further. You pace anxiously in the room, awaiting your impending doom. Will he have you banished? Executed perhaps, for sheer and utter failure. You think of your sisters then, somewhere in your small village waiting for your safe return.

There is a series of harsh knocks on the door. A royal guard, by the look of his attire.

“His Highness would like to speak with you,” he says grimly. You throw an apprehensive glance over your shoulder at Seokmin, who merely nods. It is meant to be comforting, however it is everything but.

You follow the guard down the winding halls and into a room that has housed many meetings before, none of which ended remarkably well. The guard leaves you with a polite bow and shuts the door behind him.

The room is dull, windows drawn and curtains closed. It is mostly bare, save for the sparse bookshelves and the table where the second prince Muyeol is hunched over a scroll. You lower your eyes, not daring to speak first.

“I have received news of recent events,” he says, finally. His voice is low, but sharp as an arrow.

“My deepest apologies, Your Highness.” He does not speak further, just watching you with those eyes that have seen years of war and rebellion, and it compels you to explain yourself. “I assure you, we tried our best. I did not anticipate–”

“I did not ask you here to listen to your excuses.” You realize now the way he so easily holds control over his men, and all those coerced into doing his bidding. Fear is a powerful thing. “I want to know how two village boys overpowered some of the palace’s most highly trained and able warriors.”

“I do not–”

“You had one opportunity to prove yourself,” Muyeol remarks, discarding the scroll he had been inspecting. Whatever light there is highlights the faint streaks of gray in his beard as he rises, stepping closer to you. “After all, it is unheard of for a woman to be involved in such activities, let alone be placed in control of the movement. Some of our allies are wondering if it is too much power, to such feeble a person.”

Your fists clench at your sides. This does not go unnoticed – he laughs, an evil and rumbling thing that only stokes the fire in your chest.

“I am far from feeble,” you say with as much venom as you can muster, “and I believe I have proven so in the past. Do not forget I have been loyal to you and your cause for many moons.”

“True loyalty is not bought.” He picks up one of his knives, a beautiful, glistening weapon. Your breath catches as he points the tip at you, tracing the sharp edge along the curve of your throat. “I have not forgotten the circumstances under which you were brought here. Do you truly believe you would still be here if your family was not at stake?”

Tall flames, pungent smoke in your airways. A ransacked village lies in the distant path of your memories. You remember the price many have paid for attempting to cross this man, the consequences you are still living to this day.

“They are getting in the way,” he continues, coldly. “The commoners believe they are fighting for justice against the crown. It is turning into a problem, for I must rid my brother of the throne before they have the chance to.”

What a cruel man, you think. His words make you sick, but you swallow it down for the sake of your survival.

“I do not forget any allegiance I have pledged, Your Highness.”

The blade drops, and you finally take in the breath you’ve been holding. The air feels sickly sweet in your lungs.

“I want them dead.” Muyeol drops the knife with a loud clang. “All of them. The uprising must be quashed. Bring me their bodies, so that we may burn them as an example to those who dare to ruin our kingdom. You know what is at stake if you do not.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

He turns his sharp eyes to you, sly and unsettling. “You may leave.”

The feeling of dread does not leave even as you enter the courtyard, letting the gentle breeze lap against your cheeks. It is so late that you can feel the beginning rays of dawn creep up the horizon, and yet you are not tired. It strikes you then, in the lush expanse of the palace, that you are as good as powerless. That no matter how high you rise in the ranks, you are still a woman where there is room for none. And if only to make matters worse, you are a pawn in a cruel game that you would rather not be playing at all.

For the first time in months, you feel your eyes stinging with tears you should not let fall. You wish someone was there with you – Seokmin, Seungkwan, anyone – but that is not the case.

Under the impassive gaze of the night, you are completely alone.

There is little time before your next mission. You assemble a small group of your most trusted soldiers and start to make your plans.

Your reluctance does not slip past your crew unnoticed. Three of them stay behind after you dismiss the others – your most trusted archers, and confidants. Friend is a precarious title in this line of work, but you have learned to make exceptions for them.

“I hope you know you can speak your mind to us,” Seungkwan begins. “What is holding you back?”

“It is nothing.”

“If it were nothing, we would have left for the foothills tonight.”

It is always uncanny how perceptive he is. “My thoughts do not matter,” you say, “so long as His Highness is satisfied and my sisters are safe.”

Hansol is perched on an armchair, eyes thoughtful. “Do you ever think of what you will do once this is all over? When the king finally abdicates and the people are happy?”

“I do not know if the people will truly ever be happy,” you say truthfully. “The second prince has promised action, and action is better than inaction. But he is not the good and kind man the people want for a ruler.”

“The same man that murdered his own son, for fear that he might lay claim to the throne.” Seokmin shudders. “I feel complicit in all of his crimes.”

You take a moment to really look at him, then, as well as the others. Not as soldiers, not as the deadliest archers this side of the river – but as mere boys of twenty-something, full of locked-up love for fallen friends and slain mothers and burning villages.

What kind of person was Seungkwan at seventeen? What had been Hansol’s favorite fruit to pick and eat in the summertime?

None of that matters, now. They all have shadows in their eyes; sisters, brothers, loved ones they have left behind. Muyeol had been correct. None of them are here because they want to be.

“One day, we will be on the right side of history,” you say, placing a hand on Seokmin’s shoulder. “But we cannot do that as corpses, and that is what we will be if we fail now.”

“You are right,” he says finally, after a few moments. He glances out the window, at the sun spilling the last few drops of light on the earth. “Please rest, Y/N. There will be a long day of travel, and an even longer hunt afterwards.”

“I will try,” you agree absentmindedly. You offer them your best smile, knowing they will always see through it, and bid them a good night, staying behind to watch what is left of the sunset.

That night, a man appears in your dreams. He knows your name, but you don’t seem to find this strange. Instead, you curl yourself further into the calm familiarity of his voice. You have not seen him since you were eleven, just a child who should not have known the grief that was about to befall her.

You are so brave, he tells you. You are so strong. Mother would have been so proud of you.

You reach for him, unconsciously. Am I really?

Yes. You are so much stronger than you know, little tiger.

A single tear seeps through your lashes, illuminated under the moon’s soft glow. You wake up in the morning and cannot remember your brother’s face at all.

The forest had been Wonwoo’s entire childhood. Raised him, in a sense.

There are faint memories of afternoons spent running in the tall grass, peals of carefree laughter while climbing the tall larch trees. His little brother had liked to catch dragonflies, particularly, letting them go after admiring their scintillating wings. Mingyu does the same, when he is able. The bittersweet likeness always puts something of a smile on Wonwoo’s face.

But that had been before the trees burned and the ferns went down in crackling flames, taking everything precious with them. Now, Wonwoo catches a glimpse of forsythia and barely feels anything.

Unlike the others, he has never been able to sleep in for long. It was hours ago when he first rose, shifting the blankets carefully so that he would not wake up Chan. His muscles are still very sore, wounds still stinging, but he basks in the warm sunlight and feels just a little more alive.

“You’re outside quite early.”

Wonwoo turns sharply. He is normally alone at this time, but Seungcheol is standing in the doorway, eyes heavy with sleep. “Mingyu will be elated to see you,” he adds. “Once he is awake, that is.”

“He seems to be more tired as of late.”

“We all are.” Seungcheol’s eyes dart to the bandages on Wonwoo’s shoulder, and across his torso. Unlike Jeonghan, he says nothing – his mouth settles into a thin line that can only be concern. “I am glad the both of you returned safely last night. The attack was a complete surprise. We did not think that the palace would send soldiers so far into the country.”

Wonwoo thinks of you, then, movements as fluid and graceful as a river. Had he dreamt all of it? He cannot quite recall your face, but he remembers the feeling of your sword on his skin and the smell of fresh blood.

“Do you think they will come again?”

Seungcheol takes a seat on the small wooden bench, patting the spot beside him. Wonwoo does as he is told.

“Wonwoo, do you know what makes a far greater weapon than your daggers and swords?” He shakes his head no. Seungcheol only smiles.

“Hope,” he continues. “When our enemies say we are too loud, too demanding, and wish us silenced or dead – that is the greatest ammunition one can have.”

Wonwoo certainly does not feel hopeful, especially not recently. It has been so for many years, under the current king’s rule: starve, or die trying not to. He says so, petulantly, and receives a pat on the shoulder in return.

“You will learn,” is all Seungcheol says. He is not so much older than Wonwoo, but there is a calm wisdom about him that makes it feel like there are many years between them instead of just the one.

The conversation dissipates with the arrival of the others. The sound of laughter, such a rare and precious thing, echoes throughout the clearing. Mingyu approaches him with a grin and an ever so subtle limp in his step.

“You look a little rugged,” he remarks, pulling him into a careful hug.

“You are not so bad yourself,” Wonwoo quips back. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better. Hayun must have told you, but I’ve recovered very well. Chan still says I look a little silly when I walk, but you should not listen to him.” Mingyu gazes lovingly at his wife and Wonwoo feels a distant sting from a wound he does not have.

“Chan enjoys teasing you,” he says absentmindedly. “You make an easy target.”

“I always say that,” Jeonghan calls from where he’s perched on a tree stump, “and he still never listens to me!”

Mingyu only rolls his eyes at him, before turning back to Wonwoo. “What about you? You are not hurt too badly, I hope? Jeonghan was making a fuss out of it earlier.”

“He always does.” Wonwoo brushes a finger over the freshly changed bandages. “Do not worry. They are only minor injuries.”

Mingyu frowns, like he always does when he inspects and cleans the dried blood off the others’ skin. He often volunteers for it, saying it’s the least he can do to help, but the memories of his own scars never quite leave his eyes.

“You must take care of yourself,” he places a gentle hand on Wonwoo’s shoulder, “especially now. Things are only getting more dangerous.”

“You sound more like your wife every day,” Wonwoo teases, but the tension in the air is real. He chooses to ignore it and leave all the words unsaid, like always. Hayun and Chan bring out steaming bowls of porridge, and they all eat together outside under the mid-morning sun. It is moments like this that feel like family. It never matters that these are friendships forged of blood and battle, never has.

Sometimes Wonwoo wonders if this is what he could have had in a different timeline, laying in the tall grass watching the clouds with his brother. Perhaps his father would have returned home from a long day in the fields, with fresh fruit and flowers for his mother in tow. But dwelling on the past that never existed is futile, and he knows this.

“I would advise you all to be careful being out, particularly after dark,” Seungcheol starts, once everyone has finished eating. He’s wearing that frown again, the one he gets when he’s especially worried. “I received word earlier from one of our ally groups in the southeast. Their village was raided at nighttime – many dead, even more missing. There is no telling which of us may be next.”

A hushed quiet falls over the circle. Mingyu folds his arms, eyebrows furrowed. Even Chan, who usually resorts to lighthearted jokes to handle bad news, is entirely silent.

“I am not trying to scare any of you,” Seungcheol adds. “But this is the truth, however harsh, and you should know.”

“Cheol is right,” Jeonghan agrees, “We should be alert and prepared. Always carry some sort of weapon on you, and never let your guard down.” Wonwoo notes the bleak look on his face – saved only for the rarest of occasions – and exchanges an uncertain glance with Chan. They will talk about it at some point, when they can speculate on their own time.

It is colder in the evening, when the sky begins to dim just a little. Wonwoo had agreed, earlier, to exercise with Jeonghan before dinner, and the breeze serves to cool him down whenever they decide to take a break.

“It has been quite a while since we have sparred,” Jeonghan observes, setting his flask down.

“Shall I get the wooden swords?”

“No need. I think you have been past that for some time.” He only chuckles at the dubious expression on Wonwoo’s face. “Do not worry, I know you will not hurt me.”

“Well, that is not my concern,” Wonwoo laughs, “It is myself I worry about. You know you are a far better swordsman than I.”

At this, Jeonghan sets down his sword with a light sigh. “You must not underestimate yourself like this,” he says, gently this time. “Sometimes I feel that is your greatest obstacle.”

“I like to be realistic.”

“Your reality is shrouded by your own fear.” Jeonghan looks at Wonwoo, and it feels like he is staring straight through to his soul. “Do not be so surprised. It is clear in the way you move, and how you wield your weapons. I always see the regret in your eyes.”

Wonwoo shakes his head, shoulders slumped. “How do you do it, hyung? You make it seem so easy.”

“It is not. It never gets easier,” Jeonghan says, sadly. “Some of us are forged out of necessity. Others, courage. But it all leads to the same thing. These are still lives we are taking, regardless of how they were lived.”

Wonwoo watches him carefully, tries to remember what Jeonghan had been like when they first met. He was never the type of person to show how deeply he felt about anything, and still is not. There is a distinct change, however. He had been lighter back then – happier. The mysterious shine in his eyes is still there, but it is different now.

“What would you have done?” Wonwoo turns his observant eyes to his friend. “If you were not a part of all this, I mean.”

Jeonghan ponders this for a second, long hair shadowing his face. In all the years they have known each other, he has barely spoken about his childhood years. His village, his family – nobody knows much about these things at all.

“I do not know,” he says finally. “There was not much of an option, was there? I would have worked in the fields, like my father, and lived a simple life.” Then his expression turns solemn, and his lips form a tight line. “I might have married Haeun, in that timeline.”

This, Wonwoo knows about. He’s only heard her name once before, one night when Jeonghan had just a little too much makgeolli. Drunk Jeonghan was always very chatty, he recalls. But he doesn’t pry further, instead placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Wonwoo, do you know what happens when we die?”

“What?”

“My grandmother used to say that our brain still goes on for seven minutes,” he muses, “Even after our heart stops. Those seven minutes are supposed to be our life’s best memories.”

Wonwoo thinks about this for a moment. “Is that true?”

“When I find out, I will not be able to tell you.” Jeonghan chuckles softly, leaning back against the tree trunk. “But I think that you would be in it, and all of our other friends. And Haeun too, I hope.”

“Do not say such things,” Wonwoo chides, turning away so that the troubled look on his face is not visible. “But it is a happy idea that our last moments of consciousness are spent in comfort.”

“Right? I thought so as well.” Jeonghan lifts his head and glances back at the house. The smell of meat cooking – a rare luxury – fills the air, and Wonwoo is suddenly acutely aware of the hunger in his stomach.

“Come, Wonwoo, let us eat. It seems as if Mingyu is finished preparing dinner.”

The journey to the foothills feels much longer than it should be.

It is easy to distract yourself, however, and listen to the others’ chatter. Your horses walk slowly, occasionally getting sidetracked by a stray plant or butterfly, as Seokmin and Seungkwan bicker endlessly behind you.

Hansol’s yawn catches your eye, and you turn to him. “Tired?”

“No,” he says immediately, but the fatigue is evident in his eyes. “I was just thinking.”

“About?”

He only shrugs. It is so very Hansol. “Everything.”

An apt answer, you think. He is not so much younger than you, but he feels it – you wish for him to see and experience more of the world than you have. He still wears a specific type of curiosity in his eyes, the kind that gives you hope.

“What is your favorite fruit, Hansol?”

He thinks about it, then tells you he likes plums. Faintly, you are reminded of your youngest sister, the reddish-purple juice dribbling down her fingers in the summertime. Behind you, Seokmin says something about persimmons. Seungkwan lets out one of those loud, contagious laughs. You wish you could freeze this moment in time.

You glance up at the moon, an early crescent in the darkening sky. One of your men asks whether you will be stopping for the night, but you shake your head.

“We are not too far from our destination,” you explain, “and it is safer to camp nearer to people than here in the woods.”

“I, for one, do not know how I will sleep through Seungkwan’s snoring tonight,” Seokmin announces. “Nobody shall comment on the eyebags I will have tomorrow.”

You wait for the telltale sound of Seungkwan’s fist making contact with his arm – there it is, followed by Seokmin’s pained yelp. You laugh, having grown used to their antics over the years.

Hansol raises an eyebrow. “Are they always like this?”

“More or less,” you tell him. “They are serious when they need to be. I promise you are in good hands.”

“I believe you,” he says sagely.

As the minutes pass, you feel your eyelids growing heavy, the day’s exhaustion hitting you all at once. Seokmin’s bubbling laugh floats over to your ears, and you wonder how he still has the energy for it.

“Tired?” Hansol quips. You shake your head, laughing. It is not long before you begin to see the silhouette of houses in the far distance, glowing lamps dotting the horizon. Seungkwan cheers, eager for some respite.

Suddenly, a sharp sting blossoms at the tip of your ear. The group falls silent at the sound of your surprised yelp, and you bring a hand to your ear in an attempt to stifle the pain.

“What is it?” Seungkwan asks, anxiously.

Your fingers come away red. Blood.

The forest is silent, too silent – the birds have stopped chirping entirely, and the leaves do not carry the wind as they normally do. An eerie feeling rattles down your spine. You grasp the reins a little tighter. Somewhere between the trees, you catch the slightest movement, a flash of blue against the lush foliage. Seokmin sees it too, and his eyes dart to yours, questioning.

“We need to get out of here,” you declare, urging your horse into a gallop. “Now!”

Another arrow whizzes past your head and pierces a tree trunk. Hansol has drawn his bow, letting his own arrows fly. Panic flows through your veins and pools in your chest as you just barely dodge a spear.

Alarmed, you toss a look over your shoulder. The sounds of voices grow louder by the second, accompanied by the thundering hoofbeats of men in pursuit. Seokmin gives you an understanding nod and knocks one of the oncomers clean off his horse.

“What is going on?” Hansol urges, reaching into his quiver. “Who are they?”

“We do not have time to find out.” Some of the men have circled around, approaching you from the sides. You reach for the knife strapped to your thigh and hurl it with precise aim, lodging it into an exposed torso. But one man down does not spell victory – they outnumber you by far, and in a matter of minutes, will have you surrounded. Wildly, you look for something, anything, to provide a way out.

Not so far ahead, half hidden behind bushes, is a slightly less beaten path that branches off to the right. There is another trail further ahead, one that seems to loop around and double back. If you all stay together, you realize, you will be cornered in no time.

“We have to split up!” you shout, amidst the chaos.

You can’t see Seungkwan, but you know he is frowning. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you insist. “You have to trust me!”

From your right, Hansol gives you a concerned look. “I will accompany you,” he says, shooting at someone behind you. You shake your head immediately, not liking the idea.

“No, Hansol. You cannot!”

“I must,” he protests. “I can hold them off with my arrows. Your sword is better suited for a much closer range.”

You think you will never forget this look in his eyes, such a far cry from the young boy he was when you had first met him.

“Alright,” you say reluctantly, catching a glimpse of sudden movement behind him. “Hansol, watch out!”

He whirls around sharply, but his reaction is not fast enough. Without thinking, you pull your sword from your belt and reach over so far you nearly slip off of the saddle, barely managing to pierce the man’s shoulder. Blood spatters across Hansol’s face, dotting his sunkissed skin.

“Thank you,” he gasps. “I did not think they would catch up so fast.”

You glance over your shoulder, catching Seungkwan’s eye. He nods firmly, and it gives you the courage to turn back around so you don’t have to watch him and Seokmin tear off to the side, veering left into the thick forest. They will be able to hold out on their own; you have to believe this to be true.

Your pursuers have split, just like you planned – around half of them remain on the path behind you, fast approaching on horseback. You tug on the reins, a bit harshly. Hansol slows down to let you pass through the narrow side trail first.

“I will cover,” he assures you. “Trust me.”

That is all you can do – making as much distance as you can and dodging stray arrows when they fly just past your head. You do not know who it might be that wants you dead so badly that they would ambush you at night, but as much as you rack your brains looking for an answer, you cannot find one. There are not many who know exactly who you work for, and even less among them who might want to hurt you.

“How much further?” Hansol yells over the commotion, blood dribbling from a gash on his shoulder. “I do not have infinite arrows!”

“I am hoping they will leave us be if we reach the village, if we can make it that far!”

“And how far is that exactly?!”

You turn to face him, but do not get a chance to respond. Before you can open your mouth, an arrowhead lodges itself in the divot beneath your collarbone.

Sharp pain blossoms across your chest as the metallic scent of blood rises in your nostrils. You try to keep your grip on the reins, but your sight goes blurry, and your fingers let the leather slip. Faintly, you hear something that sounds like a shout of your name. But it is too late – your horse rears back, startled, and you cannot stay on any longer. You roll off, hitting the uneven ground with a sickening thud.

The dark red of your blood stains the rocky terrain below you as you attempt to get on your feet, but to no avail. You let out a pained groan, wondering whether Seokmin and Seungkwan have managed to make it to safety.

And what of Hansol? You can only hope he makes it to the village unharmed.

The last thing you see is a vaguely familiar symbol, silver etched on dark velvet fabric, but it soon disappears into the night’s cover. Your fingers tighten around a pebble’s edge, and you send a silent prayer up to whatever god is willing to listen. The world disappears, and your vision goes black.

Have you been well?

Your voice is sticky in your throat. No words come out.

Wake up, little tiger. It is time. A whole world awaits you.

You try to fight it, burrowing yourself into that familiar warmth of your brother’s voice. It does not work. Instead, you feel him tumbling further and further away from you, and a strange light intensifies between your eyes.

You wake with a start. Above you is a ceiling you do not recognize, and around you is a room you have never been inside. Blinking twice, you attempt to orient yourself, but a sharp sting renders you immobile when you try to sit up.

The only other person in the room is seated against the wall, crushing leaves in a mortar. She glances up at the sound of your rustling and lets go of the pestle.

“You are awake,” she observes, carrying the mortar over and kneeling beside you. Carefully, she peels back the layer of bandages and applies the paste to your wound. It stings a little bit, and you wince, not expecting the pain. “This salve should keep it from getting infected.”

The woman is beautiful, with soft features and long lashes. Yet there is a fierceness in her eyes that unsettles and comforts you at the same time.

“Hansol,” you breathe, struggling for words. “Hansol, where is he?”

She arches an eyebrow. “I am assuming you are talking about the boy we found with you,” she says finally. “He was not as badly injured as you are. Do not worry.”

Relief rushes through you, like a spring river. If Hansol is alive and well, then the others have to be, too.

“Where is he?” you repeat, earnestly. “Please, let me see him.”

The woman stares at you for a few moments before heaving a deep sigh, rising to her feet. She leaves the room for a minute or so, and returns with several others in tow. You try to sit up again, leaning yourself up against the wall.

The very first thing you see is Hansol, hands and ankles tied together with thick rope. Behind him are two men, one at each side, wearing grim expressions on their faces.

“What have you done to him?” you demand, albeit weakly. “Let him go!”

Hansol shakes his head at you, as if to tell you to stop talking. The men shuffle him over slowly and deposit him onto the floor so that he sits across from you. He leans forward urgently, eyes desperate.

“Y/N, you have to listen to me, they –”

His sentence is cut short. Without stopping to hesitate, the taller of the two men draws his sword and points it right at this throat.

“Do not hurt him!” you cry out, before succumbing to a coughing fit. The woman rushes to fill a small ceramic bowl with water and brings it to your lips, letting you drink slowly. The man pays no mind at all, and his sword remains in the air.

“Speak,” he says firmly. Hansol throws you a confused glance, the rope chafing his wrists as he fidgets under it.

“I do not know what you ask of me,” he says finally. The man takes a step forward, a subtle limp in his left leg.

“We know everything,” he says coldly. “There is nothing left for you to hide. We know exactly who you are, and who sent you.”

The blade does not drop. You watch Hansol swallow, nervous, as the metal glints threateningly under the morning sun.

“Please, you cannot hurt him,” you entreat once again. “He knows nothing, I swear. I brought him along to aid me.”

The sword’s edge points at you now, sharp and shining. The woman gives him a look, frowning slightly.

“Mingyu, please,” she murmurs. “She is not even able to stand on her own.”

Mingyu does not listen to her. He continues to glare down at you instead, hand steady. “Speak, then,” he demands. “And do not even dare to try and lie to us.”

Your eyes dart from him, to the man beside him, wondering what you could possibly say to save yourselves from the situation you’ve found yourself in right now.

“We are from the capital. The palace,” you clarify. Hansol watches you with wide, terrified eyes, but you are not telling them anything they do not already know.

“That much is clear,” Mingyu says. He gestures towards the sleeve of your robes, where the silver royal emblem sits. “But you have still not told us why you are here.”

“We were given orders,” you begin shakily. The uncertainty in your voice is making Hansol anxious, and you know it. “To find someone.”

Mingyu frowns, sword faltering slightly. “Who?”

You do not know what to say. That is, until another figure emerges behind Mingyu’s broad shoulders. Sharp, catlike eyes that could rival your deadliest blade bore into yours. You’ve seen those eyes somewhere before, for sure, but you cannot put your finger on exactly where.

A dark night flashes in your mind, tense silence in the foothills. You catch the moment of recognition in his eyes too, chapped lips parting just slightly. Yes, you remember that face now, those hands that had skillfully parried your own. The sound of your veil being sliced open still haunts you to this day.

You do not dare break eye contact, but you lift your chin defiantly and stare right back.

“Him.”

As much as he tries, Wonwoo cannot get the image of you out of his head: bandaged and bruised on the floor, and yet sporting the same fierceness he had first seen a few nights ago.

“It seems they came looking for you and Jeonghan,” Mingyu clarifies later. “Orders from the second prince. You heard her.”

Wonwoo just nods, staring out into the woods where Mingyu and Jeonghan had found you during their morning hunt. His nemesis, brought forth from the forest he’d grown up in.

“What should we do, hyung?”

“Well, they are more useful to us alive than dead. And we cannot let them go.” Wonwoo sighs, cracking his knuckles. “Where is she?”

“Hayun is helping her eat. Some porridge, I think.”

“And the boy?”

“He is with them. Do not worry, we have their weapons. And he cannot move with his limbs tied together,” Mingyu reassures him. “I wrote to Seungcheol hyung, too. He should return from the north within a few days.”

“Okay. Good.” Wonwoo laces his fingers together pensively, wonders how you came to be injured so badly in the first place. If you were after him, then who had been after you?

Mingyu takes another tentative step, then takes a seat on the bench beside him. Wonwoo isn’t sure why all his thoughts are stuck in his throat, refusing to present themselves as coherent sentences. It has always been easier to say what is on his mind to Mingyu – he has never once questioned his feelings, taking them all in stride.

“Are you alright?”

“Hm?” He tears his gaze away from the sparrow perched on a tall branch and meets Mingyu’s earnest, concerned eyes. “Yes, Gyu. Do not worry about me.”

“Psh. I always worry about you. What kind of friend would that make me?” Mingyu laughs softly. “How is your shoulder?”

“Much better. I can move it further now. It should be completely healed within a week,” Wonwoo says, experimentally rolling his shoulder back and forth.

“That’s good.”

They fall into that easy silence again. Wonwoo feels the words bubbling up, but they never leave his tongue. There are too many feelings, and speaking feels like a certain kind of blasphemy to the quiet that lets him just be.

“How is your leg now?” he asks instead. Mingyu gives a lopsided smile, the one that exposes his sharp canine teeth.

“I keep telling Hayun I am able to go back out there with you, but she will not hear it,” he admits. Wonwoo sees her point, secretly; but this sentiment he would not say out loud. “I know I have been helping out where I can at home, but I still feel a little useless.”

“You are not–”

“It should have been me,” Mingyu lightly touches Wonwoo’s bandaged shoulder, “that night you were with Jeonghan. And every other night, too. Do not think I have forgotten each time you come home battered up and bleeding.”

“It is my duty too.” Wonwoo says it solemnly, can’t bring himself to look his best friend in the eyes right now. “This is not something you must feel bad about.”

Mingyu says nothing, choosing to blink away the unbidden tears in his eyes. Deep down, Wonwoo wonders if things would have been better today if that fateful injury had never happened. Mingyu had always been stronger – not just physically, but mentally. A born fighter, who would have truly known his place on the battlefield.

But it has been many months since Mingyu has lifted his weapon. Wonwoo, full of regrets and mismatched empathy a warrior should not have, needed to step up in his wake. If it had been Mingyu in the valley with Jeonghan that night, you might not have lived to tell the tale.

Wonwoo does not bring any of this up later, when he encounters Hayun in the kitchen. He just sits on a stool quietly, watching her stir the rice porridge.

“You look like you want to say something,” she begins eventually. He stiffens, not used to openly being called out.

‘No,” he denies. “I was just bored.”

“Now that is something I expect Yoon Jeonghan to say.” Hayun laughs. “It is alright, Wonwoo. You are not obliged to speak if you do not feel like it.”

So he does not, instead watching her tidy things up around the small kitchen. She balances several bowls together, passing him a plate.

“Help me carry the seaweed salad,” she says. “At least the boy will eat it.”

Wonwoo is used to doing as he’s told. He obediently follows her into the small side room, plate precariously in hand. Hansol, still bound by the fraying rope, immediately tenses up at the sight of him, but you do not stir. Well — you are asleep, he realizes, and rightfully so. He knows more than anybody how important rest is for an injury. Still, the sight of your lashes gently brushing the skin under your eyes irks him. He cannot pinpoint why.

Hayun sets the plates and bowls on the ground. The rattling seems to jolt you awake, eyes wide and then narrowing at the sight of Wonwoo.

“I hope you have not come to execute us,” you say sharply. Wonwoo sees straight through your facade, can tell how you’re struggling to speak through the pain. Hayun only purses her lips, setting the bowl of rice porridge beside you.

“I know that we are at odds. But we are not barbarians,” she says gently. “You must eat.”

You lock eyes with Wonwoo once again, gaze unnaturally piercing. He is certain that under different circumstances, you would have your sword at his throat with no hesitation whatsoever.

Hayun brings the spoon up to your lips, but you jerk away slightly, assuring her you can feed yourself. She does not look convinced, but backs away to let you have your space, and glances back at Wonwoo.

“What are you waiting for?” she asks, gesturing towards Hansol. “Untie him.”

Wonwoo gapes at her. “You want me to untie him?”

“How will he be able to eat otherwise? You and Mingyu, really,” she rolls her eyes, “They are hurt and unarmed, and you have got a whole set of knives on you. Do you really see them as a threat right now?”

Wonwoo sighs, reluctantly gets to work on the knots tying Hansol’s wrists together. He is visibly scared; none of the defiance that you hold, and all of the fear you don’t seem to have.

He sits there against the wall as the two of you slowly eat in silence. Hansol eats quickly, and very little, but you take your time. You have to, he supposes, thanks to the lack of mobility in your right arm. Hayun asks for your name, tentatively, and you tell her. Wonwoo lets it ring in the air before deciding that it suits you: sharp and angular but still soft, smooth rolling off your tongue. He doesn’t turn away until you catch him watching you, expression morphing into a glare.

Wonwoo is not as curious as Hayun, for sure. He only needs to know one thing about you.

“Who was following you here?” He tries to sound as commanding as possible, nodding towards your wound. “Did you see who shot you?”

He observes carefully as Hansol immediately looks to you. He knows nothing, that is for sure. But you hesitate, just barely. A troubled look crosses your eyes for just a moment before it’s gone again.

“No,” you say finally. “I do not know.”

Wonwoo holds your stare, almost challenging. You do not break. Still, he senses your lie. He is not sure what exactly it is you are hiding, but there must be something. It does not matter just yet. There will be time to find out later.

He helps Hayun gather the dishes afterwards, almost feels bad binding Hansol’s chafed wrists again. But no measure is too much, and he’d rather be safe than sorry.

“I will keep watch overnight. Just to make sure the boy does not try anything,” he tells her outside. “You should go in and get some sleep.”

Hayun raises an eyebrow at him. “You will stay up all night? Please tell me you are joking, Jeon Wonwoo.”

“Jeonghan and I will keep watch,” he relents, under her stern demeanor. “We will both be adequately rested.”

“You better be. Jeonghan likes to complain when he wakes up with eyebags,” she chuckles, wiping her hands. “I will leave you to it. Goodnight, Wonwoo.”

He mumbles a goodnight in return, trudging back to your room. There is a book lying on a stool, and he brings it with him to read. Why not?

Hansol is as good as asleep when he finally settles in the opposite corner. You are not, but you do not even spare him a glance as he sits down. Whatever, he thinks. At least he has something to bide his time until Jeonghan comes in and he can sleep.

He opens the book eagerly. A romance novel, it seems. Wonwoo wrinkles his nose, and wonders whose it is. He had never been very fond of the genre, but it will have to do. Wonwoo flips to the first page, filled with avid descriptions of a fair maiden and a lush countryside, and wonders exactly how long of a night awaits him.

Sleep is a fickle guest, dipping in and out and toying with your consciousness.

You cannot seem to surrender to any sort of dream for too long. Always your eyes fly open, gasping for breath even though you have not been underwater. The sharp-eyed warrior across from you does not spare you more than a threateningly curious glance.

It is when you wake up next that you notice he is no longer there. This man has rounder, softer eyes, and wilder hair. You remember him, too, from that night in the valley. Subconsciously, you note that he does not look half as vicious as he fights. He seems to sense your eyes on him, looking up suddenly from his paper and ink.

“Oh,” he says, a disarmingly playful smile spreading across his face. He whispers, so as not to wake Hansol. “I see you are healing well. Much better than the wreck you were when I found you, at least.”

This piques your interest, and you sit up straighter. “You found me?”

“She speaks,” he remarks sagely. “Yes, I did.”

His demeanor confuses you, to put it plainly. Everyone else had treated you with such coldness, and rightfully so. But he does not seem to have any qualms about speaking with you at all.

“I am Jeonghan, by the way.” At your bewildered expression he adds, “I know your name, but you do not know mine. Is it not impolite?”

“No,” you say bluntly. “I do not really care about your manners. Or your lack of them.”

He shrugs jovially, returning to his paper. “Just as well.”

A little more time passes in utter silence, before you impulsively break it. “What are you writing?”

Jeonghan raises his eyebrows, setting the brush down and turning the paper towards you. “I draw,” he says simply. “Sometimes.”

His nonchalance does not distract you from the impressive detail of the sketch. It is done with little care, but still executed well, a perfect likeness of a mountain range. You wonder how much this tells you about the kind of person he is.

“You are very different from the other one,” you observe.

“The other one?” Jeonghan tilts his head, before it dawns on him. “Oh. You are talking about Wonwoo? Yes, we are not very similar. But maybe that is why we make great friends.”

So that is the catlike man’s name, after all. You repeat it quietly, letting it coat your tongue and roll off of it. Privately, you decide it suits him — slick and smooth, and prickly where you would not expect.

Friends, Jeonghan had said. A laughable thing – you cannot imagine Wonwoo smiling at all.

“When will we be allowed to leave?” you ask, after some thought. Jeonghan’s hand stills.

“I do not know,” he says. “Mingyu wants you dead. Wonwoo thinks you are more useful to us alive. I, for one, do not particularly care. There is nothing the palace can do to us if we are always one step ahead.”

“How long must we wait, then?”

Jeonghan shrugs without looking up. “I told you. I do not know.”

Your heart sinks a little, but you continue to watch him silently, adding thoughtful strokes here and there to his sketch. Somehow the repeated movement lulls you back to sleep, lids heavy and fluttering closed. Your brother does not show up in your dreams this time. Instead, you are surrounded by nothing. Nothingness is starkly different from darkness. It is simply empty, unsettling.

An oddly familiar symbol flashes underneath your eyelids, burning through your vision. It reflects light from an unknown source, before blood dribbles over it, oozing out of the emptiness. You feel it everywhere, pain buzzing just underneath your skin in unbearable torment.

You wake with a start, breathing heavily. Nothing seems to be out of place – gentle sunlight, the same room you remember, Hansol in the corner. But everything you’ve just seen with your eyes closed continues to haunt you.

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly. A pang of sympathy strikes you; he has not spoken much since you were brought here.

“I think,” you reply, propping yourself up with your uninjured arm. “Hansol, I must ask you something.”

“What is it?”

“I need you to tell me anything you remember from the attack,” you ask, seriously. “Anything. About what happened after we were separated, and about who they were.”

“I did not make it much farther than you,” he says ruefully. “I panicked after you got knocked off of your horse. I think it was sheer luck that they left after assuming we were dead. But one thing was rather odd, actually.”

“What?”

“Some of their robes,” he continues, frowning. “I am sure the royal symbol was on them. But those cannot have been real, right?”

You feel your heart racing, thumping along in your chest. You search Hansol’s eyes for any sign he’s lying, or joking, but there’s none.

“I saw it, too,” you say, hushed. “Just before I fell. I thought I was hallucinating.”

“I do not think you were.” Such a grim expression feels mismatched on Hansol’s face; so much conflict for one so young. “But how? And why?”

Apt questions, both of them. Your deduction seems almost bizarre, if you really think about it. Laughable, almost. Why would the second prince want to thwart his own plan?

But… it is not impossible.

You purse your lips. “I shall be honest with you, Hansol. I do not know why such a thing would happen – but I also know that man is not to be blindly trusted. So there is that, too.”

Before he can respond, someone clears their throat. Calmly, but loud enough to interrupt. Wonwoo enters the room with narrowed eyes, making his presence known.

“What are you two whispering about?” he demands, folding his arms. You resist the urge to roll your eyes at him.

“We are plotting out how to kill you and get away with it,” you say dryly. He does not laugh, instead staring at you with a coldness that could rival even the iciest glaciers.

“Very funny,” he replies, full of sarcasm. “Humor will not do you any favors here. Remember that.”

God, you really wish you had actually killed him that day. His smooth voice somehow irks you even more, drawing your cantankerous mood to the surface at record speed. However, you tamp it down, settling the frustration in your chest in preparation for the request you are about to make.

“Can I borrow some ink and paper?”

This gets Wonwoo’s immediate attention. He turns, eyebrows raised. For a moment you think he might just laugh it off and ignore you. And he would not be wrong for it, you realize – you are essentially a hostage in this small village, and neither he nor the others owe you a single thing.

“What for?” he says sharply. “Surely you do not think you will be able to trick us?”

“No, of course not,” you shake your head vehemently, heart sinking. “I would not do that.”

Wonwoo scoffs. “As if I am stupid enough to believe such a thing. What are you trying to do this time, call for reinforcements? Leave the target on my and Jeonghan’s back for somebody else to find?”

“No,” you insist, desperation seeping into your voice. “I must write to my sisters. It has been too long – there are some things I must tell them.”

A matter of life or death, you think silently. If Muyeol truly is after you, then he will certainly not draw the line at harming either of them. For a moment, you think Wonwoo might be considering it. He looks at you with that calculating expression he has, probably weighing the decision in his head.

“You are a fool if you think I am that naive,” he says, finally.

You try not to show it, but your face falls. If there was one thing that provided a sense of normalcy for you in the capital, it was being able to keep in touch with your sisters regularly. They are, after all, the only family you have left. But Wonwoo pays you no mind, shuffling about and searching for something before he leaves again. You deflate a little. Hansol’s sympathetic look is meant to soothe, but it only makes you feel a little bit worse.

The rest of your time passes quite uneventfully. Your days are relatively the same now – not like you are able to do much, anyways, with your injury. Hayun helps you out when she can, occasionally stopping to make small talk, but you are otherwise alone.

Mingyu and Wonwoo have decided that they would rather have Hansol help with the errands than waste away in a dark corner – you watch him lift bundles of firewood with a pang in your chest. At least he is accompanied by someone else, a boy named Chan who does not look a day older than him, and likes to make awkward conversation as they work.

You grow more anxious with every passing day, wondering why Muyeol’s men have not found you yet. Realistically, you should be thankful for each peaceful morning, but it does nothing but stir apprehension in your stomach. He may not be a good man, but he is a smart one. There are not many villages this side of the river, and you don’t think it will take him very long to find you.

Suddenly you think of Hayun, who has looked after you ever since you got here. You wonder if she, too, will soon have to face the aftermath of a razed home and a martyred husband, a family vanishing within minutes – a fate you would not wish upon anybody.

It is late one night, with Hansol away doing something or the other for Mingyu. You are moving your right arm back and forth, newfound strength surging into your muscles. With Hayun’s help, you can even stand now, but she is not here.

It takes you a few moments before you realize Wonwoo is at the doorway. He remains silent even as you raise your eyebrows, prompting him to speak. Instead, he just approaches you and gingerly places two sheets of paper as well as a brush and ink on the floor beside you.

“You may write to your sisters,” he says gruffly. “One of us will read it to ensure you are not communicating with the palace. Hayun will have it delivered tomorrow.”

You stare at the paper, not knowing what to say. He watches you with careful eyes, waiting only a beat or two before turning on his heel to leave.

“Wonwoo,” you call just as he’s about to step out. He looks surprised at the sound of his name; perhaps even offended, but he listens anyway. “Thank you.”

Something strange flashes in his eyes, but only for a moment. He does not reply, only sparing you a curt nod before walking away. You sigh, and wait until he’s gone to pick up the brush and dip it into the inkpot. There are important things to be said, and not enough time.

To Soonhee and Soonja –

How are you both? I am sorry I have not been able to write recently. Unfortunately, things have gotten quite hectic as of late. But never mind that. I have gone to the foothills for some important business – I will tell you all about it later.

Please, do not stray far from home. Above all, do not travel to the capital. Send Jihoon, if absolutely necessary. Nobody will recognize him. But do not go yourself. I cannot tell you why just yet, but please, you must trust me.

Speaking of Jihoon – how are my brother-in-law and my darling nephew, Soonhee? I have not seen little Sangmin since he was a newborn, but I will visit as soon as I am able. Have you picked up any new projects lately? Tell me all about it when I come home. I always love to hear about it

Soonja, I have made a friend who is quite like you. He is gentle but strong, and likes to eat plums in the summer. I find myself missing you very much when I speak with him. And the plums, I will bring some home for you. They seem to grow quite abundantly in these regions.

I find that something odd has been happening to me recently. I did not want to ask, but I feel that I must. Sometimes our brother comes to me in my dreams. He feels almost real. Soonja will not remember – but you must, Soonhee, you had been old enough, too. I never see his face; I cannot remember it. But he speaks to me while I am asleep, and I find myself aching when I wake up again. Does this happen to you, too?

I am not sure. Maybe I am going crazy. I have not been sleeping too well; I suppose that would do it.

Anyhow, I hope this reaches you without any sort of delay. Please do not send any correspondence to the palace – or do not send anything more, for that matter. It should not be very long before I am able to come home again, and then I will tell you everything sitting across from you over dinner.

Be well, and take care of yourselves. Give Sangmin and Jihoon my love.

Yours, Y/N

Wonwoo cannot even make it halfway through your letter before he passes it to Jeonghan, desperately tearing his eyes away from the words on the paper.

“What happened?” the older man questions, unfolding it carefully.

“I cannot,” Wonwoo repeats, shaking his head. “I know it is for our safety. But it feels too personal.”

“Oh, yes. How convenient that I do not have feelings, then,” Jeonghan says dryly, rolling his eyes. Still, he relents, scanning your letter. Satisfied with what he sees, he folds it up again and stands. “I will find Hayun. She should be able to have it delivered when she goes to the market.”

“Thank you,” Wonwoo nods. He likes that Jeonghan never really asks questions, seems to know exactly when to stop digging. It works out for the two of them; neither of them pry, and neither of them answer. And if Jeonghan had asked – what would he have said? Wonwoo does not enjoy feeling most of his emotions, let alone talking about them.

He had not planned on letting you write it in the first place. It was a simple decision, and Mingyu had quite agreed with him when he told him about it later over dinner.

But he had seen Wonjae’s face in the back of his mind, for a brief second. There was not a thing Wonwoo wouldn’t do if it meant he could write to him, or speak to him just once more. In the moment, he had not felt like depriving you of the opportunity he could never have.

Of course, he will not tell Jeonghan any of this. There are things he does not like admitting to himself, much less others.

Seungcheol arrives later that night, after everyone else is asleep. Wonwoo greets him silently, tells him to rest, but he is met with a stern demand to tell him everything. He fetches a bowl of water, sits Seungcheol down, and starts from the beginning.

“This is not good,” Seungcheol frowns. “It is only a matter of time before those same soldiers find their way to us.”

“We can handle them, can we not? We always have.”

“We always have. But that does not mean we always will. It is wise to exercise caution.” Seungcheol casts a wayward glance at the room where you and Hansol sleep. “What of them?”

“I would not worry,” Wonwoo assures him. “They have no weapons, and the girl is injured. I do not believe they are a threat.”

Seungcheol gives him a half smile. “It is good to have faith, Wonwoo. But do not trust blindly. Ever.”

I’m not, he wants to say. Petulant, like a child, and somehow that upsets him even further. Wonwoo wishes he was able to switch this part of him off, just like Jeonghan seems to do, but his mind does not appear to work that way.

“What do you think we should do?” he asks instead.

“Well, we will keep them here for now. There is not much else to be done.” He sighs, glancing up at the sky. “I am tired, Wonwoo. We will speak about this later. Good night.”

“Good night,” Wonwoo echoes, watching Seungcheol and his broad shoulders retreat into the house. He should be heading inside, too. But he does not move just yet, staying out for just a little longer before he sleeps.

When Wonwoo dreams, there are trees everywhere. Larches, like the ones he used to love to climb as a child. What a shame, that he had to grow up so fast. Wonwoo dreams, and there are fireflies. The nostalgic kind, that takes him to another time rather than a place. There is a warm fire, and a meal cooking somewhere off in the distance. If he listens closely, he can hear his brother’s laughter, just loud enough.

Sometimes, Wonwoo dreams of a different universe. Another timeline, perhaps the one in which Jeonghan and Haeun could have been happy together. In this universe, Wonwoo does not fight. He sits in the clearing with his brother on a breezy afternoon, listening to the bush warblers sing.

In this universe, Wonwoo is a fisherman, like his father. He teaches Wonjae how to cast the nets, and which spots along the river are particularly excellent for catching minnows. In his spare time, he reads, collecting books he likes from the market. Soon enough, he cultivates a small library of his own, a personal haven of sorts.

The worst part, however, is that this universe is not real. The river cracks, like glass. Fish scatter everywhere and the water goes dark. Wonwoo reaches out for his brother, but Wonjae has disappeared. The boat rocks wildly, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut out of the nausea it stirs in him.

This moment is when he wakes up. The image of his reflection in the shattering river always haunts him for hours. Like maybe it’s him that’s breaking, instead of the current.

He sits up in his bed, blinking the sleep away. Across from him, Chan rolls over, mumbling something intelligible. He has always been a heavy sleeper, which works out just fine for Wonwoo, who does not make much noise in general. The sky is still quite dark. Wonwoo peers out the window. It will be dawn soon, he realizes, catching the first hints of light at the horizon. No river to dip his feet in, no boat to cross it with.

Just as well. He turns over, pretending none of it matters, and tries to fall asleep again.

It takes you another week and a half, give or take, to be able to walk on your own. Hansol helps, an arm steadying you as you take careful steps.

This development is not welcomed by the majority of the others, particularly Mingyu and Seungcheol. Hayun just gives you a small smile and tells you she is glad you recovered without any complications. Oddly enough, you spend most of your time in the company of Jeonghan, who always drags Wonwoo along with him. It is quite tiring, even though you know it is merely a matter of security to have an eye or two on you at all times.

“Must you always look so surly?” you remark one afternoon. Wonwoo sits across from you in the room, having busied himself with a book, and raises an eyebrow at your question.

“Is that what you think of me?”

“Yes,” you say, emboldened by the challenging look on his face. “I think you choose to present yourself as quite a joyless individual. I did not know it was possible to embody a cantankerous grandfather in a young man’s body.”

“I must say, I have never been so openly affronted by my own hostage before.” His expression does not hold any of the offense that his words portray. Instead, he seems subtly amused, almost – as if this is just child’s play to him. It irks you even more.

“Really?” you scoff. “And how many women have you taken hostage before, exactly?”

Finally, Wonwoo sets his book down. Ha, you think to yourself. I win. He folds his arms, keeps his piercing eyes trained on you. He might have been beautiful, you realize, if you did not despise him so.

“Only those who are bold enough to set a target on my back,” he says, an edge to his deep voice. “You are the first. And I intend you to be the last.”

“How valiant,” you retort.

“How ignorant,” Wonwoo corrects, leaning forward. “You are not invincible. Do yourself a favor and stay off your high horse while you are here.”

You raise your chin, defiantly. “And if I refuse?”

Wonwoo says nothing, only holding your level stare. The heat of his hostility is unmistakable, his sharp eyes burning into yours. You only wish you could reach for your sword and slash the tantalizing column of his neck, the glistening steel against his skin. But your hands remain where they are and you sit in place, jaw clenched and temper boiling over.

“Are you finished attempting to telepathically kill each other?” Jeonghan hesitantly pokes his head through the doorway. “I come bearing news.”

Wonwoo turns his attention to his friend, finally. “What news?”

Jeonghan does not answer him. Instead, he trudges towards you, pulling a folded piece of paper out of a pocket and handing it over. You frown up at him.

“What is this?”

“I think you should read it first.” You don’t like the mildly troubled look on his face, but you follow his advice and open up the folds anyways. Immediately, you recognize the handwriting, and your breath catches in your throat.

Y/N –

I do not have much time to write this. I managed to get away and ride to your village, based on what little you told us. I am taking your sisters to a safe house further away from the capital, as well as Jihoon and the baby. I hope Hansol is still with you.

Those who attacked us had been palace soldiers; Muyeol’s men, every single one of them. This must have been planned – I thought about it every way, but I am not convinced it was an accident. It could not have been. We were never supposed to carry out this mission, Y/N. We were meant to die before even succeeding.

Seungkwan did not make it. He was shot in the neck, and I could do nothing to save him. I buried him near the riverbank with some peonies, just as he would have wanted.

Do not write back, lest it is intercepted. Be safe.

Seokmin

You do not say anything for a few precious moments. It is so much information all at once, on this tiny scrap of paper. How ironic that simple words have such power to change your entire world with one sentence?

Muyeol’s men, every single one of them.

“I knew it,” you mumble to yourself, crumpling the paper beneath your fingers. Dismay gives rise to anger in a volcanic chain reaction that ripples violently through your entire body. “I fucking knew it. Of course. How could I have been so blind?”

“You were unconscious,” Jeonghan interjects, unhelpfully.

The same man who had promised you many things in return for your unwavering loyalty, now targeting you – you are not surprised, and you do not have the right to be, either. The realization is ugly, but it is the truth. You had always known what kind of a person he was, but back then it had only mattered that you and your family were guaranteed safety. It is not like that, anymore.

Jeonghan just sighs. “I am assuming now is not a good time to say ‘I told you so’.”

“I told you so,” Wonwoo says flatly. You glare up at him, blinking the unshed tears away. Suddenly you hate him even more for being able to stand there unflinching, while you slowly lose everything and everyone.

“I wish I had killed you that night,” you tell him with quiet anger. “I never would have had to come here, and Seungkwan would still be alive. I am ashamed I did not have the courage to fulfill my task the first time.”

Wonwoo does not answer, just casts his eyes to the ground with his head slightly bowed. You want more than this absolute silence from him – something, anything in response to everything you throw out. But you get none, just his eyes avoiding yours.

You wait until you are alone to open up the paper again, the words blurring together on the page. Gently, you trace a finger along the characters of Seungkwan’s name, the memories rushing back like a flood. Never in a million years would you have thought you’d be remembering him like this, images flashing in your mind.

Seungkwan, who had liked to lighten things up with a joke or two and a contagious laugh. Seungkwan, who once swore to always have your back, and never broke his promise to the end. You had looked after him with such care, treated him like the little brother you never had. You remember teaching him how to shoot an arrow for the first time ever. It was raining that day, but he had insisted on going out to the grounds regardless. It is a comfort, you suppose, that he had gone down wielding that same beloved weapon.

Hansol does not take the news any better than you had. He does not believe you at first, reads Seokmin’s letter again and again until it finally sinks in that he will never hear one of Seungkwan’s spur-of-the-moment puns again. You want to reassure him, but you do not go to comfort him, recognizing his need for space.

They might not have been very close, but they had always taken well to each other, and they had been the same age. Now Hansol will continue to grow, and Seungkwan will be forever twenty-two.

Neither you or Hansol cry, but both of you come threateningly close.

The letter wears thinner the more you read it, but you cannot help but grasp onto Seokmin’s words – what if you lose him too? You try to soothe yourself with the knowledge that your sisters are safe, but your anxiety does not let your mind rest at all. It is suffocating, to sit in this room with nothing but your and Hansol’s grief and the echoes of a voice you’ll never hear again. With what little strength you have, you wander outside, limping slightly.

The wind is sobering, and you inhale a greedy lungful of the crisp mountain air, letting it linger in your lungs. The treeline is a comforting sight. Seungkwan had always loved nature. At least his soul will rest easy.

“Watch your step there,” Wonwoo’s rough voice comes from behind you. “You will fall.”

You’ve never whipped your head around faster. He stands, a bit awkwardly, hands laced together behind his back. His eyes linger on your injured leg warily.

“Careful,” you retort, “or I might think you actually have a heart deep down in that twisted soul of yours.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Must you make it your absolute mission to constantly antagonize me?”

“You are acting surprised – as if there is any chance on this earth of me tolerating your presence,” you tell him, settling on a wooden bench. To your surprise, he follows suit, perched gingerly on the other end.

“What was he like?”

“Excuse me?”

“Seungkwan,” Wonwoo clarifies. “Your friend.”

Hearing the name sends a pang to your heart, but you cannot help but give him a strange look. “Do you always pretend to have a conscience in front of your hostages?”

Wonwoo scoffs, the first real emotion you have managed to draw from him all night. “You are far too cynical for your own good,” he remarks. “It is truly a wonder how you ever managed to navigate society like that.”

“Do not underestimate me,” you say crossly, “I contain multitudes.”

Both of you fall silent again. The night speaks instead, with the occasional howling of a gust of wind, or an owl hooting in the distance.

“Seungkwan was one of my closest friends,” you murmur, emboldened by the cool breeze. “I would have trusted him with my life. I did, too, on many occasions. There was not a moment where he was not there for me.”

Wonwoo hums, in some sort of agreement. “That is a good friend, indeed.”

“He is. Was,” you amend, attempting to swallow down the lump in your throat.

“I am sorry for your loss.”

“I do not think I believe you,” you let out a mirthless laugh. “But I will pretend so for your esteem, and my own mood.”

He nods sagely. “You have my full permission to take my words purely at face value.”

“I do not need your permission,” comes your quick reply. Wonwoo seems to take it in stride, like that was precisely the sentence he was expecting to leave your mouth. You do not particularly like that he acts as if he has you all figured out. A dangerous thing it is, to be known by essentially a stranger.

“You will keep many heartwarming memories with him,” Wonwoo adds. “Those are forever.”

“I hope so,” you nod, trying to conceal your sniffling. “He loved oranges. God, he was crazy about them,” the words slip from your tongue before you can even think, “He would talk about going to the island for them all the time. And he dearly loved to sing. He was very good at it, too.”

“What kinds of songs?”

“Ballads, mostly. He and Seokmin would burst into song at such random times. I remember being annoyed,” your voice breaks, “I cannot believe I was annoyed. I would give anything to hear him sing again. But I used to scold him so much.”

“Well, it is always a loving heart that chides the most.”

You catch a stray tear on the tip of your finger before casting a wary glance at Wonwoo. He does not meet your eyes, but stares into the woods as if there is something there he longs for. His normally cold gaze shines softly – for the first time, you might even feel a pang of empathy for him.

“Is this another tactic I do not know about?” you ask instead. “Lulling women into a false sense of security, so that you can converse about their dead friends before slashing their throats?”

Wonwoo’s plush lips immediately form a scowl. “I am not so much of a ladies’ man as you might believe.”

“How do I know you are not lying? You certainly look the part!”

He opens his mouth to fire back with his own retort, but he stops short all of a sudden, a small smirk on his face instead. “Did you just call me handsome?”

You give him your most appalled look. “I called you the equivalent of a rake and that is how you understood it?”

He shakes his head, clearly amused. “I hope that was not an insult to my intelligence. I quite know a compliment when I see one.”

“I do not even know why I bother conversing with you,” you say incredulously, standing suddenly out of frustration. There is a half-hidden root before you, but you do not see it – your foot catches, and you stumble forward. On instinct, Wonwoo reaches out, catching your arm before you tumble to the ground.

His touch burns, invisible flames scorching the skin as his fingers encircle your wrist. You lock eyes with him for a mere moment, the surprise in his expression mirroring yours. But the instant passes, and you immediately rip your arm from his grasp.

“Do not touch me,” you say sharply, rubbing your wrist.

“I did not want to,” he defends, “You would have fallen instead.”

You flash him a deep frown. “I would rather faceplant into the ground and lose my two front teeth.”

Guilt flashes in his eyes, and you almost feel bad. Instead, you wrap your arms around yourself, shielding your skin from the cold. The warmth from Wonwoo’s touch is long gone; you find yourself craving the soft burn of his fingertips again. It is all so unexplainably wrong. You really should leave, before you say something you might regret. That sharp tongue has always been your double-edged sword.

But Wonwoo gets to his feet instead, gesturing towards the bench’s smooth wood. “Sit,” he says gruffly.

You arch an eyebrow at him. “I am not interested in taking your place.”

“I insist.”

“Why?”

He hesitates, just a little. “I thought you might want some time with yourself. Alone. Fresh air always helps, too.”

You want to find your most piercing words, fashion them into a venomous retort, and throw it at him – but nothing comes up. He is right, and it does not fail to get under your skin.

“You sound rather confident.”

For the first time, Wonwoo smiles. It is a tragically beautiful thing; the expression does not reach his eyes, and the very corner of his mouth remains slightly downturned. Grief seems to taint him like a shadow that refuses to leave, and for just this moment you forget just how much you loathe his existence.

“You are not the only one who has lost somebody,” he says simply.

“You know, then.”

He shrugs halfheartedly. “It has been quite some time.”

You ponder your next question for a moment before asking it. “Does time truly heal all wounds?”

His mouth opens with an answer, and then it closes again, plush lips forming the beginning of an unsaid word. You watch him consider your query carefully, and wonder just where his thoughts come from. A part of you wants to ask, spurred by curiosity; but at the same time you are not so sure you want to know. Perhaps you are hesitant to see him as he is – not your adversary, but just Wonwoo, carrying his own ghosts on those weary, broad shoulders.

“Only if you want it to,” he says finally.

Softly, a far cry from earlier. All of the bite has disappeared from his voice, replaced by something gentle and raw. His presence is no longer looming; he is simply there, like the sturdy oaks of the village you grew up in. It is a new feeling, and you do not like this strange ease.

But you think more about his answer as the words sink in. Is that why it had been so hard to let go of your brother? It was silly; laughable, even. You had not kept anything to remember him by, but he was always there in your dreams when you truly needed him. Had that subconsciously been your doing? How long would it take for you to let go of Seungkwan, too?

“Maybe I had not willed it,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. Wonwoo furrows his eyebrows.

“What?”

You meet his confused eyes. “Oh – nothing.”

“If you did not mumble so much, it might be easier to hear you,” he says, with all the attitude he can muster, and immediately you know that the precious truce-like moment has passed. You paste an equally irritated expression on your face, to match his.

“And I thought you were leaving,” you return sharply. “But you are still here.”

“That I am,” he observes quietly. “Well. Goodnight.”

He lowers his gaze to the ground and turns, footsteps growing farther as he retreats to the house. A conflicting feeling rises in your throat as you watch him walk away, shoulders just a little slumped – the stature of a man with a myriad of stories and no voice to tell them with.

Wonwoo’s eyes, full of misted secrets, flash in your mind once again. Involuntarily, you shiver at the memory. You had never before met a man as calmly infuriating as him. If that does not ultimately spell out danger, then you don’t know what does.

From somewhere between the thick trees, Seungkwan smiles down at you. Reassuring, like a warm hug that you don’t deserve, and it stings. You try to recall his soothing voice, and cry freely into the night’s embrace.

The restless feeling in the pit of Wonwoo’s stomach does not cease.

Instead, it festers, boiling over and into itself by the day. It grows, even when he wills it not to. And worst of all, it seems to heighten inexplicably when you are near, and he is rendered helpless. He is always reminding himself that no matter how familiar your words might feel sometimes, you are everything but – your cynicism and your instantly sharp tongue are just two of the many things he cannot stand about you.

Still, there is that pull. Like a magnet, but only worse. Against his will, a part of him cannot help but be captivated by the enigma that you present yourself to be.

And, of course, there is that other thing.

The thing that, as he sits and watches you tell your story to Seungcheol, becomes more and more difficult to deny. You are no less resplendent in the sun than you are in the night’s glow, he realizes. Perhaps this is what he deems most dangerous about you. In his mind, you are indisputably beautiful – in the way that one might look on in awe as a tsunami’s ominous wave rolls up to the shore, despite being fully aware of the havoc it will wreak.

Wonwoo is sure that if he ever called you a natural disaster to your face, you would attempt to take a knife to his throat. Either way, he keeps the thought to himself, guarded and untouched.

He watches as Seungcheol returns your weapon. Your eyes seem to shine a bit brighter once the sword is in your hands, slender fingers wrapping around the hilt like it is the most familiar thing in the world. Wonwoo cannot help but revisit an old memory as you touch the blade, almost reverently. He had been on the receiving end of that sword once, the cool metal drawing blood from underneath his skin. And he probably should feel a touch of apprehension now that you wield it once again, but strangely enough, there is no such emotion. Only respect, and wonder.

You promise Seungcheol something – he does not hear, too busy in his own loud thoughts – and the older man smiles gently. Belatedly, Wonwoo wonders what it is. Choi Seungcheol does not smile often, especially not with the events that have been happening as of late.

What he does not expect is for you to approach him, sword loose in your grasp. He tries to ascertain something, anything from your expression, but your poker face seems to be quite good. Finally, your lips break into a tiny smirk. Wonwoo’s heartbeat accelerates straight out of nowhere.

“What? Do not tell me you are frightened,” you say, a bit smug. “The blade is still sheathed.”

“That is a bold assumption you are making.”

“You seemed quite worried the last time this sword was pointed at you,” you continue. The wind whips your hair around, and you look viciously wild. It is a sight for sore eyes. “Afraid, even. Was that an assumption, too?”

There is challenge in your eyes. Wonwoo knows that this is effectively the equivalent of playing with fire, but he figures he still has space. It has not burned him yet.

“If it is a duel you wish for, then a duel you will get,” he says, lowly, “but it is in your best interest to wait until you are fully healed. That way you will at least have a fighting chance.”

You scoff, affronted. “Oh, my. These are the words of a man with severely misplaced confidence.”

He returns your inflamed glare. “And the delusion of a woman who stands on her own imbalanced pedestal.”

The air is charged, suddenly. Wonwoo fights the urge to look away and avoid the intensity in your eyes that he just cannot ignore. Eventually, he folds, turning away to clear his throat.

“At least make yourself useful and accompany Jeonghan and Mingyu when they go to hunt,” he retaliates, though it comes out with a little less bite than he originally intended. You only roll your eyes at him before you walk away, loosely braided hair swinging lightly amidst the breeze.

The days pass as they always do, for the most part. Wonwoo is no stranger to routine, and rarely does he find it monotonous. It grounds him, until you come in like a typhoon and leave his brain in a muddled wreck. But he lets it be, for his own sake. Admitting that your aftermath is not as ruinous as it seems feels like a sort of betrayal to the life he has always known. And so he lives with it, warring emotions brewing in his chest. He trains with Jeonghan, teaches Chan how to fight, and the sun keeps on rising.

Good things often arrive with pomp and circumstance, while unfortunate events tend to creep up silently and pounce when you least expect it. It is quite a sunny day, and Wonwoo finds himself feeling more at ease than usual. The tall grass brushes against his knees as he takes his steps, very silently.

And of course, there you are, close behind him. He had not originally intended on bringing you into the forest to hunt with him today, but Mingyu had accompanied his wife to the market, and Jeonghan had insisted on taking an off day. Reluctantly, and upon Seungcheol’s wish, he had asked you to come along.

From his side, you suddenly nock an arrow. Wonwoo pauses for a second to take the sight in – your sword suits you, but you handle the bow so elegantly, the wood smooth beneath your fingers. You close an eye, pulling the string back, and he snaps back to his senses.

“What are you doing?” he hisses, quietly.

“Shh,” comes your reply. “If you end up scaring our lunch away, I will not forgive you.”

Wonwoo searches the foliage for any sign of life, but comes up blank. “What are you even aiming at?” he questions, squinting. “At this rate, we will not have lunch at all.”

You smile then – a sly, knowing thing – and release the arrow. It hits something between the leaves, and the unmistakably distressed crow of a pheasant follows not soon after.

“See?” you tell him, wearing that smirk he detests. “Lunch.”

“Luck,” Wonwoo corrects. Still, he follows along, somewhat astonished. He had not seen anything; not a single movement or flash of color. He wonders if this, too, will remain a mystery.

The way you move through the forest is awfully reminiscent. You slip around the thick bushes and the tall grass, weaving between the trees easily. A part of his heart burns at this. The forest is his realm, not yours, but you have adapted quite seamlessly.

The alarm bells begin to go off in Wonwoo’s head when you are not too far from the house, just skirting the edge of the woods. He tilts his head, listening carefully, before turning to you. To his surprise, you look equally concerned.

“Do you hear that, too?”

“Yes,” you confirm. The sound of hoofbeats on dirt roads grows louder, as does the unease in his chest. He exchanges one troubled glance with you and breaks into a sprint with you following right on his heels.

The very first thing that Wonwoo sees is Seungcheol, standing with his arms folded. A fearsome glower sits on his face, and he is saying something, but Wonwoo cannot quite make the words out. Chan stands behind him, mouth set in a deep frown.

You gasp, suddenly. Wonwoo feels a tug on the edge of his robes, and his eyes trail down to see your fingers clutching the soft fabric.

“Palace soldiers,” you whisper, nodding towards the house. There are at least twenty, if not more. They have not drawn their weapons just yet, but even from this distance the tension in the air is palpable.

“We should go see what this is about,” Wonwoo urges. But you do not move, still crouching beneath the wisps of tall grass.

“I already know what this is about,” you tell him. Your voice is firm, but it’s the look on your face that gives you away. For the first time, Wonwoo sees a sliver of fear in your eyes, and the memories that seem to haunt you by night. “I cannot lose Hansol, too.”

Wonwoo’s heart clenches, and he briefly thinks of Wonjae. “You will not.”

“You do not know that!”

“You will not,” he repeats, insistent this time. “Hansol will be alright. We will go down and see what they want, and hopefully it is something we can reason with them about.”

He almost thinks it won’t work, but you stand finally, still uncertain. You just shake your head, mumbling something under your breath he doesn’t quite catch, but he does not pry any further.

Wonwoo hears your sharp inhale as you approach the scene, and feels a sudden pang of sympathy. He had not thought about how it would feel to be confronted by the very men you had worked alongside with, maybe even the same men who had fought for you, who had ended up turning on you in the very end. You could dissolve into enraged fury here and now, and he would understand.

“What is going on here?” he demands. The others have come out, too, and you make a beeline for the house, presumably trying to find Hansol.

“I do not know,” Seungcheol says quietly. “They have not told us anything.”

Wonwoo does not have any more arrows in his quiver, but he is hyper aware of the daggers he always keeps strapped to his belt. He scans the surroundings; the men have arranged themselves into a half-circle, surrounding them and effectively blocking off any possible escape routes.

From behind him, he hears your panicked voice. “Where is Hansol?!” you ask, desperate, but all Jeonghan can say is that he does not know. The distress in your question is all too familiar, takes him back to a time that had left him desolate and alone.

One of the soldiers shifts, eyebrows raised. He draws his sword, and instinctively, Seungcheol takes a step back.

“You,” he says coldly. It takes Wonwoo a few seconds to realize where exactly the blade is pointing. “It seems we have finally found the traitor.”

“That is bold of you to say. I am not the one who turned my back on those who were loyal to me,” you declare. “By that logic, Lee Muyeol is as much of a traitor as I am.”

One of the foot soldiers steps forward menacingly, and immediately Jeonghan’s hand goes to his sword. The man that had spoken earlier – presumably the captain, due to his robes – just chuckles lazily.

“Do not think we are unaware of who you are. You could be easily thrown into prison,” he says. It is the world’s most diplomatic threat. Wonwoo feels the hair standing up on the back of his neck. “But you are merely country bumpkins, and the second prince has never found much trouble dealing with you lot. Give us the girl, and you live.”

“Only I choose where I go. And I go where I please,” you reply coolly, stepping forward. Wonwoo shoots you a look, wonders if this is another one of those situations where your stubbornness is getting the better of you while he prays that it isn’t.

The captain laughs mirthlessly. “His Highness was certainly right about you. What a foolish decision, indeed, to employ a woman. And one with such a foul mouth as yours, at that.”

Wonwoo isn’t sure what exactly it is that makes him reach for his knives, but his fingers pull at his belt in an attempt to arm himself. The soldier in front of him already has his sword out, though, and before he knows it he’s dodging a well-time slash.

This is the exact moment he will remember as when all hell breaks loose.

Someone charges Seungcheol at full speed – a terrible idea, Wonwoo thinks, to attempt and tackle a man of that stature and build. Jeonghan has already drawn the first blood, deep red splattering all over the light blue robes he had chosen for the day, and Chan quickly follows suit.

You do not have a weapon in hand, but you deliver a strong kick to the gut followed by an elbow to the face that had to have hurt like hell. Wonwoo makes it a point to ask when you were trained in martial arts later.

Both of the soldiers that are on him are significantly taller, and stronger. He feels a sharp sting blossoming at the side of his cheek and doesn’t register the slow trickle of blood down to his jaw until later, instead driving one of his knives deep into a collarbone. The man lets out a pained groan, but he stays on his feet nonetheless.

Wonwoo almost uses his other dagger, almost. But for just a split moment, something stops him, and his hand hesitates. A mistake, for it buys his assailant time to pick up his sword that clattered to the ground sometime earlier.

Thwack!

The man freezes, eyes wide as an arrow pierces his chest. A patch of red blooms on his robes as he slowly falls to the ground. Wonwoo just blinks down at him, breathing heavily at the close call. Where did it come from?

The markings on the arrow look oddly familiar. The fletching is unmistakably Mingyu’s handiwork, recently made. Wonwoo glances behind him, scanning the rocky terrain, and sees a flash of movement, red cloth darting behind a tree. Slowly, he smiles to himself.

Hansol.

Another arrow comes just as quick as the last one, felling the second soldier faster than Wonwoo can retrieve his knife. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jeonghan toss you your sword, and you catch it with a practiced ease, slashing it at another soldier in one fluid motion.

Wonwoo wonders if you should really be out here, considering your bad leg, but he supposes an extra layer of protection in the form of Hansol raining down arrows couldn’t hurt.

Somewhere, something is burning. Wonwoo can smell the crackling at the same time he eats a punch and the metallic taste of blood fills his mouth. He loses his footing and stumbles into a tree, rolling over as he narrowly dodges a stab and the blade lodges itself into the trunk.

In the distance, he can hear someone yelling his name. Faintly, like he’s in a world of his own. That familiar buzzing grows louder again, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to stop it from rendering him absolutely immobile. This is the part he dreads, more than anything else. Once again, he wonders what Mingyu would do in his place, the kind of man Seungcheol would expect him to fight like. Even worse, the kind of person you might hate him for being.

“Wonwoo!”

Smoke billows into the air, and he barely manages to sidestep another blow. Without hesitating, he throws a dagger with all the precision in the world, and you whirl in out of nowhere, following up at the last second with a single powerful strike.

“Thank you,” he gasps, feeling every molecule of air in his lungs, “I am sorry, I–”

“No apologies,” you say firmly. Your cheek is bruised, lip split – blood is smeared across your face and stains your fingers as you yank his knife from another not yet dead body. Fearless as you are, as Wonwoo wishes he was. He wonders if this is what the goddess of war incarnate looks like.

“Behind you,” he calls out instead. You do not even bother to look as you sink your blade into the soldier’s abdomen, drawing it out as quickly as you had struck.

“Good call,” you tell him. He feels like his stomach might flip.

Wonwoo’s vision clears a little bit, head still spinning. The soldiers seem to be retreating, at least those who are still alive or somewhat injured; the last few are hasty to mount their horses, riding away in a frenzy. Smoke catches in his throat – why is there smoke?

“The house,” he croaks out, coughing violently. “The roof, it’s on fire.”

“I know,” you say, “A part of it caved, but nobody was inside. Chan is putting it out.” Then you frown, a particularly worried expression. “Wonwoo, what happened? Are you alright?”

“Nothing. Yes.” Wonwoo coughs again, clearing his throat, and tries to bring himself to his feet. “Where is Seungcheol? Is everyone okay?”

He lets you pull him up, against his better judgement. Aside from the fact that he can feel every wounded part of his leg, he is suddenly reminded again of the surprising coolness of your touch. True to your words, half of the roof is sunken in, the wood black and burnt – but it is nothing that is not fixable, if he and Mingyu have at it for an hour or two. Otherwise, he is satisfied to see there is no other damage to the house, and thankful that Hayun had not been inside.

He watches as Hansol emerges from his spot, perched on top of a boulder on the hill. You gasp, pulling him into a tight hug.

“Do not ever disappear on me again,” you say, sternly. “I thought they had found you.”

“No, I am sorry,” he shakes his head, bashful. “I should have fought with you. But I did not have any other weapons, and I was not sure what to do. I thought I could be more useful from a hidden spot.”

“You should not be sorry,” Wonwoo cuts in, “I cannot tell you how many times you nearly saved my life down here. You have excellent aim.”

Hansol takes the compliment with slightly red cheeks and a mumbled thanks under his breath. Wonwoo notices how you lean on him for support as you walk, wincing when you put more weight on your injured leg.

In the distance, Jeonghan and Seungcheol sit together, propped up against the fence. No – Wonwoo squints a little – Seungcheol is propping him up, one arm around Jeonghan’s shoulders and his other hand pressed against his torso. Chan stands above him, speaking frantically.

That cannot be right, he thinks, trying to shake off the dire feeling on his shoulders.

It is not until he gets closer that he realizes Jeonghan barely has his eyes open, lashes fluttering as he rests his head on Seungcheol’s shoulder. To Wonwoo’s complete horror, he understands that it is the deep red of blood that soils Seungcheol’s fingers where they rest over Jeonghan’s robes.

He feels you balk slightly beside him, and that is all the confirmation he needs.

The tears that have caught on Seungcheol’s lashes are unmistakable. Jeonghan himself sports a wry smile, and he has never been a better embodiment of the irony of life than in this moment. There is a small cut just below his eye, and it is clear just how much strength it pulls from him to take each precarious breath.

Wonwoo barely feels anything as his knees hit the ground. He does not know what to say, where to put his hands; he had not been given any time to prepare for what to do as he watches a dear friend breathe his last.

“What happened?” he manages, finally.

Seungcheol shakes his head, starts to say something but none of it comes out intelligible. Wonwoo swallows down his next question, sharp and prickly as it goes down his throat, and carefully takes Jeonghan’s outstretched hand in his instead.

“You promised,” Seungcheol says, clearly this time. But his voice still wobbles, thick with despair. “Before we started all this, remember? I made you swear never to take a blade for me. You promised, Jeonghan.”

The latter only smiles. “Do not be so dramatic,” he rasps weakly. “I did what had to be done.”

Jeonghan’s nonchalance never fails to pull a laugh out of everyone, but this one comes out half like an amused snort, and half like a sob. His fingers tighten just a little around Wonwoo’s, and he holds onto him like he’ll slip away if he doesn’t.

Every memory comes rushing back — each morning he had turned down going to hunt together, all the times he went to bed early saying he was too tired to train. Now he’s stuck wringing out all the time he could have had with him, collecting every precious second.

It’s a wrecking thought, the if only I had known.

Wonwoo slips back into the present at the quiet call of his name.

“Hyung,” he answers, softly. He waits for something, anything more — but no words come. Another laborious breath rattles through Jeonghan’s lungs. Seungcheol presses his face into his dear friend’s hair to hide his expression, but he is not fooling anybody.

In this moment, Wonwoo is not sure of anything. He does not even know where his tears end and the blood begins to pool beneath him. But he feels exactly the moment Jeonghan breathes his last, his fingers losing their grasp on his own hand.

Seungcheol knows it, too, lets the sobs finally wrack through his body. He had not wanted Jeonghan’s last moments to be filled with unpleasant memories, but he is left picking up all of the pieces.

A soft thud interrupts the moment. Mingyu is at the gate, Hayun at his side. Shock is written all over their faces and in the basket that rolls onto the ground.

Mingyu’s eyes are questioning. They have always been able to communicate like this, and right now Wonwoo knows exactly what he is asking. Suddenly, and selfishly, he wishes it was not possible.

He has to shake his head. No.

Jeonghan’s hand is still warm in his. A terrible trick by the universe, he thinks, to rip him away from the earth so cruelly. Bring him back, he wants to shout, but he knows it will not change a thing. It is all out of his hands.

Wonwoo lets another heavy tear fall onto his friend’s lifeless skin, and prays that Jeonghan’s final seven minutes are as happy as he deserves.

The weeks that follow are full of solemnity. Everyone carries a particular kind of guilt, balancing it precariously between their shoulders.

Nobody fixes the roof. It is the least of their worries, and you know this. If anything, it is a reminder – a memorial of sorts. You avoid looking at it, so that you are spared from the recollection of that day’s events.

It is a strange thing, grief. You had not known many things about Yoon Jeonghan; and yet you find yourself mourning him in the pockets of stray minutes you find in the day. Your guilt is different from the others – if the soldiers had killed you in the forest that day, he would be alive still. The universe has a cruel way of keeping balance.

Seungcheol, for one, carries himself like a ghost. You cannot get it out of your head, the way he had sat by Jeonghan’s body for hours and hours afterwards, as if his pleas would magically wake him again. He had seemed hollow, even as he placed the magnolia flowers Jeonghan had adored so much on top of his grave.

Wonwoo barely speaks at all. But where Seungcheol is a blank slate, he is a muddled canvas. You had once thought him emotionless, cold – oh, how wrong you had been. Sorrow hangs from every sharp corner of his body where it does not leave his mouth in the form of words, rolling off his shoulders and crashing against his calves. In his eyes lies an anguish you recognize all too well. An identical one rests somewhere, deep in your heart, and has for years.

Where the others fold in on themselves, Hayun unfurls. She tells you stories; of Jeonghan’s antics when he was younger, of Mingyu when they had known each other as children, and many more. It feels like a revival, and you listen intently as you help her with errands, wanting the full picture.

Occasionally, Wonwoo is already there when you walk in, ready to assist. He does not say much while Hayun talks, but the look he has always given you has changed. It is not so coarse now, smoother round the edges, and significantly less malicious.

Observant as ever, as he has always been.

The air is always thick with settled misery, and you find it difficult to fall asleep at night. Your nightmares wake you, and they are the exact same every time. It is always dark, always empty – you reach out, but for what you do not know. There is nothing there, and you always fall deeper into a black hole that seems to extend infinitely all around you.

Every time, you wake with a gasp. Hansol is always peacefully asleep beside you, dead to the world. You never manage to stay in bed through the sunrise. More than anything else, you wonder why your brother does not appear in your dreams any longer. It is your own personal distress, albeit silly. He is not even real anymore, but you take his sudden silence as desertion.

One day, you find a crumpled piece of paper fallen just behind a shelf. You pick it up to toss it out, but your curiosity gets the better of you at the last minute, and you unfold it carefully.

It is a simple sketch. Not one you have seen before, but after hours of observation, you would recognize the hand that drew this anywhere. The frustrated scribbles in a corner and light retracings are a dead giveaway.

There are footsteps behind you. You do not need to look to know that it is Wonwoo. Belatedly, you wonder when you learned what his presence feels like.

He nods, towards the paper. “What is that?”

You pass it to him. Like you, he recognizes it instantly. The first sound of amusement in weeks leaves his throat, a little snort.

“So very Jeonghan,” he says. You know exactly what he means.

Wonwoo’s eyes are subtly red and puffy. This you had seen not so long ago; you will never forget the way he had wept over Jeonghan’s body, tears streaming down his cheeks relentlessly. It was a sight you did not want to witness again, ever. Just being there had put your own heart in serious danger of cracking, if only a little.

Are you alright? The question almost slips from your mouth. But you already know the answer, so you just hold your tongue.

“Did you need something?” you ask instead.

“No.” Wonwoo shakes his head a bit, a habit you’ve noticed he’s developed to toss the hair away from his forehead. “Hansol wanted to spar a little. Thought it would take my mind off of things.”

You smile to yourself. Hansol had always been this way, knowing just the right thing to do. “And did it?”

Wonwoo thinks about it, tongues his cheek before nodding. You take in his figure – this tall, broad man rooted in hesitation in front of you. The cut on his cheek has healed well, you notice, leaving a scab behind. The bruise on his jaw is not yet gone, but the discoloration should dissipate within a few more days.

The moment hangs, suspended in the air. Neither of you move, but nobody says anything either. You watch him weighing his uncertainty, eyes shifting from the wall to the floor and back to the wall again. The awkwardness only grows by the second.

Wonwoo breaks the silence first. “How did you go on?”

“What?”

“After Seungkwan,” he clarifies. You wonder at how he says his name with a particular sort of reverence that has your chest warming at an inhumane level. “After the letter.”

“I did not have a choice,” you tell him, ruefully. “I have always been fighting, always running. It never stops. Seungkwan knew that, too. If I had given up, I am convinced he would have come back as a spirit to haunt me.”

The corner of Wonwoo’s mouth lifts slightly at your attempt at a joke. As the days blur past, you have come to collect those little smiles and pocket them away. Those rare moments have become tiny fragments you choose to cherish in your masked silence.

“There are so many regrets,” he confesses suddenly. “So many things I wish I had not said, or done. So many times we fought over such stupid things. It all comes back now.”

“It always does. But you cannot change the past.”

It had for you, too – but you suppose it must have been infinitely worse for Wonwoo, who had held Jeonghan’s hand as he drew his last breaths. You had, at least, been spared the agony of watching Seungkwan die. The realization sparks a newfound ache in your heart for all that Seokmin had to go through alone.

Wonwoo’s mouth opens again, and you subconsciously hang onto his next words. It is unexplainable how he sparks your curiosity, your intrigue, snagging your attention at every turn. Somehow you had each already begun to unravel yourselves to the other, whether you knew it or not.

“I must tell you something,” he starts. You nod, gesturing for him to go on. “Seungcheol has been planning something. Not just a resistance – a movement, for change. Something this country has not seen for many years.”

“That is good,” you agree, unsure where this is going.

“We are working with allies, small groups all over the country. It is all coordinated; we will reach the soldiers before they find us,” Wonwoo continues, determined. “We must remove Lee Muyeol from power for good. The people cannot continue to live like this. We are fortunate enough to be able to mostly live off the land, but thousands are left starving. It will not do. Even the young prince would be more just, more caring than his puppet ruler of a father.”

It dawns on you, slowly. “Jeon Wonwoo, are you asking me to help you stage a coup?”

He winces slightly. “It sounds horrible when you put it like that.”

“Alright, then. You are trying to oust the king’s brother from power, effectively also putting a dent in the king’s reign itself.”

“Infinitely worse, for sure.” He chuckles, then, a bit of mirth slipping into his eyes before he grows serious again. “I do not expect you to agree. But I want you to know that you have this choice before you, if you choose to take it.”

You fidget with your fingertips, weighing it in your mind, because you know that after all is said and done, Wonwoo is correct. Your own family had fallen victim to the violence that had erupted after food became a scarcity in the north, and it had torn your childhood apart. Suddenly you think of everyone you have lost – Seungkwan, Jeonghan, your brother whose face you cannot recall. A certain indignance rises to your throat at the very thought.

“You do not have to answer now,” Wonwoo repeats, and he turns to go. But you have already made up your mind in the time it takes him to reach the doorway.

“Wait!” you call out. “Wonwoo, wait. I want in.”

“What?”

You raise your eyebrows. “You should not ask questions if you are not prepared to hear the answer.”

“I heard you,” he confirms, voice gravelly. “But… you are sure?”

“Yes.” You fold your arms. “Why? You do not think I can hold my own?”

“What? Of course I do.” Wonwoo’s eyes soften, just a little, though his tone retains some of the attitude he always seems to have on standby while speaking to you. “I have watched you kill a man with no hesitation in one single blow. Do you think I am stupid, blind, or both?”

“I do not believe you would want me to answer that question,” you say sagely. You succeed in drawing an exasperated half-smile out of him again, and a part of you wonders why you enjoy it so much.

Wonwoo catches your gaze mid-chuckle. You cannot look away, and there is that inevitable pull again, the one that always leaves you a confused mess. A voice inside your head is screaming at you to tear your eyes off of his, but you do not, refusing to be the one to break first.

“We will discuss this more with Seungcheol. After dinner,” he says, at last. “Meet us outside. Do not be late.”

Wonwoo has begun to wonder if this is not as good of an idea as he originally thought.

You and Seungcheol frown at each other, clearly in a standoff. Wonwoo has been keeping time; the two of you have been arguing about the best route to the capital for the past twenty-four minutes, and he does not know how much longer he can listen to this.

“Following the river gives us the best chance at survival,” you point out, tapping the map that is spread out on the table. “I do not see what else is up for discussion.”

“It also makes us easier to follow and find. Do you want to get caught before even reaching the city?”

Wonwoo groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. No progress has been made at all – in fact, he thinks you’ve all taken quite a few steps in the opposite direction.

“Alright, hold on. We cannot take a total detour. That will waste too much time, and we will still be at risk of getting caught early. However,” he continues, even though Seungcheol is currently glaring daggers at him, “We cannot risk going along the river the whole way. Remember, we must travel on foot.”

“An amazing idea,” you mutter, arms folded.

Wonwoo ignores you and traces along a separate route with his finger, dragging it up and eastwards. This path dances along the riverbank before sharply moving out, staying concealed while making the most distance in the interest of time.

“This might be better,” he says. “Or if we set off towards the western mountains before swinging back. That could work, too.”

“I will think about it,” Seungcheol grumbles. You just shake your head indignantly. That, in itself, is a peace offering in his book. Wonwoo doesn’t complain and takes what he can get.

Time passes like this; slow, but grueling. Every second seems to weigh on his bones, shackles on his wrists and ankles. He does his best to ignore the dread pooling in his stomach and soldier on.

He visits Jeonghan every day without fail. Never at the same time as Seungcheol, who makes his visits in the morning – he goes at night, armored by the breeze. It is not much work, for they had buried him over the hill, under the magnolia tree he had loved so much. Sometimes when the wind blows through the branches, it is as if Jeonghan’s voice carries through the wind.

Wonwoo sits, knees hitting the dirt. The sun is low over the hill, flickering as it slowly sets.

“Well,” he starts. “At least Y/N and Seungcheol have stopped fighting now.”

He can almost hear Jeonghan’s response in his mind. The man would have had some witty comment ready, a clever response always at the tip of his tongue.

“We leave in a few days. Just the three of us. Mingyu did not speak to me for a week when I told him he was to stay back with Hayun and the others.” He presses his palm against the soil, remembers what it had felt like to hold Jeonghan’s hand for the last time. “But I do not think he is well enough for this journey, still. I know you would have agreed.”

Wonwoo has developed a habit of pausing between sentences. He does not know why. It is no longer a conversation, just a monologue that Jeonghan will never actually get to hear.

“I wish you were here,” he says finally, throat thick with a feeling he does not really want to name.

There are always many things he catalogues during the day, little tidbits of information he would have told Jeonghan immediately. A new family of rabbits up the hill, or a particularly pretty patch of wildflowers in the woods. But none of it ever matters, really, by the time he sits in front of the lonely headstone again. All of those words disappear again.

It all boils down to this. I miss you. I wish you were still here. Come back. Who am I supposed to tell about the birds when you are no longer with me?

It does not matter. The birds keep chirping, and the world goes on. Quietly, in its own way. The trees and the flowers will not remember Yoon Jeonghan the way Wonwoo does, sharp and playful and gently prickly in all of the right places.

Sometimes, you are there too. You always leave as he arrives, and Wonwoo used to wonder bitterly why you even bothered to come, but he thinks he understands now. Rather, he basks in your presence, knowing that under your rough exterior there is a woman who understands how it feels to constantly grieve.

He even asks you to come with him, the morning of your departure. It is still hours to sunrise, and he would be a little surprised that you are awake, if he did not already know that you’ve always had trouble sleeping. You look a little tired, and a little taken aback by his request, but you follow him anyway, rubbing the exhaustion from your eyes.

The silence is thick. He can sense that you are waiting for him to speak first, but he does not feel any pressure. Only patience.

“He was everything I had ever hoped to be,” Wonwoo says quietly, when his mind settles. You give him an odd look.

“You do not need to be Jeonghan,” you tell him. “Just you.”

“I looked up to him. I learned from him.” He clenches his fist, dirt crumbling beneath his fingers. “Chan deserves to have somebody like that, too.”

You meet his broken gaze. “And he already does.”

Wonwoo cannot seem to get enough of that look in your eyes. Sharp, but earnest. A rare thing, and so he tries to preserve every last second and archive it away in some safe corner of his mind. He commits the rise and fall of your shoulders to memory, filing away the soft curve of your lips for a later thought.

The goodbyes are quick, though Wonwoo does not like to call them that. He lets Mingyu hug him, warm hand patting his shoulder, and reaches out to ruffle Chan’s messy hair affectionately.

“I still wish you would let me come with you, hyung,” the younger grumbles, leaning into the embrace. “I can fight, too.”

“I know you can,” Seungcheol soothes him. “But that is why we need you here, in case they come again. You are more than capable.”

Hansol sighs to himself, but Wonwoo catches it anyway. He feels the same way as Chan, burned by the guilt of being told to stay back instead of fighting a battle he was complicit in. But you had told him it would be all right, and promised to return safely. Wonwoo himself made no such promises, and nobody had asked it of him. He knows better than to swear things he will not have control over. Your optimism sends a twinge of sadness to his soul.

He turns to Mingyu, who looks on with an unreadable expression, fingers gently intertwined with Hayun’s. “I hope you are not still upset with me,” he says gingerly.

“I could not ever stay upset with you.” Mingyu’s eyes are shiny, threatening to spill the tears. “Not at a time like this.”

Wonwoo knows what he means. This may well be the last time they speak. There is no telling what will happen at the capital, and who will come back alive. He wants to tell Mingyu not to worry, but the words don’t come, just an understanding nod. Between them, nothing more needs to be said.

The first hints of light begin to peek out as the three of you set off. The dawn emboldens Wonwoo, as it always has. He carries the small satchel of food Hayun had meticulously packed over his shoulder, tying the ends across his torso so he can move hands-free. Seungcheol has the map, currently unfolded in his hands, and you follow with a compass, darting between the trees silently.

None of you speak much – a given, for this sort of journey. Wonwoo trudges on quietly, occasionally mumbling a heads up for you when there is a loose rock or a particularly large root. He waits, always, for your quiet thanks to make its way back to his ears.

He does not dare look back. Not when the sunlight filters through the forest canopy at just the right angle and sets you alight. You are already bright, a blazing force. Wonwoo does not believe himself strong enough a man to behold you in all your illuminated glory. His already grieving heart hurts a little more at the sight of your brilliant eyes.

Instead, he keeps his eyes forward, takes in all the green around him. The forest revives him with every step, every gentle brush of his fingers against a tall blade of grass. Just for now, it allows him to forget – the blood, the blade, the battle. In this moment, there is no war; just the creeping vines and sturdy larch trees that have always been there, and will always be.

“Do you hear that?” you murmur softly. Wonwoo tilts his head, listens carefully. He can just barely make out the sound of a lively current, water splashing onto the stony bank. Seungcheol notices it, too, checking the map again.

“We are making good progress,” he says, satisfied. “This should not take us more than three or four days, give or take. We should arrive at the same time as the others.”

Wonwoo nods, knows exactly what others Seungcheol is talking about. People just like them, who had suffered the same things but worse, and decided to do something about it. Young men and women who had lost families and a means to put food on the table, who had not been as fortunate as they had. Those from the southeast, far from the woodland vegetation, would have had it the hardest.

Seungcheol turns, then, saying it is a good time to stop and eat. You make a beeline for the river eagerly, and Wonwoo follows along, light on his feet the whole way through.

The grass becomes sparser the closer he gets, giving way to rocky ground. The river runs fast, the current swirling up and crashing against the boulders studded alongside it. It is a beautiful sight, for sure, but Wonwoo is distracted by you gently dipping your fingers into the water and basking in the coolness.

“What are you standing there for?” you ask without turning. Faintly, he wonders how you knew he was there, but he approaches you still.

“You seem to enjoy the water,” he observes. You smile, lightly reminiscent.

“Well, I am from the north. Very landlocked,” you say. “I only visited the coast once, when I was a child. I barely remember it. But I do know that the current is a wondrous thing, as alluring as it is dangerous.”

Wonwoo has to bite back the words on his tongue, the ones that want to say that that is exactly how he would describe you. His downfall, his double-edged sword. But he would never say it out loud, knowing what he is to you.

Which begs the question – what is he to you? Not a friend just yet, not a captor anymore. Just someone to fight alongside with, just another person. Just Wonwoo.

Just you, you had told him earlier that morning. It warms him, from the inside. He has not forgotten at all.

Instead, he takes a seat on one of the large boulders beside you, rummaging through the satchel for a flask and something to eat. “Are you hungry?”

“Not particularly,” you shake your head. “But I would not say no to some water.”

He passes you the flask, as well as a small package. “You need to eat,” he says. “Seungcheol says we will not stop until sunset.”

Wonwoo watches you drink, sweat trickling down the column of your throat and pooling at the base of your neck, then looks away sharply. He doesn’t like how it makes him feel, to see you like this – so resplendent as you simply just exist in the world around you.

“Will you visit home again soon?” he asks instead. “You know, after…”

He knows you don’t need him to finish the sentence, the latter half left unsaid. You think about it, popping a slice of dried persimmon in your mouth.

“After,” you agree, swallowing. “I must. It has been too long since I have seen my sisters. Too dangerous, to go there again. I do not want to place a target on their backs.” Your eyelashes sweep your skin as you lower your eyes to the ground. “My presence has already caused two casualties. There cannot be more.”

Wonwoo’s heart aches. He had wanted so badly to blame you in the days following Jeonghan’s death, trying to find somewhere to place the anger in his chest. But he could not, in good conscience, hold you accountable for it.

“It was not your fault,” he says quietly.

“You do not need to say that. I openly blamed you for Seungkwan’s death, and this is the same thing.” A singular tear falls from the corner of your eye into the river below. Wonwoo looks away, to give you some semblance of privacy.

“I did not take offense when you said it.”

“You should have.” Your voice is thick with guilt. “I would have, if I were you. I was so cruel.”

“It is alright, ” Wonwoo says. “I understand.”

You look at him ruefully. “I understand, too.”

The two of you sit like that, side by side, basking in the gentle sunlight. Wonwoo looks on as you remove your boots, dipping your legs into the water. A tiny giggle escapes your throat as you watch the colorful fish that dart around, weaving between the reeds. It is a new sound. He tries his best to memorize it, while he can.

The moment does not last. The reverie is interrupted by Seungcheol’s voice calling out for you, and Wonwoo knows that it is time to keep moving. He packs up his satchel again, standing as you dry off your feet, and offers his hand to help you up the rocky slope once your boots are back on. You eye it warily for a few seconds before taking it, careful with your steps.

“Thank you.”

“No problem.” Wonwoo waits for you to let go of him first, the feeling lingering on his fingers. He turns to go, but you pass him the last dried persimmon slice, stopping him in his tracks.

“I did not poison it, if that is why you were hesitating,” you add, before softening a bit. “You did not eat earlier, either.”

Wonwoo can’t find the words to reply just yet. Instead he huffs a little laugh, accepting it graciously. The fruit is chewy and honeyed, but it sits on his tongue just a touch sweeter than he remembers. Whether that is real or his mind’s own doing, he does not know.

Emptiness, again. But it is warm this time, strangely familiar. You stretch your arms out around you, but there is still nothing.

Ah. There you are.

Immediately you relax, relief rushing through your body. What took you so long?

Patience, little tiger. An affectionate laugh, one you recognize all too well. It simply was not the time.

I thought you had gone. For good.

There is no response. Just that familiar tenderness curling itself around you and lifting you up. To where, you do not know. You cannot see anything above you, nor below. It is dark, everywhere.

Remember this, sister. When the truth shows itself, it will never do you good to hide from it.

What does that even mean? You nearly ask the question, but everything begins to spin relentlessly. Your vision blurs – not that there's anything for you to see – and the sheer pressure of it all forces you to tear your eyes open.

You are met directly with an unobstructed view of Wonwoo’s face. Even in sleep, he is rather beautiful. The soft dawn’s glow rests gentle on the slope of his face, leaving his sharp features illuminated. You sit up slowly, shivering when the cool wind hits your face.

This is not new to you. There had been many nights where you had slept beside Seokmin and Seungkwan, on all of those assignments you carried out over the years. Hell, you had even shared the floor with Hansol for the past month or so.

But this is different. You have to fight the urge to observe him closer, taking in the curl of his lashes and the mole that sits beneath his right eye. It is magnetic, and unsettling.

The dream has left you restless. You get to your feet quietly, to avoid waking the others, and duck out of the tent. Seungcheol had said it would be best to leave at dawn, but you had not felt like waking them just yet. They will be up sooner or later, you think, stretching.

You take the time to walk around a bit, taking note of the plants and flowers that are so different from the ones back home. The newness of it all is scintillating. The northern regions are dry, and unwelcoming to both flora and fauna alike. But here they flourish, reflecting bright colors into the surrounding forest. You think about another timeline where your adolescent years might have been filled with this kind of wonder, instead of the smell of burning wood and blood.

The seconds move on their own. You do not know exactly how much time has passed by, just that the sun is a bit stronger now, and you can feel the heat on your back.

A sudden call of your name has you flinching out of surprise. It is muffled by the thick forest, but it comes again, closer this time. Instinctively your hand goes to your belt, but you realize that you have left all of your weapons inside the tent.

There is a loud rustling behind you. You turn sharply, and a few twigs snap. Wonwoo emerges from the leaves, all wide-eyed and panicked. He just stares at you for a few seconds, chest heaving like he had been running.

You blink at him, confused. “... Good morning?”

“You are alright,” he breathes, fingers gripping one of his knives so tight his knuckles go white. It is more of a confirmation to himself than a question. He scans you, like he is checking for any sign of injury. “You disappeared. We did not know where you had gone.”

You arch a brow at him. “Are you okay?”

Wonwoo lets out a painstaking breath. His shoulders shake with relief, and something else. “I fall asleep with you next to me, and when I wake up, you are nowhere to be seen. Do you see the problem here?”

“No, because I am completely fine,” you explain, suddenly provoked. “I just wanted to walk a bit, stretch my legs.”

“How am I supposed to know that if it looks like you have simply vanished?” He folds his arms, jaw tight. “Did it not strike you to wake one of us up if you were going to stray so far?”

“It was not far,” you shoot back crossly. Your surprise is slowly beginning to morph into a specific frustration that only seems to rear its ugly head in front of Wonwoo. “If you did not think I could last twenty minutes by myself, you should not have asked me to come with you.”

Wonwoo frowns deeply. “That is not what I meant.”

“It sounds exactly like it.” You raise your chin, feeling challenged, and take a bold step forward. The ball has been tossed back to your side of the court, and the burning flame in Wonwoo’s eyes only feeds your temper. “I should have known you were the kind of man who underestimates everyone’s capabilities, except your own.”

The words come out much harsher than you intend, and it surprises even yourself. You see it as the sentence leaves your mouth, the flash of hurt in Wonwoo’s sharp, angled eyes. It’s gone before you can truly register it, replaced by something more intense than vexation that you cannot place.

“We are supposed to look after each other,” Wonwoo says, harshly. Yet there is a strange softness in his expression that you would have almost missed if you weren’t paying such close attention. “Your safety is a part of my responsibility.”

“My safety is my own responsibility,” you retort. When had you gotten so close? The mere inches that lie between you and Wonwoo are charged with an anger that eventually pools out into something else, something much more perilous. Your tone picks up all the sarcasm in the world as you say, “Help me understand, Wonwoo. Why should you care so much?”

It all happens so fast, and yet the seconds feel slowed down. You do not know who moves first – you take another step, he leans into you – but the moment Wonwoo’s mouth meets yours, something clicks. His lips are slightly chapped, a consequence of long travel and the dehydration that follows it. You take the opportunity to swipe your tongue across his bottom lip, biting gently, and the groan that leaves his throat is music to your ears. It delights you, the way he seems to melt into your touch, and you kiss him back with matched fervor.

“Why should I care?” Wonwoo’s head dips to your jaw as he repeats your question. “You are a force of nature. The sun and the moon and the stars, all at once. I know you do not need protection. And still my heart seems to ache, when you are not safe.”

“Wonwoo,” you breathe, unable to form any other thoughts. Your fingers tighten even more around the soft cloth of his robes, tugging him closer.

“You are so strong, so clever – so sharp with the words you use. Infuriating, but equally captivating. And that,” he says, dragging his lips down the column of your throat, “is the most dangerous thing of all.”

It is dizzying, so much so that you barely register the tiny sound of satisfaction that escapes your throat. Embarrassing, in any other scenario.

But it is Wonwoo, holding your face with all the gentleness that had not been there just five minutes ago, and so it does not matter at all. Not even as you tilt your head to the side, his soft hair tickling your skin, allowing him room to press an almost reverent kiss to your collarbone. The feeling burns, but in a way that feels like you are floating.

Wonwoo’s eyes are unreadable when he finally looks up at you. The air is fraught; you open your mouth but nothing comes out. All the words are stuck in your throat as you try to hold onto the sensation of his mouth against yours. You probably look a mess, and so does he – but he is a work of art even now, hair mussed and lips slightly swollen, cheeks flushed under the morning sun.

In the distance, you hear your name again. This voice is different, a bit rougher. As if on instinct, you and Wonwoo separate like repelling magnets, immediately putting a few yards’ space between each other.

“Seungcheol,” he says, not looking away from you.

“We should go,” you add quietly. He nods, but you cannot let go of the comfort you had felt in his arms. A strange, new feeling. Did you want more of it? What do you want?

You do not get to finish that line of thought. Seungcheol stumbles in, nearly tripping on a large root and steadying himself with one hand on a tree trunk.

“There you are,” he says, frowning slightly. “Are you okay? You were not there when we woke up. We were worried.”

“Wonwoo is here. I am alright.” You dare to glance over at him, just for a second. He watches you like you are the moon that rises in his night. “I should have woken you both, I am sorry.”

“All that matters right now is that we are all alive and well.” Seungcheol shifts his eyes between you and Wonwoo. Suddenly you are aware of how close you two are standing, and how it must look. You discreetly shuffle backwards, heat rising to your cheeks.

Wonwoo clears his throat, still avoiding your gaze. “Shall we get going? We should have already left by now.”

Seungcheol nods. “We will need to stop at a safe house right outside the capital to regroup with the others. It should not be too long a journey left, if we make good distance.”

You glance up at the sky. The sun is already quite high, growing brighter with each passing minute. To reach the capital by nightfall, you have no choice but to leave now.

It is with an unsteady heart that you make your way back to the tent, chest heavy with the implications of everything that has just happened. You cannot rid your mind of the memory, Wonwoo’s touch setting your body alight. Somewhere along the line you had begun to find him enchanting rather than irritating, reluctant affection replacing the hatred you had harbored so long ago.

You watch him smile at something Seungcheol says, light hitting his features just right, and wonder at how he had once been the man you were set out to kill.

Between your thoughts, you try to ignore the way Wonwoo’s hands gently brush against yours, knuckles knocking against each other. He doesn’t look at you, but you feel the same tension emanating off of his broad shoulders and bowed head. To say something now is to break the precious silence, and so both of you remain quiet.

Seungcheol hoists the supply bag over his shoulder and pulls out the map again. You press your palm against the ground, trying to memorize the sights and sounds, and set off further north.

To say that Wonwoo is losing his mind would be a violent understatement.

He had not known, really, what had possessed him in that moment. All he was thinking was you, you, you, as you had glared up at him fiercely with those eyes. It was a mixture of sheer relief at the sight of you, unharmed, and the utter tenderness that had risen into his chest that had set off his mind.

And you had kissed him back – he cannot forget how your fingers had tangled themselves into his hair, tugging gently. A part of him knew, he thinks, that that would happen. It had been evident in the way you had leaned into him, almost challenging him to do something. But he has never been the type of person to let himself hope on such high stakes; at least, not until now.

Seungcheol eyes him warily. “You look unwell. Did you not sleep enough?”

“I did,” Wonwoo mumbles, for lack of a better answer. He watches Seungcheol accept his response, before glancing back at you. The tension is palpable, and he only hopes the older man remains blissfully unaware of everything that had previously transpired.

“Well, I do hope you both are not at each other’s throats again. We cannot afford to have internal issues right now.”

Oh. That is how he chose to understand it. Wonwoo senses you stiffen behind him, bites back a quick retort about how he technically had been at your throat, and chooses to reply with a quiet hum of agreement. A few beats pass before he speaks again, only filled by the sounds of their quiet footsteps and the occasional songbirds’ chirping.

“What about you, hyung?”

Seungcheol gives a weak half-smile. “I am still walking,” he says. “Still moving, as always. There is no path but forward.”

Wonwoo knows he is not talking about their current journey. He had not spoken to Seungcheol much after they had buried Jeonghan. The older man had often preferred his solitude since then, shutting himself inside his room or throwing himself into busywork. Seungcheol has never been the kind of person to unburden himself unprompted. Wonwoo will never truly know if he does not ask.

“Is it any better?”

Silence. Seungcheol reaches into his pocket, and opens his fist to reveal a small magnolia flower. It is a bit wrinkled and worn, but still beautiful as ever.

“Not really,” he says. “It does not magically happen. Not unless you want it to, and it is stubborn even then.”

The message is somewhat cryptic, but Wonwoo knows just what he means. He senses the lingering grief that swims in the corners of Seungcheol’s eyes and knows that the conversation is over.

He does not get a chance to speak to you again until well past midday. It is hotter now, and with the tree cover slowly growing more and more sparse, there is no shade to seek shelter under. Wonwoo catches you fanning yourself with a hand as you take the new terrain in. He has always enjoyed watching you like this, full of that natural curiosity you like to indulge yourself in away from the life that demands your complete strength. A sparrow takes flight, and you follow its path with your eyes. You are beautiful under the bright sky.

You turn before he can announce his presence somehow, observing him for a moment before gently patting the spot on the rock next to you. Wonwoo does not decline it, settling carefully into the space you’ve designated specifically for him. He almost reaches out for you, almost.

“I can tell you want to say something,” you begin, sounding a tad amused. “Spit it out.”

Wonwoo has a thousand possible questions at the tip of his tongue. Should we talk about it? Do you feel the same? Will I be able to take it if you tell me it was all just a mistake?

“Are you ready?” he asks instead.

You shrug. “No such thing. If this is the last thing I do, I might as well throw myself in headfirst.”

“Do not say that,” Wonwoo murmurs. It is somewhere between a gentle rebuke and a plea. You turn to look at him, eyes brilliant and earnest, and he does not know what to do with himself. If he looks closer, he might see that there is a hint of affection that lies in your gaze.

“Why not?” You laugh dryly. “You know as well as I do that some of us might not make it back home alive. I am not so proud to assume that I might be one of the lucky ones.”

“I wish you would have a little more faith in yourself,” he says.

“Faith will not change a thing. If I am meant to die, it will happen.” You twist a dry blade of grass between your fingers. Wonwoo feels his heart twist in a similar way. “At least that way I might see my brother again.”

Wonwoo turns his head sharply, surprised. “You have never mentioned having a brother.”

You smile, but it does not reach your eyes. For such a usually joyous expression, you look rather despondent, mouth set in a thin line.

“Had,” you correct softly. “Even that is a stretch, I think. He left me with nothing but the sound of his voice and his name. I was so young, I cannot even remember his face. I will never know if we share the same eyes, or nose.”

Wonwoo thinks of Wonjae, briefly. He has always mourned the loss of the years they could have had, but he had never really thought to savor the memories they were able to make instead. He wonders how much more resilient he’d have to be, to honor Wonjae’s life with none of those moments intact.

“Tell me about him,” he says.

“There is not much to tell,” you shake your head, “It will not bring him back.”

“It is the only way you can keep his memory alive,” Wonwoo counters. “You can start with simple things. Like his name.”

A tiny grin curves your mouth upwards. “Kwon Soonyoung,” you say. “If you think I am a force of nature, you would have thought him a storm. A torrent.”

Wonwoo tries to ignore your recollection of his own words and focuses on the newness of the name. Powerful, and smooth as it is strong. “Like brother, like sister, then.”

“Well, of course. He was my twin. We shared a lot of things.” Subconsciously, you lean closer to him as you talk. “But he was older, by several seconds, and he never let me forget it. Little tiger, he used to call me. He was not even that much taller. I always told him to knock it off,” you huff, “but he never did.”

“That is a fitting nickname,” Wonwoo says, just a tad amused.

“He thought so, too.” You smile fondly. “He was obsessed with tigers – I remember this, at least. Very passionate, strong animals. I suppose I can see where the resemblance lies.”

“He sounds like quite the character.”

“He was. Or he might have been; I do not really know. He did not get a chance to grow into the person he wanted to become.��

Wonwoo hesitates just barely before asking his next question. “How did he…?”

You smile gently. “You can say it, Wonwoo. It has been over a decade.”

“Still. There are some wounds that time cannot heal.”

“I suppose that is true.” Wonwoo watches your shoulders tremble just a little, and takes the leap of faith, letting his arm rest around them comfortingly. He is half surprised when you do not reject it, instead melting further into his warm touch. “Soonyoung was always brave, almost to a fault. It cost him his own life, in the end.”

“You do not have to talk about it,” he says gingerly. “I should not have asked.”

“No,” you chuckle through the welling tears. Wonwoo wants so desperately to wipe them aside, to kiss the salty sorrow away from your skin. But he knows that if you do not cry about it now, you never will. “I have kept it to myself far too long. Even Soonhee and Soonja do not know what truly happened in those last moments. The royal guard arrived out of nowhere, and within minutes it was obvious that it was a losing battle. But I stayed back to help him, like a fool. I did not want to leave him behind.”

“I believe you are far more courageous than you think.”

“Not then. At that moment, I was being stupid,” you say, voice shaky. “I think I knew, even then, that he would not survive it. We were so young, and he had hardly been trained with a sword. I remember him yelling at us to leave while we could.”

“And you stayed.”

“I did. I thought there had to be some way we could all escape, for sure. But it became clear that it was not possible.” He watches you shut your eyes tightly, exhaling. “That was the first time I had ever lifted a sword in my entire life. I barely made it out. His sacrifice was almost for nothing.”

“But it was not,” Wonwoo points out gently. “You are still here. Still fighting. I am sure he would be proud of the woman you have become.”

“I hope so,” you whisper. “I try to live fearlessly, as he did. As brave as he was, even when he knew it was the end.”

Wonwoo hums, lets your words sink in. You had comforted him just like this, not so long ago. The memory is not lost on him.

“You do not need to live like your brother,” he says. “Just live for yourself.”

A quiet sob leaves your throat. He had not intended on saying anything that would make you feel even worse, but your head drops to his shoulder as your tears soak the fabric of his clothes. Wonwoo does not say anything, instead opting to rub his thumb in consoling circles over your skin. He feels his heart ache impossibly as you cry, but remains still. Sometimes, silence is the best remedy.

He waits until your breathing slows and your sniffling comes to an end to shift slightly, using the large misshapen rock behind him as support. Your head still lies on his shoulder, and he basks in the feeling of being someone you would let yourself lean on.

“Sorry about that,” you say softly, wiping your eyes.

“No need to apologize.” He rests his chin against the top of your head, doesn’t push any further. The two of you just sit together, taking in the moment before it is time for the inevitable trek to continue yet again. For the moment, the conversation is more or less over.

But Wonwoo grapples with the swirling feelings in his chest for far longer than that. You have him utterly curious, safely storing away each new piece of information he learns about you. Yes, you are one of the strongest people he knows – but when did that begin? What made you have to build up these sturdy walls? If anything, you only prove more and more admirable each time.

The more he learns, the more in love he thinks he is.

It is well past nightfall by the time the dirt path gives way to the paved roads of the capital and the surrounding towns. Seungcheol tells both of you to stay as quiet as possible and follow him discreetly down the bustling roads.

The safe house is tucked away in a more isolated part of town, far from the crowded centers with their night markets and food stalls. It is small and unassuming, with the lights dimmed inside. As they approach, Wonwoo can just barely make out hushed voices from inside.

Seungcheol raises a hand to the door, knocking in a particular rhythm. There is a few seconds of silence before it opens slowly, a shrewd-looking man at the door. He eyes the three of you warily.

“Name?”

“Choi Seungcheol. Fourth southwestern province.”

The man considers it for a moment before swinging the door open. It is warm inside, a sharp contrast from the night’s cool breeze. Wonwoo offers you his hand first, helping you up the steps and into the house.

He can’t quite hear what Seungcheol and the man are talking about. He only catches a name —Myungho, it sounds like. He’s got an interesting accent to his words, but only a light one. Wonwoo would not have caught it if it weren’t for the complexity of the words, consonants rolling over like waves.

“Tomorrow night is when we fight,” Myungho says quietly. “Make yourselves comfortable here, in the meantime.” Then his gaze flickers back to you, somewhat surprised. “You did not mention you were bringing a lady.”

Seungcheol raises his eyebrows. “Is that a problem?”

Wonwoo watches as Myungho’s eyes linger on you. Not judging, but evaluating. There is something in his narrowed eyes that seems like it should sting, but does not.

“Not at all,” he answers simply. “We will adjust sleeping arrangements accordingly. Would the lady prefer a separate area?”

“No need,” you say firmly. “I know space is a bit tight here. Just a corner will do. Thank you, though.”

Myungho bows his head. “Of course.”

Wonwoo follows you and Seungcheol further into the house. It is not so big, but there are not that many men inside in the first place. Just as well. There is a genuine concern for lack of safety in great numbers.

Suddenly, you gasp. “Seokmin?!”

One of the men by the kitchen area looks up at the sudden call of his name. Wonwoo watches as he rushes towards you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders excitedly.

Of course, this is no stranger. He recognizes the sharp nose and the shape of his side profile, has heard about the deep friendship you share with him, but still — a sharp pang of a feeling he doesn’t really like travels straight through his chest.

“I did not know whether you were alive,” Seokmin says, tears already spilling from his eyes. “I only had to hope that after losing Seungkwan, I had not lost you, too.”

You laugh, but Wonwoo knows the sound too well. That specific laugh is reserved for when you are trying not to cry. “You have not, Seokmin. I have been well.”

“And Hansol?”

“Hansol is well, too. He stayed back,” you explain. “I did not want to risk his life, as well.”

Seokmin sighs out of utter relief, then turns his earnest eyes to Wonwoo. There is a flicker of recognition in them.

“Oh, right. This is Seokmin,” you tell Wonwoo. He returns the polite nod, reaching out to shake his hand.

“Wait, I remember you,” Seokmin says, a bit sheepishly. He does not need to explain any further. It is all written in the slightly embarrassed expression on his face. Of course – as one of your most trusted men, he would have fought alongside you at every turn.

“You, too,” Wonwoo returns awkwardly. He glances between you and Seokmin, sensing there is much to be said. “Well, you both should catch up. I will be with Seungcheol if you need anything, okay?”

You grace him with a small, grateful smile. Somehow you glow even brighter, though the lights are dimmed. “Alright. Thank you.”

He bows, bidding Seokmin a good night, before meandering around the house. The smell of cooking stew rises from the kitchen, and he is suddenly aware of the hunger in his stomach. He pokes his head into the kitchen area and finds Myungho speaking in another language with the man chopping up radish on the counter. Seungcheol sits behind them, conversing with an older man with streaks of gray in his hair.

He raises his eyes once he registers Wonwoo’s presence. “All okay?”

“Mm.” Wonwoo takes his seat, perching on another wooden stool. “Y/N seems to be settling in well. She seems comfortable.”

“That is good.” Seungcheol gestures to the man sitting across from him. “This is Kim Minseok. He used to serve in the royal guard. He is retired now, but he has been extremely helpful to us in terms of intelligence and communication.”

Wonwoo bows his head in greeting. Minseok just laughs heartily, watching him with a mix of pride and amusement.

“Well, it is nice to finally meet you,” he says. “Choi here has told me all about you over the years. I had thought you were just a myth until now!”

Wonwoo flushes deeply. “All good things, I hope.”

“Ah, you worry too much. You are too young to be so cautious! Enjoy it while you can, eh?” Minseok takes another long sip of whatever liquid in his cup. “I hope to see this prowess Seungcheol speaks of soon enough, then.”

“Yes, of course, sir.”

Wonwoo zones out for the rest of the conversation, just letting in a few words here and there. They discuss strategy, and possible routes – he knows that none of that will truly matter in the end. There are only two ways tomorrow night will go, and out of those only one will prevail. It is already written. No matter how much Minseok or Myungho might want it, it will not change to their whims.

From the corner of his eye, he catches your reclined figure against a wooden chair. You laugh at something Seokmin says, eyes crinkling in that rare joy he so loves to see in your face. Wonwoo has never wanted more for all of this to be over sooner, just so that you might be happier, like this. No more fighting, no more spilt blood. Just you and your smile.

Myungho’s voice pulls Wonwoo out of his swirling thoughts. Seungcheol stands, pushing his stool out, and pats him on the shoulder gently.

“Come,” he says, offering a warm smile. It is one of the first Wonwoo has seen in weeks, and he savors it. “Dinner is ready.”

The stew is comforting, the heat warming your fingers through the ceramic of the bowl. You fold in on yourself even more, pulling your limbs closer to ward off the cold. Beside you, Seokmin is in a similar position as he spoons another piece of eggplant into his mouth.

You savor the taste carefully, mulling over everything he has told you so far. Of utmost importance was any sort of news from your sisters, and hearing that they were doing well brought you the most relief. Sangmin suffered through a fever, he mentioned, but he had recovered within a few days. That, thankfully, had been the worst of it.

Briefly, your eyes wander over to Wonwoo’s broad figure, listening intently as Myungho talks. His hair falls just short of his eyes, veiling his sharp brows and his tanned skin. A sight to see, under the low lights.

“You are distracted,” Seokmin observes, hiding a smile.

You tear your eyes from Wonwoo with a start. “No?”

“Oh, come on. You are not as closed a book as you think. And am I not allowed to be curious?” he asks. “You have told me quite literally everything, except for the man you arrived with. How can I not have questions?”

“I arrived with two men, Seokmin.”

“Yes, and only one of them has bothered to look in your direction twenty-five times in the past ten minutes. I am not blind, you know.”

This makes you sigh deeply, wondering if what he’s said is true. But it might very well be. You are not blind, either, as much as you would like to delude yourself into believing.

You do not tell Seokmin about the incident in the forest. That memory burns too bright to be shared. But you recount the slow evolution of your feelings towards Wonwoo, the slippery slope that had started as resentment and has now brought you to a precarious camaraderie.

You do not tell him about the strange new feeling in your chest, either. Or the fact that the deep-rooted affection in some corner of your heart has begun to sprout too prominent for you to ignore. This, you keep to yourself. If you do not say it, it does not have to sound as real.

Seokmin listens intently while you speak, as he always has. Nods along, as you describe the particularly difficult moments. He laces his fingers together once you finish, ever thoughtful.

“Well, he is quite handsome,” he says. “No complaints from me.”

“Seokmin!”

“Alright, alright,” he soothes, rubbing the spot on his arm where you had just hit him. “You are so violent. What sort of friend would I be if I did not give you my two cents, after all?”

You glare at him playfully. “An uninjured one.”

He holds both his arms up, feigning surrender. It draws another laugh out of you as you take another bite of stew, the flavorful spices dancing on your tongue. It is a sharp reminder for you to enjoy these happy moments while they last.

The house quiets down after most everyone has finished eating. You offer to help with the dishes, but Myungho insists that you sit, so you make yourself useful and towel dry the bowls after he washes them. Another man takes it upon himself to wipe down the counter, and the two of them chatter away in a vaguely familiar language as they work.

“Oh, dear. Forgive my manners,” the newcomer says suddenly. His accent is quite similar to Myungho’s, but a little less noticeable and smoother around the edges. “My name is Junhui. I live across town, actually, but I came over here to help however I can.”

“Nice to meet you,” you say, offering your own name in response. He smiles widely, eyes forming half crescents. “How do you both know each other?”

“Junhui and I are cousins,” Myungho explains. “But my family came here from China many years after his. My father was a paper merchant, and it was easier to find business here at the time than back home.”

You hum in understanding, taking in the new information. “You did not follow in his footsteps?”

“Almost. But I backed out, in the end.” Myungho smiles, his first of the night. “I did not want to sentence myself to something I knew I would detest. Instead, I moved up here to start a new life. I opened a restaurant here four years ago, along with Junhui.”

“That is a sharp pivot,” you remark.

“Perhaps. But you do not truly live until you dare to change.”

You look around the house again. If you squint, you can see it in your mind’s eye– remnants of a lively business, steaming bowls of soup and the chatter that comes with a well-fed crowd. The walls might have been painted red, decorated with small golden flowers. None of it is there now, only the ghosts of happy times.

“What happened?” you ask, quietly.

Myungho’s silence speaks volumes. Junhui sighs heavily, setting his towel down.

“Customers began to dwindle. It was not safe for them to be out so often, so of course it was not good for business.” He frowns as the memory sets in. “Eventually it was not enough to sustain ourselves. So we closed it down.”

“Royal intelligence was not fond of us, either,” Myungho adds. “There were many people who would gather here to discuss the government, and propose political change. Of course, none of it went under the radar. It was all rather frustrating for those in power.”

You watch as Junhui looks down at his hands as if he’s mourning those precious years. Everyone carries their own ghosts, grieving in a different way. But more than that, you feel guilty – you had, after all, fought on the side of those who abused their power and oppressed their people for years. The circumstances are beyond the fact. You are still complicit.

“That is terrible,” you say honestly. “I am sorry it happened that way. Truly.”

“No need.” Myungho smiles again, but it is sadder this time. “Nothing really ever dies, does it? We were not about to let the space go to waste. Now we operate out of here. It was two years ago, I think, that we started to use this house for… what do you call it?”

He fumbles to find the word for several seconds, before Junhui says something in a smooth Chinese dialect.

“Ah,” Myungho says finally. “Resistance.”

You understand, now. The spark in their eyes is one that has been burning for a long time, and it will not go out anytime soon.

“We are very thankful,” you tell him. “Without you both, this would not be possible.”

Junhui waves it off sheepishly, shaking the dark hair away from his forehead. “Alright, alright. That is not so. It has taken the effort and cooperation of many people for the movement to reach where it is right now.”

“Still,” you insist. “You have laid a sturdy foundation. Your work will not go in vain.”

“That is not something you or anyone else can guarantee,” he says sagely, “but I will accept the sentiment in the name of hope.”

You give him a wry smile. “Hope is all we have.”

Junhui mirrors your expression, but there is a particular weariness in his eyes. “I only wonder if it will be enough.”

The three of you finish cleaning up in silence, only broken by the occasional remark or stray joke, and you bid them goodnight when the dishes have been done and the kitchen is spotless. The others seem to be settling down, and you wander around for a bit before finding your spot beside a wall, just as you had requested.

The day weighs down on you, and you are suddenly aware of the soreness in your muscles from the days’ travel you’ve been doing. You lie down and let your body rest against the floor, reveling in the warmth of the heavy blanket. Apprehension pools in your stomach, but you try not to think about the events to come, instead focusing on your own steady breath.

You hear Seungcheol and Wonwoo speaking quietly before they lie down on their mats, too. The light goes out, and you close your eyes to feign sleep until you actually succumb to your dreams. However, you are not fooling anybody. Wonwoo shifts a little beside you, and you are painfully aware of the distance between you and him.

“I know you are awake,” he whispers. You peek out from under your blanket – you can barely see him in the dark, but your eyes adjust to the lack of light rather quickly. “You are quite terrible at pretending.”

“I did not ask for your opinion, Wonwoo.”

“I am giving it regardless.” He is quiet for the next few seconds, then says, “Having trouble sleeping?”

“What do you care?” He laughs dryly, a twinge of melancholy in his voice. “Please do not make me answer that question again. I do not think I can bear it.” Heat rises to your cheeks suddenly as the memory rushes back to you. It replays in your mind like a flashback, and you will your heart to slow itself. And yet, you savor the closeness, aware of the heat radiating from him next to you. “Sleep,” you say instead. “There is a long day ahead of us.” “You cannot say that as you look so deep in thought,” he counters. “Tell me what is going on that intricate brain of yours.”

You try to ignore the deepness of his voice and the rough edge it carries as you sort through your thoughts, attempting to find the words for them. There is no easy way to do it, but it feels a little better when Wonwoo is right beside you.

“I am afraid,” you confess suddenly. “As much as I try not to be. I spend my time wondering, what would Soonyoung do? And after that I wonder if I am capable of being half the person he was.” “You are,” Wonwoo says firmly. “And I know that you know it, too.” How strange a feeling, to have him pinpoint your exact thought so quickly! You peer at him, just barely making out his features, and grip the blanket just a little tighter. The realization that this could well be the last night you ever spend in his company is chilling. “I had a brother, too, once,” he continues softly. “I carry his ghost on my shoulders as I once carried him. But I cannot let that memory hold me back from fighting for what is important. And neither can you. Does that make sense?” You hum in agreement, letting it sink in. “You know, you did not strike me as the older brother type.” He wrinkles his nose. “What is that supposed to mean?” “Well, I thought you were an only child, for sure.” “Now you are just slandering me for the fun of it,” Wonwoo complains. A sudden laugh bubbles from your throat, spilling out into the silence, and you clap a hand over your mouth immediately to stifle the following giggles. He smiles, chuckling softly. “And you will wake everyone in this house, if you keep doing that.”

“Oh, be quiet,” you rebuke, settling back in. The weight of his previous words sits on your mind again. “You understand then, how it feels.”

“Mm.”

The two of you lie there, staring up at the ceiling of what used to be Myungho and Junhui’s livelihood. Silent understanding passes over you, like it always seems to. Your heart beats twice as strong somehow, when it is him that occupies the place at your side, and you fall asleep with that sense of security blanketing your mind.

Morning comes in the form of Myungho’s sharp voice. You quickly learn that as kind as he is, he does not seem to like coming off that way, and much prefers a steady routine. The floor is clear within minutes under his supervision, while Junhui gets to work on breakfast. You offer to help him, but he just waves you off, so you sit on the countertop and chat with him as the porridge cooks.

Wonwoo joins you both a few minutes later. You almost laugh at the sight of him – messy hair and tired eyes – and it warms your heart.

“There you are,” he says, voice still heavy with sleep. “I was wondering where you had gone.”

“Nowhere far. Just keeping Junhui company.”

“I see that.” He sits on the taller wooden stool, wincing as he rolls his shoulder. At your questioning look he says, “Definitely slept wrong last night. I think Seungcheol might have kicked me in his sleep, too. Multiple times.”

“Maybe you deserve it,” you shoot back playfully. Wonwoo’s mouth curves up into a knowing smirk that has your knees just a little weak.

“Anyhow, he seems very stressed,” he says. “I did not want to bring it up unnecessarily.”

“Everyone is on edge today,” Junhui agrees, stirring the porridge. “Even Myungho woke up in a terrible mood, if you could not already tell. Tonight is the night everything could change, for better or worse. Some of the men have already come to terms with the fact that this might be their last day alive.”

“But it might not be,” Wonwoo puts in thoughtfully. “Not necessarily.”

“That is true. But nobody knows.” Junhui sprinkles a pinch of salt into the pot. “Some feel it is better to resign themselves for the worst than to hope for the best. And who am I to tell them how to think?”

His words settle solemnly into the air, and he notices the sudden tension, clicking his tongue disapprovingly.

“Oh, do not be so serious. Would you want to live your last day in such gloom?” You shake your head no. “I thought so! Now get out of your head, and come eat this while it is still hot. I can see the gears in your brain turning already.”

You take the bowl he hands you gratefully, letting the warmth seep into your fingers. The first spoon of porridge is almost magical as it goes down your throat, and you savor the different flavors on your tongue.

“This is so good,” you tell him. “What did you even put in this?”

Junhui just winks at you. “Years and years of practice,” is all he will say. “Chef’s secret.”

The afternoon that follows is sweltering, at best. Sweat trickles down your back as you spar with Seokmin, wood knocking against wood as he parries your every strike. Wonwoo watches from the side, letting the last few drops of water fall from the flask into his throat.

“This weapon feels so wrong in my hand,” Seokmin says when you finally take a break, catching his breath. “I fear I am utterly dreadful with a sword.”

“Why did you not bring your bow?”

“I thought about it.” He shakes his head wryly. “It feels so detached. There is only so much you can do with limited arrows and such great distance. It is a great weapon, to be sure, but I feel quite useless at times.”

“Seokmin,” you scold, “you know you are one of the greatest archers I have ever met in my life. You are the opposite of useless.”

“But this is not the time to be passive. I wanted to do more.” Seokmin smiles wistfully, dangling the wooden sword from his fingers. “So I started training with one of Jihoon’s old swords. I am by no means perfect, but it will do.”

You pause for a moment, taking it in. He had never done anything but follow orders, both Muyeol’s and yours. And yet the guilt still hangs over his shoulders, ever present.

“Seokmin.”

“Yes?”

“You are certainly not dreadful.” You place a comforting hand on his shoulder. “It is new, that is all. And your skill is quite excellent for someone who has wielded a vastly different weapon for most of his life.”

A bright grin spreads across his face, a bit sheepish. “That is kind of you to say.”

“I mean it. Truly.” You pat his back gently. “Go rest, alright? You did well today.”

He nods and bows his head slightly. You watch his retreating back until he disappears behind the doorway, one hand on your hip as you bear the brunt of the midday sun. I need water, you think, walking back towards the rock Wonwoo’s sitting against.

He seems to know what you want before you have to ask, passing you a filled flask before you sit down beside him. “Good fight?”

“Definitely.” You take a long sip of the cool water. “Seokmin has improved so much. He used to hate it back at the palace. He only ever wanted to shoot arrows all day.”

“He seems very dedicated,” Wonwoo agrees. “That will serve him well in every regard.”

“Certainly.”

There is a heavy pause. Neither of you looks at the other. You can tell there are words at the tip of his tongue that he won’t say. But you do not comment on it; the same is true for you. You sit there beside him, watching the clouds hang in the sky, and savor the moment.

Eventually, you break the silence. “If I do not make it –” “No.” You give him a funny look. “You do not even know what I was going to say!” “I do,” he says quietly. “I feel like you have been meaning to say it for a while. But I was hoping I could delay it.” You soften at his words, intense tenderness squeezing at your heart. Gently you lay your head onto his waiting and ready shoulder, your chest rising and falling in time with his. “It is like Junhui said,” you tell him. “Nobody knows. Neither you, nor I. But I wanted to tell you, just in case.” “Don’t,” Wonwoo pleads. “You can tell me afterwards. We will have all the time then.” “You cannot be sure.” A small smile forms on your face despite yourself, and you tuck yourself further into him. “Listen, Wonwoo. I know you have detested me for a majority of the time we have known each other.” “I–” “I do not fault you for it.” You place a hand on his arm to calm him down. “If I said I did not reciprocate that feeling, it would be a blatant lie.” Wonwoo raises an eyebrow. “Are you seriously monologuing about how much you despise me right now?” This pulls a sharp laugh out of you. “You would know if you listened instead of talking!” “Alright, alright,” he concedes, amused. “Please continue.” You huff in acceptance, pulling your legs closer to your body. “If we do not have tomorrow, then you should know I have appreciated every gesture of kindness you have shown me, at every turn. For giving me space, when I needed it. For talking, when I needed that instead. You have always given me room to breathe.” “I would do it over and over,” he whispers, breath tickling the top of your head. “For you.” You sigh deeply, shutting your eyes and willing yourself not to cry. “Please, Wonwoo. It is far too soon to say that.” “It cannot be. I have been thinking it for quite some time.” He brings his hand to your wrist, fingers tracing light circles over your skin. “Only I did not know when to say it. Or how. But if we do not have tomorrow, as you said, then you should know this.” “I think I have known for a while,” you say soberly. Wonwoo lets out a quiet ha!, a half-laugh. “Even better, then.” You are about to vocalize the next witty comeback that materializes in your mind to dissipate the rising tension when a sudden noise breaks out back inside the house. You hear someone yelling for backup, doors slamming, and a pained scream – in that order. You exchange one worried look with Wonwoo, rising to your feet, and break into a sprint. Seungcheol finds you first, a rare panic in his eyes. He heaves a relieved sigh at the sight of you both, taking Wonwoo by the shoulders. “Where is Minseok?” “What?” Seungcheol repeats his question, more frantic this time. You watch Wonwoo shake his head, immensely confused.

“Hyung, what happened?” “Kim Minseok, that bastard,” he fumes. “I should have known. All of the signs were there. That lying son of a bitch handed over every single piece of information he had and ran for his life. He’s been working with them for years!” Shock ripples across Wonwoo’s face. You had not met the man, but you get the idea that even he had not seen it coming at all. “You must go,” Seungcheol urges. “Both of you. Find somewhere safe to stay for now. You cannot let them find you!” “No,” you say firmly, drawing your sword. “This is my battle. I am not going anywhere.” Wonwoo nods, knives already in his hands. “I cannot, hyung. I swore to fight with you. You cannot expect me to break it now.” There is sheer despair written all over Seungcheol’s face – but no time to do anything about it. A soldier steps through the doorway, swinging his axe, and you slash at his torso furiously. Blood splatters all over your clothes and the side of your face, the metallic scent quickly filling your nostrils. You turn and look at Wonwoo. The fierceness in his eyes mimics yours, and you feel a new confidence begin to rise into your chest. “Now or never,” you say. Chaos reigns inside the house. The walls are as red as they may have been four years ago – but with blood this time, instead of paint. Myungho is backed up against a wall, holding off two royal guards with his spear. You lunge, stabbing one of them in the side, and he quickly finishes off the other, returning your gesture with a grim nod. You do not know where Seokmin is. You do not think you could pick him out amidst the mayhem; everything begins to blur together impossibly. Only the metal of your blade remains clear in your vision as you defend yourself with everything you have left. The noise seems to lessen, just a little. You stumble outside, only to be met with a horrific sight. “Junhui!” You rush towards him, and he winces as you approach. He struggles to keep himself on his feet, one hand pressed firmly against a deep gash in his side. “Go,” he says weakly. “I will be fine.” “But –” “Go!” His hand comes away deep red, blood dripping from his fingers onto the ground. “We do not have time. You have to go now!” You stare at him for a few conflicted seconds, before tearing your eyes away from him and swinging wildly at the man behind you. But your footing is unsteady, and you slip on a stray rock. His dagger brushes the corner of your ear, and faintly you register the sharp sting that begins to blossom. When you catch your breath again, you come face to face with a pair of eyes that send chills down your spine. Muyeol’s expression reflects none of the panic that’s in yours. In fact, he seems almost amused at the look on your face, a satisfied smirk on his lips as he cleans off his sword against the tall grass. It has been so long since you’ve seen him, that you’d forgotten how disturbing his presence could be. “I thought my soldiers had finished you at least the second time around,” he says. The cruelty in his voice never fails to make you flinch. “But to see that you have joined these fools? Tch. I am wounded.” Your hand does not tremble, sword still in the air. “Drop the act. I am not so stupid as to be fooled by your words again.” “Oh, my.” He chuckles, an evil sound. “You were not fooled even the first time, my dear. I made no effort to hide my intentions. But you willingly carried out all the dirty work you were told to do.” “You held my family and their lives over my head,” you snap back. “I was not willing, then.” He merely shrugs. “I did what I had to do.” Anger bubbles up into your throat, and you lunge instinctively, bringing your sword down in what would have been a harsh strike. Muyeol parries it lazily, slicing your arm instead. You hiss at the sudden pain and come forward again, unable to stay calm. He clicks his tongue again. “Still the same,” he remarks. “I would have thought you learned how to control that inconvenient temper of yours by now.”

“You do not get to have to say in when I get angry!” You punctuate your last word with a furious slash. This one lands – the sound of blade against skin is satisfying, and you draw blood just shy of his collarbone. He looks a bit surprised. Good, you think. You deserve it. Muyeol seems to have as easily inflamed a temper as yours. He is much older, for sure, but his movements are rather fluid for his age. You are light on your feet, just barely dodging his well-timed strikes. “You should have died that day,” he snarls furiously. He feints with his right – and you fall for it, a short lapse in judgement. One strong kick sends you tumbling to the ground, and before you know it the edge of his sword is flush with the skin of your neck. “What a shame, then. But do not worry. I will be sure you meet your fate today.” “You will do no such thing.” Muyeol laughs, a deep rumbling that comes from his chest. It is a sound that you have learned to detest over the many years. “The words of a woman on her knees,” he muses, pressing the blade into your throat. You wince at the sensation of it piercing skin, feeling the first drop of blood trickle down to your collarbone. “Choose them wisely, would you? They may well be your last.” You open your mouth to give another sarcastic remark. But out of nowhere, a sharp dagger flies through the air just past your head, lodging itself squarely into Muyeol’s shoulder. He roars in pain; you take the short window of opportunity to grab your sword and lunge for his neck. This time, you do not miss. His dark eyes widen in momentary surprise – he loses his grasp on his own weapon, crashing to the ground as he struggles to draw his next breath. He falls with one arm outstretched, clinging to a last hope, and you might have taken it a year or two ago. Things are different, now. You regard him coldly, and you do not move. You wipe the side of your face, catching your breath. And you should have some remorse, but it is hard to find it for the man who had a hand in turning your life into a living hell. All you can feel is the subsiding rage, still coursing through your veins. Wonwoo is beside you before you know it. He does not ask anything. His eyes only shift between you, and Muyeol’s body on the ground. You meet his questioning eyes and nod slowly. “Wait. The knife,” you say, before he can get a word out. You crouch down, fingers closing around the hilt and pulling it from the lifeless shoulder. When you pass it to Wonwoo, your fingers brush ever so subtly, staining his fingertips dark red. “Thank you.” “Always.” His answer comes without hesitation. It bears relief, and something else you don’t dare name. “Are you… are you alright?” “Alive,” you say, huffing out a weak laugh. Wonwoo shakes his head, fingers coming up to swipe a stray drop of blood away from the cut on your face. You startle at the sight of his eyes welling up with tears, face battered and bruised, and it stirs up a whole torrent of emotions in your own chest. “You are so strong,” he says, thumb brushing your jaw reverently. “You did it. You are free now.” Your vision goes blurry as the weight of Wonwoo’s words sink into your soul. Tenderly, with all the care carried in his deep voice. You let yourself crash into him, fingers grasping his robes as his arms wrap around your torso gently, holding you close. For the first time, the weight that has been sitting on your heart for years feels lifted, light. You can even hear Soonyoung’s voice in your head now, quietly under the current. Live now, little tiger. Live the way you always wanted to. The sky bursts, and it begins to pour. The heavy drizzle takes the dried blood on your skin with it, but the open wounds still burn. It is no matter, not anymore. The white cotton of your clothes runs deep red, and your decade long battle is over.

There are quite a few more hurdles to go over, even after Muyeol’s death. None of them are easy to swallow down. The attack had resulted in more lives lost than injuries, a significant dent in everyone’s esteem. You are particularly shocked to see Junhui’s body among them, his cold hand in his cousin’s. It had not been so long ago that you had last spoken to him; it weighs on you still that you may have had a chance to save his life, if only you had listened to your gut. Myungho does not shed a single tear. Perhaps this is his way of mourning a loved one, in powerful silence. “I cannot control the passage of time,” he says quietly, over his dearest friend’s grave. Still he does not cry, but you think he might come awfully close. “We are all victims. Junhui’s fate has only collected him first.” You watch him murmur something softly in muffled Cantonese; some sort of farewell, perhaps. You will never know. It is very likely that you will never see Myungho again, even if he chooses to remain in town. “Thank you,” you tell him sincerely. “For everything. Truly.” He waves you off, wearing a faint smile. “No need. It was the least I could do for you all.” You wonder how he will hold up now, whether the little old house meant for two will feel a bit too lonely and large for just him. He might repaint the walls a bright red, but it will never be the same again. It is with a heavy heart that you regroup with Seungcheol and Wonwoo. The latter is tending to a small wound on his arm, wrapping the bandage around it carefully. You stop him and offer to do it instead. He lets you. “When will you leave for home?” Wonwoo swallows thickly. “Soon, I suppose.” “You will travel overnight?” Gently, you finish dressing the cut, but your fingers linger over his skin. “I do not think that is very safe.” “After everything we have done so far, this might be the least dangerous journey we make.” You take him in solemnly, allowing yourself to lean into him a little. Seungcheol takes note, but says nothing — turns away a bit, as if to give you a little space. “This will bring a new dawn to the country,” he continues. “The young prince Jisoo is said to be a fair and just man. He will be twice the ruler his father is. The council members are in overwhelming support of him, so the king will likely be pressured into abdicating.” “It is about time,” you agree. “I have quite high hopes for him.” “Mm.” Wonwoo turns his hand over so that his fingers are laced with yours, warmth seeping into your skin. “Will you go home now? I would imagine you have much to say to your family.” Family. You think of your sisters and Jihoon, and little Sangmin. Of Wonwoo, and how easily he seems to fit into your life, like the final piece of a puzzle. “Come with me,” you say. “Seungcheol, too. Stay the night, at least, and have a warm meal. Seokmin will be able to take us there.” He shakes his head. “Y/N, I cannot impose on your family like that.” “You would not be imposing,” you insist. “I am asking because I want you there with me, Wonwoo. Besides, I might join you both on your journey back. I want to see Hansol, and visit Seungkwan one more time.” Wonwoo’s firm expression softens as the last words sink in, thumb rubbing soft circles into your hand. “All right,” he finally concedes. He glances back at Seungcheol, who gives a willing shrug. “If you say so.” It is not so far to your sisters’ house, once you have bid your sad goodbyes to Myungho and the others. The familiarity of your surroundings slowly comes back to you as you follow Seokmin through the winding stone roads and grassy hills. Every step unlocks childhood memories you had shelved away, years and years ago. You point at a large pine tree nearby. “I used to sneak out and come here with Soonyoung all the time,” you tell Wonwoo. “We would play around, making up stories. He taught me how to read there, too.”

“Sometimes the stories you tell make me wish we knew each other as children,” he muses, chuckling softly. “That might have been nice,” you say, looping your arm in his. “But this is just as precious.” “That it is.” You feel Seokmin’s knowing eyes on you – he will say a range of things later, from ‘I told you so’ to ‘So you did think he was handsome!’, and you will laugh and tell him that sometimes love will find you even when you do not necessarily ask for it. He glances away, amused, and you have to resist the urge to click your tongue at him. The gate is drawn shut as you first approach, but you could not ever forget the familiar slope of the roof, and the tiny patch of flowers to the right of the main doorway. Seokmin calls out brightly for Jihoon, breaking into a jog, and you look back at Seungcheol and Wonwoo with a smile. “Home,” you say. Soonja runs out first, crashing into you with a loud squeal. You let her cling to you. It has been far too long since you have listened to her excited stories and endless chatter, and you hug her tightly. “I missed you,” she says petulantly. “You always take so long!” “I am sorry,” you chuckle, tearing up. “Really. But I will not be away for weeks at a time anymore. My work is done.” She brightens at this. “Promise?” You laugh, intertwining your pinky finger with hers. “Promise.” The sun is softer now, in the sky, and the heat does not burn as much anymore. You make introductions as the air settles into something more comfortable. The ghosts still linger, but they are not heavy anymore. You wear them like a warm scarf now, instead of shackles. It is a new kind of homage. The house is lively, with more people inside. Seungcheol and Jihoon seem to get along perfectly, discussing something between themselves, while Seokmin entertains Soonja’s endless questions. Soonyoung should be here, but his absence does not leave a hollow space quite like it used to. He is in every pillar instead, his life written into every single corner of the room. You sit with Soonhee, helping her here and there in the kitchen, updating her on the events that have occurred while you were away. “You have had quite a life so far,” she says, once you’re finished. “But I admire you for it, you know. You have never once let it stop you from anything. Never said ‘it is what it is’ and sat down. That is a sign of resilience.” “I did not have a choice,” you tell her. “All the same.” She smiles, reaching over to dust a stray piece of straw out of your hair. “You grew up faster than you should have. I always worried it would hold you back.” “And now?” “Now I see I did not have to worry in the first place.” Soonhee glances over her shoulder, back to the main room. Wonwoo sits cross-legged by Sangmin’s cradle, listening to the infant babble endlessly. He nods along as he smiles, pretending to hold the conversation. It is a tender sight. “I am curious about this man you have brought with you, though.” You flush deeply, not sure what to say. Soonhee notices and merely laughs, thinly slicing up a carrot. “I hope you know you are not as hard to read as you might believe,” she adds. “He clearly brings you a lot of joy.” Seokmin had said the exact same thing. You bring your hands to your cheeks, resting your chin in your palm. For as long as you can remember, there was always a torrent in your heart, restless emotions brewing and spilling over. But there is something about Wonwoo that allows you a rare peace, an ease that you had previously thought impossible. “He does,” you say quietly. “He learned to love me as I am, even when I did not want to know myself.” Soonhee gives you a knowing look. “You have found yourself a good man, then.” Everyone gathers on the floor to eat, a feeling you have not experienced in a long time. But you know that the wait was worth it. What better way to spend an evening than in good company, with good food? The soup is warm as it goes down your throat, and so is your heart.

Jihoon laughs at the sight of his son happily blowing raspberries into Wonwoo’s face – a funny sight, for sure. The latter just smiles contentedly, one hand carefully balancing the baby in his lap. “What can I say?” he shrugs, meeting your sparkling eyes. “I must be awfully good with children.” This pulls another round of laughter from everyone else, you included. Wonwoo’s gaze does not leave yours, even from across the room. Impossibly magnetic, but you no longer resist it. Instead, you let it tug at you, reveling in the feeling. It is not until all the dishes are put away later that you finally sidle up to him again, having stepped outside for some fresh air. Wonwoo sits on the front step, eyes turned up to the sky, and you carefully tuck yourself into his side. “Tell me what you are thinking,” you ask of him. He takes your hand in his, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. “I am thinking about the nice weather we are having,” he murmurs. “And your sister’s small garden. Junhui would have been quite delighted to see it.” “He would have.” Your heart aches, then. “I pray that his soul rests easy. He was a good man.” “Me, too.” Wonwoo squeezes your hand, a way of comforting you. It will be alright. “But above all, I am thinking about how content I feel right now. My mind is at peace.” “Is that so?” “Mm,” he hums, thumb brushing against yours. “You cannot pretend to believe otherwise, Y/N. Not when you are with me. Not when you are the reason.” Warmth spreads throughout your body. You remain silent, no words coming up – but they do not need to. Even without saying anything, Wonwoo seems to understand your love. Quietly, carefully, as he is. As he always has been. It occurs to you now that perhaps this was what you had been chasing after your entire life. Serenity. From inside the house, Sangmin’s little giggles carry out into the open air, followed by his mother’s cooing and Jihoon’s satisfied laugh. The breeze is cool, but not too chilly – a perfect summer night. Wonwoo brings his head down to rest on top of yours, and you sit there taking in the peaceful quiet by each other’s side. You think you will be alright.

thank you so much for reading dotssotw! have a wonderful rest of your day! much love, hershey xx return to masterlist

#svthub #wonwoo x reader #jeon wonwoo x reader #wonwoo one shot #wonwoo historical au #wonwoo enemies to lovers #jeon wonwoo #wonwoo svt #wonwoo angst #wonwoo fluff #(🖊️) — hershey's writing

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