lazyheretic-blog

[lazyheretic-blog]

Be yourself, until you bleed

Lucifer burst through a wall, wincing as his skinned knuckles complained, and spluttering indelicately through the cloud of plaster dust. She was hot on his heels, the detective, swimming in his slipstream, brandishing a pistol in one hand and a flashlight in the other.

Ahead of them a door slammed. In the dark warehouse - if there had been any observers but the rats scampering away - it would have been relatively easy to see what the stumbling man ahead had been fleeing from.

Two points of red light in a pale face, framed by darkness, and an aura of barely contained existential fury.

The detective caught up to him and put a placating hand on his arm.

'A cupboard,' she said in a low voice, jerking her chin to indicate the door ahead of them. 'No point tearing the door down, he's got nowhere to go.'

Electrical cupboard

Warning: 10,000v

Risk of death

Lucifer narrowed his eyes, and his lips curved in an unpleasant smile. 'Right you are, detective. No point rushing this when we can have a little fun with our... miscreant.'

She rolled her eyes and huffed. 'Get behind me, Lucifer. And no staring at my ass, I need you to focus.'

He looked at her, and paused for a split second longer than necessary. Then he licked his lips and complied with a slight mocking bow.

She raised the gun. The world exploded.

....

Elaine found that the universe ran itself, mostly. The omniscience thing was really too much trouble. Why bother, if one isn't going to change anything anyway? The previous incumbent had his Plan so foresight was a given. She and Lucifer (mostly Lucifer) had blithely derailed the Plan completely, so calculating all possible actions and interactions of everything everywhere in order to see ahead more than a few minutes just seemed utterly pointless, and a massive headache. Oh, now and then she was goaded into deflecting a few asteroids away from inhabited planets and occasionally teased nebulae into amusing shapes, but nothing serious. Nothing too interfere-y. She spent much of the time in a state of dispersal, cozily intertwined with every atom in existence, experiencing and connected as though in a dream.

A tricky state to maintain, as an ex-sixteen year old schoolgirl, without losing one's sense of self. It was far too tempting to look for her old friends, her tribe, focus in on the details of their lives and want to make things right for them, but such a bad idea in every way. Dispersing for a while helped to ease the urges, until the temptation was gone, at some un-predetermined time in the future. Until they were... dead.

Ouch. A heavy obligation that Lucifer had demanded from her, when he'd taught her all about universes and such. When he'd haughtily declined his father's will that he inherit it all, and passed it over to his naive young niece in favour of quitting existence. Or just this universe. She was a bit hazy on the details.

She had, as a concession of sorts, attached a sort of thread to each person. Sort of a tracker. Not really like either of those things, but if something dire were to happen to anyone she personally cared about (as Elaine Belloc - as God she obviously cared about everyone) it would sort of tug at the back of her mind and she might go and have a quick look. Just to be certain.

Out of all of them one was on her mind the most, probably, even more than her father. She could have made another Lucifer, or another Michael, with extreme ease but it wouldn't have felt right. Disrespectful to the point of being sacreligious, even. Being God didn't change that.

Elaine shifted on the sun lounger, currently inhabiting a bubble dimension in a sunny garden in Islington, London. Around her, hazy and silent but for birdsong, three young children threw a softball for a yellow puppy that sniffed curiously then completely avoided an apparently empty patch of air in the middle of their garden. To spoil the effect, and give Elaine a slight metaphysical headache, two of the children immediately ran straight through her.

She winced again as a thread gave a sharp tweak.

She sighted along the line. It was unfamiliar, and the soul at the end of it was fizzling and spitting, like a candle flame guttering out. Had she placed it wrong? Had she, Elaine wondered with a strong twinge of guilt, forgotten someone? Whoever it was was on a pretty fast track to the afterlife.

She snatched them as they pinged past her, and set them - him - down gently on a second wooden chair, hastily stuffed with cushions.

Perhaps she had got this one wrong after all. He strongly resembled someone, if she squinted and ignored the hair, eyes, stubble and tan. There was some kind of power present, a faint angelic aura, so perhaps he had been like her - a mix of human and angel. Nice suit, too.

His eyelids fluttered, and he brought a hand up to rub at them. He stared at her blearily through smudged black eyeliner.

'Tea?' She asked brightly. Damn, the resemblance tugged at her heart. But surely Lucifer had been utterly disinclined, even violently opposed, to the idea of procreation. He didn't even have the right bits, apparently. So she'd heard.

'You're British,' he said accusingly, after a pause for some kind of mental readjustment.

She gave him an impish smile. 'Did the accent give me away?'

'No,' he said, still frowning. 'The tea. Haven't had a decent cup in yonks. They all insist on microwaving it with the bag in.'

She poured him out a cup, suppressing an un-Godlike shudder. 'Barbaric.'

He nodded, and took the cup from her delicately. The fragrant bergamot appeared to help him find some centre of calm, and he inhaled deeply several times before finally turning to face her directly.

Elaine preempted him. 'I'll be honest,' she said. 'I'm not sure who you are, exactly. You remind me of someone I used to know-'

'Lucifer Morningstar,' he interrupted her. 'Delighted, at your service, et cetera, thank you ever so much for the tea, but I have a pressing matter to attend to and I'm afraid I really can't stick around to chin wag...' he trailed off. 'What? Is there something on my face?'

Lucifer?

In utter shock, she reached for him with her metaphysical fingers and rifled through his being for the truth.

Several short years' worth of memories tangled up in tatters of powers ancient and unkind; a vast, dark, yawning trench. Peering closer, she winced at glimpses of ugly obscenities wreathed in chains, snarling and struggling as they faded in and out of sight. A gleaming mote of light brushed against her as it ascended to the surface; a tiny iota of compassion, forged in that vast, inhuman depth. There were others, too, so small but so important, rising to join the thin atmosphere of light at the surface.

'If you've quite finished fingering me?' he cut in abruptly. His eyes were a shocking red, flashing with indignation as Elaine pulled back.

So... not human, not in the slightest. Demons had no souls, so. Angel, then. Could he really be...?

He didn't remember her. Had no more than a handful of years of memories, almost no power, and a vast, yawning chasm in his soul. What in the actual Hell, excuse her French?

'Who in Dad's bloody name do you think you are?' he demanded. Clenched his fists and glared.

Damn, those micro expressions, so painfully human-seeming she could cry. Her uncle Lucifer had a repertoire of maybe three facial expressions; stone cold, haughty, and furious, but his motives and intentions were unchanging and eternal. This man, wearing his heart raw on his tailored sleeve, was a stranger. Unreadable even as he was highly expressive.

Wait... Dad?

How was this hollow angel be unaware that his creator was gone?

'I apologise,' she said with genuine remorse. 'I didn't think you would notice if I took a quick look. It was wrong of me. We're in a bubble outside time, so if you don't mind I have a few questions?'

He seemed mollified, and inclined his head in gracious acquiescence.

'I knew Lucifer Morningstar,' she began, 'some time ago. He rescued me from a... bad situation.' Understatement of the millennia. 'He had blond hair and golden eyes, and all the emotional depth of a puddle. But his piano playing could break your heart.'

He cocked his head quizzically. 'Thank you, I think.'

'And he had enough power to will the universe out of existence. He hijacked Naglfar from Valhalla to bring my friends to save me. He was offered his Father's job and refused. Please don't take offense, but there's something very odd here. Lucifer was my uncle, and although I would love for him to come back, I think he's dead.'

Her last sentence seemed to echo in the silence. He rubbed a hand through his hair and looked away. He didn't look surprised, only sad and a little tired.

'Please,' he said quietly, 'don't tell me any more.

'I'm sure it's all true. I know a very few things because Maze told me - I swore her to secrecy about the rest. I didn't remember that Dad - that he's gone. If you tell me any more I might lose everything. Please just let me go back.'

'Lucifer,' she tried again gently, 'you were on the way to the Silver City. I don't know how but I think you died.'

He sat very still, his face ashen. Elaine could feel the darkness roiling inside him, threatening to eclipse those tiny points of light, thrashing taut chains against his self control. Was he worth breaking her code of honour for? The only authority she compelled herself to answer to: do not meddle.

Yes, he was. Sod it, she wasn't going to let him end like this. Buck up, girl.

'I'll make a deal with you,' she said, choosing her words carefully. 'Whatever happened, I'll fix it. Within reason. In return, tell me as much as you can.'

He pretended to mull, but it was obvious that he was desperate to accept. 'There's a human,' he said. 'She has to be alright after this. Whatever happens to me, make sure she's bloody alright.'

He was prepared to give up salvation for a human woman?

'I'll fix this for both of you, on your promise that you tell me everything and - I can't emphasize this enough - tell her nothing. You know, afterwards.'

He leaned forward, earnest and intense. 'You have my word.'

And just like that, his demons were leashed. Could she, this unknown woman, sense that darkness just under the surface waiting for a provocation to swallow him up?

'I pieced some of this together,' he started, 'after Mazikeen apprised me of the details I sanctioned.

I awoke on the shore of Los Angeles several years ago, without any memories, and a lot more missing besides. That power you mentioned - I can feel the void where it's supposed to be, but I don't know where I put it. I was a wreck, back then,' he said baldly. 'Tried to fill the void with various hobbies that I'd prefer not to extrapolate on. Turns out I already owned the perfect venue for vice, and I could play every instrument in the place. I could make a crowd of humans do and feel whatever I wanted them to.

'But I still felt numb, like a useless lump of ice. Couldn't get maudlin drunk, couldn't get a euphoric high, couldn't get any emotion out of a shag other than a touch of job satisfaction.'

So much for not sharing the gory details. Thanks, uncle.

'I tried to go down the satisfaction route with fulfilling favours. Tad cliché for my liking but diligently chasing that dragon worked for a while, to a certain extent. Making dreams come true and so on. Then a couple of years ago, poof, breakthrough. Not in a way I'm proud of, but one of my favour-clients was murdered in front of me and I felt...' he trailed off, evidently reflecting. 'I'm pretty sure it was sorrow. Not just for me, that was the big thing. Sorrow on behalf of someone else. So I changed tack.

'I was going to get justice for her sake. Because some pissant knuckle-dragging window-licker took a trinket in return for stealing her life and leaving her in the gutter. She died in my arms!' he snarled, and he really seemed to be reliving the experience as his eyes blazed.

'That led me to her. To the detective. Around her, I'm vulnerable. I can be shot, I can feel pain, get drunk, get high. Everything a human can do, I can do better!'

God damn.

Lucifer had given up everything that made him who he was, to become one of the creatures he held in contempt. The creatures he waged war on Heaven to protest. The free will that was theirs alone, the tapestry of emotion that only a species shaped by suffering, by holding back the darkness can ever need to experience.

He'd disappeared in search of something he hadn't found in all his geological ages of existence, and concluded that what he was missing was internal?

No wonder he was reluctant to remember. He didn't want to be that person anymore, the implacable angel so filled with power there was no room for anything else.

He was gazing at her expectantly.

'Thank you,' she murmured. 'At least I know what happened to you. To him.' It sounded, even to her own ears, as if she was unhappy. A selfish, childish, human desire for the world not to change, for people to stay as she remembered them. Little wonder he had cautioned against it. She took a breath.

'I'm sorry, that came out wrong. I am happy for you, uncle. It isn't the future I thought you would find, but it's so much better.' Why did she always have to tear up at times like these? Stupid habit.

'Uncle,' he repeated, trying out the word in his mouth as if for the first time. 'Am I that to you?'

She nodded. 'It's a long story. Part of your story, so perhaps...'

'Thank you. I'll ask if I need to know. Now I do hate to skip out on a date, but do you think you could click those delightful heels of yours and convey me back to Kansas as promised?'

She threw him a comb. 'Make yourself presentable then. One more favour, for me?'

He looked at her askance. 'Mmm?'

'I want to visit you. Check up on my last living relative occasionally.'

He still looked infuriatingly doubtful, as if she were an overbearing aunt rather than a niece who'd just saved his life.

'I'll take Maze out drinking.' She waved the carrot of distraction and gave what she hoped was a reassuring grin.

'Fine.'

....

Humans don't last forever. His final lesson, and its consequences. Chains snapped like brittle elastic bands, and the creatures of the deep broke free.

Lucifer, Archangel of Light, Will of the Demiurge and erstwhile Lord of Hell, filled the universe he had created. He filled it with his entire being the way he had filled it before his fall, aware of each tiny sun in the vast, echoing spaces of his mind and eternal body. Instinct had him reaching beyond the boundaries for Heaven, for the Silver City and he recoiled violently, pummeled by recollection.

The war to end all wars. Brother against brother. Ignited by fury, by injustice, fighting for his very existence, his right to think and feel and decide.

But as he held his hand still outstretched in freshly remembered horror, he felt warm fingers touch his, pad to pad.

He was toppling again, and she caught him.

Be yourself, until you bleed.

[lazyheretic-blog]

Flip Side

The droning voices threaten to send him to sleep, but he's familiar with the beating that will earn him. He concentrates very hard on the glittering motes of dust that spin lazily in and out of the thin streams of light filtering through the screened windows. He imagines he can follow the journey of one individual as it's buffeted by updraughts of a wind he cannot feel. The heat is stifling; he wishes he were a dancing mote that didn't have to wear robes and a stupid hat and could ride the breeze. If he were, he thinks, he would try his best to land in Adminstrator Park's eye so he had to break ceremony and rub it.

He giggles, and realises his mistake. Park doesn't even look at him but the room seems to become much darker. He can see Park's nostrils flaring, a sure sign of his anger, even though his face remains impassive and the tone of his voice, expressionless and dry as he dictates tributes and taxes, never wavers. The boy shivers, despite the oppressive heat.

Park never beats him. It's always one of the women, a concu-something that the six-year-old hasn't figured out a role for, other than whipping him with a thin bamboo cane around his thighs. It's a crime to hit the king, of course; the real punishment comes afterwards with the ragged cry, gush of blood and the hideous tearing noise as a soldier slits their bellies open in front of him. If he doesn't watch properly, eyes wide open, he gets another beating. There's always a second woman in the room.

It only had to happen once. Now, he watches like a king as royal justice is dispensed in his name.

"See, your Majesty," Park tells him. "These loyal women sacrifice much in order to further your education. In a few years you will learn what else they can teach you. She will be reincarnated and will be pleased to rejoin their number to serve you."

He doesn't know why he feels sad at their deaths. It's only temporary, right? Their pain is fleeting and their reward is great. But the look on her face as she writhes in front of him, a girl only a few years older than he is, just makes him want to scream and hide. The soldiers scare him too, the ceremonial guards with covered faces and shining, bloody swords.

There's only one who doesn't. Gerralkim's been his friend since before he can remember and it's still easier for his tongue to wrap itself around the name he gave before he was properly articulate, but the tall man who kneels down to his level when he speaks to him doesn't seem to mind. He's never told Gerralkim about the beatings but when he's finally allowed to flee, the man's quarters are his preferred destination. He's not always there, but Wang Yeo has a child's active imagination.

This time, he's sitting cross-legged at his low lacquered desk, penning a letter in slow, deliberate strokes of a bamboo-handled brush. He half turns and smiles as the boy approaches him to watch characters form under the bristles.

Yeo finds it calming. Watching this is never dull, unlike sitting in the audience chamber, and he can pick out some of the meaning.

"Who are you writing to?" He asks, wide eyed.

The general smiles at him. He's a young man, younger than Park, perhaps twenty five at most. Years in the sun and in battle have darkened his skin and etched fine lines of worry between his brows and around his mouth. Unlike the officials he wears his hair down, dark waves falling off his shoulders and roughly cut shorter at the front. Today, he's wearing a pale cotton robe, wrapped at the front and belted. Yeo is relived he's not dressed as a soldier.

"I'm writing a letter to my father," he explains. "Remember my report to Administrator Park two days ago, about the battle against the Qidan?"

Yeo does. He always pays attention to General Kim, even though the thought of battle scares him. He nods.

"Well, my father worries about me. I write to tell him that I am unhurt and victorious."

"I worry about you too," the boy says seriously. "It would cause me sorrow if you got hurt."

Kim Shin grins, and ruffles his hair with a large, calloused hand, stained with ink. "You shouldn't worry about me. If anything happened, I would write you a letter so you would be the first to know."

"Of course. I am the king," the boy replies, all innocent and pompous, just as he should be. "But you should wait until I have learned all my letters, so I can write back by myself."

General Kim bows from the waist, arms folded in front of him. "It would be the utmost honour, your Majesty."

"Who's that?" asks the boy suddenly, pointing to a charcoal drawing of a woman and a young girl.

Kim pulls it towards them and straightens it between his hands. "That's my mother, and my little sister, Kim Sun. She's about your age."

Yeo studies it intently. It's an unusual drawing, life-like and untutored and utterly different to the heavily stylised scrolls hanging around the palace. He's drawn to the smiling faces of the little girl and the woman, shining with a happiness he's not used to seeing.

"She's pretty," he murmurs. "I want to meet her." He's never had playmates, wouldn't know what to do with them, but he yearns to see that beaming smile for himself.

"I'll let you in on a secret," Kim says solemnly. "Can you keep it?"

He's used to keeping secrets. Unconsciously he shifts and his bruised thighs protest. The stinging is turning to a profound aching, deep in his bones. He nods.

"Your half-brother, Wang Gang, willed it that you should marry my little sister when you grow up. What do you think?"

Yeo pretends to mull it over seriously, but can't keep the shock and delight off his face. "I can visit her?" Maybe, just maybe, there's a place Park doesn't have all the power.

"It's a bit far," the big man says. "The king should stay safe in the palace. She will come to you when she's twelve, and be trained how to look after you as a good wife and Queen." His face grew serious. "But don't tell anyone that you know, your Majesty. I don't think Administrator Park likes me very much."

He knows it's true. He's a sensitive child, schooled to be quiet, and taught by experience to read the unspoken language around him. He knows that Park hates the warrior like no other, but his close friendship with the previous king and his victories make him popular with the army. Apart from the handpicked palace guard, regular soldiers distrust civil servants like Park. He worries his lip as he considers the girl. The thought of her being beaten or treated like the other women is even more scary than what he endures.

He thinks he's hiding it, but he's transparent to an adult. Kim says, gently, "You and I will protect her. I promise."

"Tell me about her," the young king commands.

"She loves persimmons, fresh or dried. My father's last letter describes how she refused to eat anything else for a whole week, even when they made her ill."

"Persimmons make you ill?" He was doubtful.

"Anything can make you ill if you eat too much of it. Diet must be balanced."

"Tell me more."

"She feeds my horse persimmons, too, when she thinks I'm not looking."

Yeo was entranced. What freedom! "Did he get ill?"

"No, he just got fat. I scolded him for being so greedy but he didn't care."

Park hears their laughter, and scowls.

----------

The week Kim spends in the palace is the most fun he's ever had. Park doesn't dare threaten him when Kim's around, tall and imposing and cloaked in authority. His soldiers rest in the barracks, and sometimes Yeo sneaks over to listen to them sing and tell stories before he's inevitably discovered and carried back by Kim. They know interesting words, and talk about things he's curious to see; the ocean, barbarians on little ponies with tattoos, legends of gods he doesn't know.

Kim plays little tricks on him, pulling cards and coins out of his hair or from behind his ears, making him giggle with delight. Yeo uses his tall hat to scoop out a squiggle of tadpoles from the inner palace pond and dumps it in Kim's basin. He watches, wedged inside a tall chest and peeks through the hinge gap, as Kim bends to splash his face before the midday meal, and gasps in exaggerated horror at the squirming water. That earns him a rough capture and a serious and slightly painful head rub, until he's wriggling as hard as the little creatures in the sink.

Kim has to steal him a new hat.

But weeks come to quick ends, especially the best ones. He mopes in the doorway as a servant packs Gerralkim's traveling trunk, and the general dons his armour.

"A king shouldn't pout like that," Kim gently chides him. "You must be strong, no matter what."

"Must you go already?"

"I must. One of your towns in the North has been attacked, and I have to go protect the people there. Then I must retaliate so it never happens again."

"Will you kill people?" He asks in a sniffling whisper, the pink Cupid's Bow of his lips quivering.

Kim sighs. He can protect the young monarch from many things while he's there, but the realities of rule, and the war that allows it to continue, are hard truths the king must face. The servant finishes, and carries the trunk outside.

Kim bends down and kneels in front of the boy. "Yeo," he says seriously, using the given name reserved only for parents and close family he's technically forbidden from. He does it anyway in private sometimes, because he knows that it makes Yeo feel safe. "I won't lie to you. I have to kill lots of people to protect our own. We live in dangerous times, and if we don't kill our enemies, they might come and kill us. That town has children in it, so I have to go and make sure they don't come to any harm. Please understand."

Yeo nods. It's easier to accept when stated simply like that. Park sometimes tells him that General Kim kills in his name, as if Yeo's responsible; maybe he is, but he didn't ask for it.

Kim pulls him unceremoniously into a last rough hug, and holds him close until the child stops shaking.

----------

He's away for several years. His letters, delivered by suspicious-eyed warriors, tell of continuing unrest and the need for more soldiers at the front. After a while, they dwindle in frequency and no longer go directly to him; Park receives them first. Yeo is shocked when Park passes along a blood stained scroll in shaky handwriting detailing a massacre of a barbarian village, women and children subjected to torture and worse before being burned alive. Park says, nonchalantly, that Kim's acting on his own; that orders have been sent to have mercy on the barbarians, but the people of Goryeo call for revenge, and General Kim gives them what they want.

Yeo doesn't know what to think about this, but he's not given time to consider; when there's a botched attempt on his life by one of the couriers, the palace is locked down and he's placed under armed guard permanently. His food is tasted, his servants are replaced, and Park himself moves into the annex of the king's quarters.

"Your Majesty," Park tells him, a week after the attempt. "We cannot, of course, be sure that General Kim sought to take your life. It is true that the people are starting to worship him as a second sun in the sky, but we should not be hasty in judgement. Please have patience and mercy until the truth is revealed."

Yeo's mind is foggy, a result of sleepless nights and the restless paranoia of his guards. It's all he can do to sit straight on the hard throne, and at the age where his bones sometimes feel like they are breaking and knotting themselves back together constantly, he's rarely inclined to introspection.

He's twelve just before he sees Kim again, walking alongside the palanquin containing his new bride. It's a pretty box, carved but not lacquered like his own, carried by four stocky men. Not a commoner's carriage, but not royalty. Tradition forbids him from rising to greet them, and despite his constant fatigue he's eager for it to be over so he can take advantage of the freedom Kim's visit should bring.

He is disappointed. Hard-eyed guards keep them separated except in formal situations. He is desperate, bursting to ask so many questions, to ask if Kim tried to have him killed, why he sends his letters to Park now, why he has to kill children in the name of Goryeo. If Kim notices the pleading in his eyes he doesn't react to it, just stays his tongue and speaks formally, steady voice echoing in the audience chamber. Park keeps Yeo away from battle accounts, claiming that he should not sully his mind with the unnecessary details.

----------

It's well after Kim has left that the guards make an error of sorts. There's a commotion in the kitchens, the loud crash of celadon pots meeting an untimely end, and the guards reach for their swords, drawn to the sound. Yeo sweeps from the room before his servants can object and flees, followed by his indignant shadows, to the outer wall of his courtyard. The palace walls are low, barely taller than him at twelve years old, and he gets a leg up on an obliging flowerpot to peer over at the ladies' domain.

She's beautiful, is his first and only thought.

She's trying to walk with the grace of a queen, a small dish balanced on each of her shoulders, but her face is sort of squished up with the effort of concentration. Several pinch-faced women watch her, whispering to each other behind their long and loose sleeves. His heart goes out to her; she must feel judged, like he does. It looks hard, walking so straight over the uneven stone slabs, with that bunch of harridans silently laughing at you, in those tiny ridiculous shoes.

His hand grates over a stone; she looks up startled, and meets his eyes as the plates go crashing to the floor. She offers him a small, uncertain smile and he grins back, amused and confusingly aroused at her clumsiness.

Insistent, unwelcome hands help him down from the wall.

----------

Their wedding night, two years later, is the first time they get to speak in private. Unsure of what he's meant to actually be doing, the two young teenagers simply spend the time in their sleeping robes talking into the small hours of the morning.

She's terrified of Park. So is he, of course, but he's sworn to himself to protect her and he can't tell her the worst of it. Some things are his burdens to bear. So he instructs her to just do as Park tells her and he hopes with all his heart that this will be enough to keep her safe.

----------

She's too much like her brother, he realises as he matures into his fifteenth year. She's grown up with freedom and love and doesn't understand his kind of survival.

She shouts at him, "Why do you always side with Park? Is it too much to ask that I go outside these dark walls once before I die? The people are loyal, they love you. Nothing will happen to me!"

"Be quiet!" He hisses. "If Park hears you question him-" The room echoes with the sound of the chopstick snapping in her hands.

"I don't care what Park hears! You are the king, I am the queen! What does he matter?"

His mind whirls; images of bloody concubines and sharp swords crowd behind his eyes. The ghosts of pain around his lower body makes him tense. She has to submit; it's the only way she can survive. For her own good, he grabs her by her slight, narrow shoulders and pushes her into the floor pillows.

"I am the king," he growls in her face, his teeth grinding together with every word. "And you will obey me."

His breath is hot and stale, and his long pale fingers dig bruisingly into her flesh. From so close, she can see the tiny red veins in his eyes, dark-rimmed and intense. He's never been physical before, or hurt her in any way, so she's shocked at his sudden ferocity and can't find the right words to calm him down.

Still gripping her, he says quietly, "I can only protect you if you obey me."

She's still in shock, even after he releases her and steps back. His own heart is pounding loudly in his ears and he clenches and unclenches his fists to exorcise the tension.

"My brother," she says in a small voice. "He can protect us both. Call him back from war."

Yeo shakes his head. "He leads the army but too many of the men belong to Park now. Even if he came back, the palace guards would keep him out. He has to stay away. I can't protect him either, if he comes back."

It earns him a sniffle of temporary defeat, but he knows she's too stubborn to give in easily.

----------

It's checkmate, and he knows it, signing the order that will keep Kim Shin away from the capital for good. He's back for a brief respite, sanctioned by Park, though he doesn't know it, in return for the royal seal on that scroll. Yeo bargains for an audience alone, and gets it, but he knows there are ears and eyes in the walls.

Kim doesn't understand, but he doesn't have to. It's enough for Yeo that he's going away to be safe, because he has enough faith to know that Kim is unkillable in battle.

Through clenched teeth and on his knees, Kim accepts the sword that Yeo has had made for him. It has a tiger on the hilt, because that's how Yeo thinks of him; ferocious, graceful, and gentle.

Kim thanks him through gritted teeth. His parting words are cold and sarcastic. Yeo's heart breaks as he speaks, equally coldly, of his coming sorrow at Kim's death, praying silently, fervently, that it will be many years before coming. He desperately wants a last embrace from the man he thinks of as his only friend, and tells himself that his life is the only thing that matters.

----------

In the middle of winter, he finds out that Kim has disobeyed him. He rushes to Sun's rooms, intent that somehow she can write and dissuade him from his self-destructive path. In the presence of the servant-spies, he calls Kim a traitor, acid burning his throat at the lie.

He knows she loves him, but she's far braver than he is.

----------

As General Kim Shin approaches the heavy wooden double gates, the court waits in silence within. Behind Park, Yeo sits beside Sun, close but no more able to touch her than reach the moon. She is staring straight ahead, back ramrod straight, breathing a little too fast. As the gates swing open she rushes forward and halts at the top of the stone steps when the archers draw their bows in unison, the creaking of strings the only noise in the icy courtyard.

Kim ignores Park; his eyes flick between Yeo and his sister's as he approaches, slowly, wearily, his lieutenant at his heels. He's wearing only his black padding, no armour; he's got the sword Yeo gave him but no means of defending himself.

Yeo's heart gives a painful twist. He doesn't really hear what's being said, but there's nothing he can do to stop what he knows is coming when Sun takes an arrow to the chest and tumbles, soundlessly, to the ground. Around them, bodies fall. The screams reach him curiously delayed, muted as though underwater.

As the gifted sword is driven through his friend's chest, he finally crumbles, and flees.

----------

The years that follow are lifeless and grey, as though that winter day never came to an end. The decoction tea Park sends him every day is numbing and he welcomes the oblivion it brings him each night. His second wife has somehow conceived a child; he doesn't know how, and he can't even recall her face or name, so he doesn't care. The servants stay away from him except for necessities; dressing, eating and bathing. His presence is rarely required in the throne room.

Park takes care of all that.

He's still got that charcoal drawing in a secret drawer, now yellowed and smudged with old tears. On his better days he pulls it out and takes a cathartic comfort in the fresh guilt it brings; he craves the crying, the cramps, the nails he digs into his palms until they bleed.

He draws, seeking a nameless meaning in his work. He mainly draws Kim Shin as he remembers him, tall and dependable, strong enough to conquer the world and carry it on his shoulders.

Sun evades him, as if refusing to materialise on paper out of spite. She is clear in his mind's eye but his hands shake too much.

In his thirtieth year, enough decoction tea to kill him in burning agony keeps his hands steady enough to finally capture her.