Fabulous Smartass

“I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Of course you don’t. But clearly, your aunt did.”

Yes, it’s your aunt’s fault. If only she didn’t have a basement full of jarred herbs and tarot cards and ouija boards and weird leathery spell books, you wouldn’t be in this predicament. You’d be in a different one, for sure, because having the friends that you have isn’t your aunt’s fault, it’s yours, but still—you wouldn’t be locked in a basement with three of your friends browsing through your aunt’s dusty new agey books.

“Now, come on, sit around the circle thing.” One of your friends, Rami, tugs you down by your elbow to sit cross-legged on the edge of a chalk rune on the floor. It looks aged and scuffed and mostly faded by dust and time, but present enough to be identifiable as something mystical.

“I’m serious, I don’t think my aunt would have wanted us down here.” You mutter. It seems colder all of a sudden, chills covering your arms and shivering down your spine.

“Then she should have cleaned it out before she died I guess.” Rami returned, gesturing for Chae and Boyoung to sit down as well. “And besides, this was your penalty. You accepted it, so this is what we’re doing.”

You wouldn’t have accepted the stupid penalty for the stupid drinking game from the stupid college party upstairs if the alternative hadn’t been being cornered by the greasy frat boy who kept slipping his hands under your shirt every time he got the chance.

Next time your cousin tries to convince you to come over and “let loose with a couple of friends” you’re going to remember that her idea of hanging out is a massive college kegger.

“Alright, here it is.” Boyoung draws her legs up underneath her and rests the massive tome of the spell book she’s holding across her knees. She shoots the others a devious smirk, and then clears her throat. “Are we ready?”

You most certainly are not.

It’s not like you believe in the afterlife and mysticism and witchcraft and all of the other spiritualism nuances that your aunt was into, but you also recognize that you definitely don’t know everything about the scope of the universe. You’re willing to admit that you might be wrong about what exists and what is folklore, and you’re certainly not enthusiastic about playing around with the afterlife—just in case.

You’ve never even touched a Ouija board, because what if?

You don’t think they work, but what if?

And now, because you lost a stupid drinking game, your stupid friends are going to use the demon summoning ritual that your aunt just had, like it’s an old family recipe or something.

“Can I pick a different penalty?” You try again, your palms sweating. Yeah, sure, nothing’s going to happen because it’s obviously an old gift shop spell book (a really old, really big gift shop spell book), but all the half-burnt candles and chalk runes and hanging herbs around you are starting to freak you out.

Boyoung and Chae both shake their heads, while Rami reaches out and snatches your elbow. “This was the deal—one summoning spell, and then ten minutes by yourself. You agreed.”

You feel like crying.

You regret it. You regret coming. You didn’t like your aunt when she was alive—who gives their nieces and nephews cat whiskers and tinctures for birthdays?—and you certainly don’t like your cousin now—she clearly has a terrible idea of a good time—so why did you even come tonight?

At this point, you’re even wishing you can go back upstairs and ask the greasy frat boy to rescue you from your friends. They’re way too excited about leaving you locked in the creepy basement after a demonic invocation, whether they believe in it or not.

“Go ahead!” Chae nudges Boyoung. “Hurry up, I wanna go back upstairs.”

“It’s fucking creepy in here.” Rami agrees, rubbing her arms and jutting her chin towards the book.

“Why don’t we just do something else? Forget the basement.” You complain, starting to get back to your feet.

Predictably, Rami yanks you back down. “Rules are rules! Go ahead, Boyoung-ah.”

That’s how you find yourself sitting in a dark basement while your friend chants ominously in Latin, your heart racing like you’ve just run a marathon. Why did it have to be a demon summoning? Why couldn’t it have been a séance? At least if you were going to be playing around with pretend spiritualism, you could pretend to talk to someone you actually liked.

Your dad had died when you were little, you could pretend to have a tear-jerking reunion and then get the fuck out of that creepy old witch house once your friends were satisfied.

Why do you even call them your friends anyway?

You’re all just the members of a few too many group projects for your biology classes, more associates than anything else.

But Boyoung is still chanting, tripping over awkward pronunciation of the dead language and squinting through the faint light to see the faded text on the ancient pages.

You don’t think it’s your imagination when a whisper of air ruffles the hair at the back of your neck, but you’re also extremely anxious at the moment. So anxious that you physically jump when Boyoung slams the book shut.

“Done!” She chirps, hopping to her feet and dusting off the seat of her skirt. She fixes you with an evil grin. “Ten minutes by yourself!” Then she loops her arm through Chae’s and your three associates clamber back up the rickety stairs to the basement door.

Before they leave you, teary and trembling on the concrete floor, Rami pauses and looks back at you. “And no using your phone. If we see any light under the door, we’ll keep it locked for an extra ten minutes.”

It was a meaningless threat, because you know for sure they’re gonna go upstairs and get more drinks and find more friends, and you’re going to have to call your cousin to let you out after they forget about you.

So there you are. In the dark, in a creepy basement, all by yourself. You’re still sitting on the ground, cross-legged, your shaky hands gripping at your knees like it’s the only thing grounding you.

It’s just an empty basement.

It’s just you, by yourself.

You decide to close your eyes and focus on your breathing, counting the lengths of each inhale and exhale until the vague sounds of Boyoung’s invocation fades from your memory. You sit there, just breathing, urging the tension to melt from your muscles, until it feels like an eternity has passed.

The party is still in full swing on the floor above you, the music and laughter floating beneath the door down to you. You focus on the shouting voices until your spine relaxes.

When your eyes finally open and blink down at the bright screen of your phone, reading the giant numbers of the clock glaring back at you, you realize you’ve only been alone for three minutes.

Every ounce of tension returns, winding through the fibers in your muscles until it’s clamped around your bones and settled in the roots of your teeth. You’re still in a creepy witchy basement for another seven freaking minutes. As the darkness seems to physically seep into your skin, your gaze is sweeping the shadows of the room.

Bookshelves covered in spilled wax, random feathers, jars of little stones and dirt (hopefully dirt?), various crystals, tons of super old books, crates of more books, larger jars of plants and branches that you can’t begin to make sense of, and an aura that you can’t quite put your finger on.

You can’t say why you feel like you’re being watched, especially when you know you’re alone, but your heart is once again inexplicably racing in your chest.

There’s no one.

The shadow to your left is the marble bust of a saint or an angel or something, the one near your feet is the pile of musty blankets on an old wooden chair, the one straight ahead of you is the kettle that hangs from a frame over the ashy pit of a cold fireplace.

Honestly what the hell was your aunt up to before she died?

You bring yourself back, focusing on the cold concrete beneath your butt, the way your ankle is grinding into the floor, the cold that’s curling its fingers around your throat when your shirt slips off of one shoulder.

As you try to slip back into the calm refuge that you’d found with your eyes closed, desperate to not emerge from the pit of the basement with tear streaks of dust and mascara, all you can hear is your own breathing.

There’s no one in there with you, no one in the shadows, no one lurking behind the stairs.

Sucking in a deep breath, you hold it and listen to your heart pounding in your ears. It’s a trick you learned to calm yourself when you were young, counting to four between breaths. In the next few moments, you feel your body begin to relax and sink back into a neutral position.

Your lungs burn as you count to four for the tenth time.

The next exhale is loud.

And it is most decidedly not your own.

You shoot upright, hand snapping out to clutch at your phone. Fuck what Rami said, you need that flashlight. Tracking the shadows again as your sweat-slicked hands fight your thumbprint reader, eyes widely combing every inch of the dark room, you find yourself unable to peer past the blackness to see the source of the sound that made your heart flip.

Your phone just keeps shaking its “try again” message at you, stubbornly refusing to unlock.

Until you see them—and you realize that you’ve already been looking at them—your gaze landing on them a dozen times in the past thirty seconds, not even registering them.

Until they blink back at you.

Your fingers stomp your passcode in and swipe on the flashlight.

Cold white light floods the room, and he’s standing there, staring at you.

You scream, bundled nerves exploding your body backwards and you find yourself on your feet, scrambling back against a heavy bookshelf.

But he’s just standing there, watching you from the other edge of the chalk circle thing you were sitting on. His head is tilted slightly, sharp eyes hooded as he beholds you silently.

Your arm is practically spasming as you try to keep your light pointed at him and check all the walls and corners at the same time, your brain screaming at you to figure out where he came from. Where did he come from? There’s only one door in the basement, and it’s up the flight of stairs to your left.

“What the fuck?” You screech, your other hand scrambling for something—anything.

The man’s eyes narrow.

He’s not especially tall, but he’s lean and strong, dressed in all black, his raven hair curling over his forehead and neck. There’s something devilishly beautiful about him, about the honey of his skin and the flick of his tongue between his lips.

His eyes mimic yours, tracing you up and down, and his tongue flicks again. Then he opens his mouth and his chin twitches up, short locks of hair flipping away from his eyes. “You called?”

The sultry baritone of his voice floats to your ears with heavy, dangerous weight, and your fingers automatically clamp around the first thing you find. Before you can reason your way through your next decision, you hurl it—the book you’re suddenly holding—directly at his head.

The man flinches, knocking the book aside with the swipe of his hand, but doesn’t realize there’s a second one coming.

You’re pelting them as quickly as you can find them, yanking ancient (probably valuable) books off of the shelf, sending up plumes of dust everywhere, hurling them at the man as you edge your way towards the stairs. He’s standing between you and your exit and you’ll be damned (hopefully not literally) if you’re going to be sacrificed to a demon in your freaky aunt’s basement.

But then his voice reaches you with a completely different tone.

“Stop! Oh my god, stop!” He’s twisted away from you, his hands up covering his face. You see glimpses of his eyes gone impossibly wide, lips jutting out in a disbelieving pout, trying desperately to catch your gaze. He dodges another book and dances away from another. “Why are you—stop!—you called me!”

Another book strikes his shoulder and his pitch goes even higher.

“You literally called me! Stop!”

You stop.

He sounds so…offended that you’re battering him with books that you just plant yourself, clutching a heavy tome to your chest, gaping at him.

He takes a second to collect himself, smoothing down the sleek black jacket that wraps around his thick shoulders and falls snugly around his narrow waist.

Running a hand through his hair and shaking dust out of it, he gapes right back at you. “Do you know how rare it is for this to happen?” He demands, eyes still comically wide. “We don’t just come when called anymore! You—” He jabs a finger in your direction and you shriek, flinching. “Are lucky that I was curious!”

Your hope of coming out of this experience without wearing your mascara in crusted ribbons down your cheeks went out the window about fifteen books ago. “You…you’re…” You suck in a deep breath that sounds like it choked you all the way down. “You?”

The man glares at you, planting his hands on his hips. “You are unbelievably rude.” He decides, taking a step closer as though you aren’t literally hiding behind the giant book in your hands. “You reach through the veil to call upon a spiritual being in the year of our Lord, 2025, and when I answer the freaking phone you throw a library at me? This is why we don’t talk to you people anymore.”

But he doesn’t reach to touch you or attack you and stomp on your skull, so you lower the book away from your face ever so slightly.

He’s standing in front of you, arms crossed over his chest, a disappointed frown on his face.

You take a second to blink at him, a flood of tears trickling down your cheeks. There’s so much happening, so much shattering your entire perception of the universe right now, but there’s only one thing on your mind. “Did you just say ‘oh my god’?”

At your timid, whimpering voice, the demon’s eyes roll. “Are you serious right now?”

You flinch, stumbling back. “It’s just…” Your eyes wander and you mentally pinch yourself. But, honestly, he’s fucking gorgeous and your racing heart is making your head spin already. “You’re a demon?”

“Yeah, so?” He shoots back.

“So…” you swallow harshly. “God?”

This brings a smirk to his lips. “If you came down here to ask about God, I think you’ve got the wrong number.”

“I didn’t call you.” You argue, glancing behind you to make sure you aren’t going to be falling into a coffin or some other terrible thing that your aunt has hidden back there.

He looks confused. “You didn’t?” He glances around. “Someone did. It’s not like I can get the address wrong.”

“My friends called you.” There’s nowhere for you to go. You’re standing against the wall, mere feet away from a literal demon, and there’s nowhere you can run from him.

At the obviously otherwise empty basement, the demon raises his eyebrows at you. “Where are they?”

You shakily point towards the stairs as you slide down the wall to the floor. “At the party. It was a dare. A penalty for a dumb game—they were supposed to pretend to summon a demon with all of this weird shit and then I was supposed to stay down here for ten minutes by myself—they just wanted to scare me. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Please just go away, I’ll never bother you, I swear.” You’re sobbing, completely overwhelmed, feeling completely exposed to this spiritual being as he watches you fall apart.

You’ve got the massive tome propped up on your lap, leaned against your forehead to shield yourself as you weep.

Do demons kill people?

Do they just possess people?

Are you going to go on from this night demon-possessed?

Are you supposed to pray or something?

Weight lifts from your bones as the tome is suddenly taken from you, and you blink past tears to see that the demon is crouched in front of you, dark strands of hair dancing with his eyelashes as he peers into your fearful face.

His gaze traces the trembling in your shoulders, your hands, your thighs, the rigid, bulging muscles in your throat and forearms as your body tightens with terror. When he speaks again, his deep voice is gentle. “Your friends summoned a demon and locked you in here by yourself?”

There’s nothing you can do but nod, wishing you hadn’t skipped your weekly phone call to your mom earlier. You wish you’d told her you love her, that you never meant to be possessed by a demon.

You see his hand lift and your eyes squeeze shut, a whimpering gasp rushing past your lips. If you get out of here alive, you’re burning down the basement and going to church.

But then his warm—feverishly hot, actually—fingertips glide over the wetness of your face, and his thumb is wiping at your tears. When your eyes snap open, he’s cupping your cheek in one hand but his eyes are black fire. “Stay here, baby, I’ll be right back.”

His touch disappears in a swirl of black smoke and he’s gone, vanished right before you like he was never there.

But your cheek is still throbbing from the heat of his palm, your heart thumping in your chest from the impact of his low voice.

Did he just call you baby?

All of that goes directly out of your mind because in the next second, you can hear enormous crashes of thunder above your head. The music from the party dies with an electric squeal that makes your ears sting, and then screams fill the air. The ceiling of the basement pounds and trembles with running footsteps from the floor above, furniture crashing and college students stumbling into things.

There’s a flicker from beneath the basement door, and then the light disappears.

The single bulb over your head goes out.

You scramble for your phone, turning the flashlight back on, heart hammering as you listen.

The screams begin to fade, sounding farther and farther away, until the house above you is completely silent.

Black smoke puffs in front of you and there he is again, the demon with the fire in his eyes.

The reflexive yelp that scratches up your throat is accidental, but it seems to douse the flames and the man’s gaze softens as he lowers himself to the floor, mimicking your folded-knees position. He lifts a hand and gestures to you, beckoning you closer.

Obviously you don’t move, terrified out of your mind. “What the hell did you just do?”

“I locked them in a room with me and scared them.” He shrugs. “It wasn’t as funny as they thought it was going to be. Your friends are assholes and I don’t think you should hang out with them anymore.” He tilts his head at you, his hand still extended. “I didn’t hurt them, I promise. They just ran away. As long as they stay away from you, they’ll be fine.”

You’re going to be completely honest with yourself, you didn’t have nearly enough wits about you to wonder if he’d gone up and slaughtered the whole bunch of them. But it’s nice that he didn’t, you guess.

“So.” He claps both hands to his knees. “This is a college party? I haven’t been to one of these in ages. Do you still play truth or dare?”

Your mouth falls open.

He scoots closer.

“Why as long as they stay away from me?” You’re grasping for understanding, wondering why you’re still on the filthy floor in the creepiest room you’ve ever found yourself in, staring at a demon who’s just asked you to play truth or dare.

The demon’s eyes narrow but his lips curl in a playful smirk. “Truth or dare, baby?”

You can’t help the shiver. Do you refuse to play? He’s a literal demon who can apparently call upon thunder and destroy sound and electrical systems and frighten the bejeezus out of an entire college party.

It stands to reason that playing the silly game is probably in your best interest.

“Truth.” The tiny whisper of your voice puts a flash of teasing disappointment in his eyes.

“Okay,” He says, and scoots even closer. “Are you grateful I made your friends piss themselves for you?”

A storm of emotions strike you. Are you grateful? Yeah, a little bit. It would have been hilarious to watch, now that you think about it. Are you confused as to why he did it? More than you can articulate. Would you have ever asked him to get revenge over a penalty that was supposed to be a joke? Honestly, probably not. Are you going to tell him that?

Hell to the no.

“Yes.” You swallow. “I’m grateful.”

He looks satisfied with your answer, with himself. “Good. Your turn. Ask me.”

You don’t want to ask him. You want to leave this house just like everybody else did, with your tail between your legs and your world changed forever—but alive. But you can’t. So you clench your fists and shed another round of tears. “Truth or dare?”

What would you even dare him to do?

“Dare,” He says devilishly, tongue flicking out to scrape his teeth. His eyes are mischief and intrigue, but they’re watching the trail of your tears with undeniable softness.

“I dare you…” Your voice chokes like a candle being blown out, and you struggle to get it back. “I dare you not to hurt me.” It’s pathetic. It’s laughably pathetic, but you’re scared beyond all reason and you need any kind of reassurance to keep you sane right now.

The teasing falls from his expression instantly, and a solemn stare levels with you. “I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe with me, I swear it.” His hands twitch, he wants to wipe the tears from your face, but he won’t—not again—not until you’re not afraid of him anymore.

You could weep all over again from the sheer anxiety of it all. “Why? Why would I believe you? Why me?”

He just smiles. “It’s my turn. Truth or dare?”

You are absolutely not ready to take a dare from a demon. “Truth.”

“Tell me your name. I’m Jisung.”

Jisung is looking at you like you’re a harbinger of hope, and you suddenly wonder if your name is supposed to hold power. Does giving your name to a demon give him power over you? Should you lie? Do you keep it to yourself?

But he gave you his name. (Or did he lie?)

You tell him. You’re locked in a basement with him—he doesn’t need a magical connection to you to kill you. He could hurt you whenever he wants.

He says your name out loud and you flinch, waiting. But your blood doesn’t boil, your eyes don’t explode, your brain doesn’t leak out of your ears. Your name on his tongue gives you confidence though, like he’s acknowledged you on an existential level and now you can look him in the eyes.

“Truth or dare.”

“Truth.” He already knows you won’t dare him to do anything, not while your mind is still racing with questions.

“Tell me why I’m safe with you, Jisung.”

He blinks at the strength in your voice, at his name in your mouth. It’s so overwhelming, to hear his name spoken aloud, that he has to turn away from you. How long has it been since he’s heard it? A millennium? An eon? Has it ever sounded so warm before? He’s blinking back tears, coughing past an ache in his chest, scrambling to collect himself before he looks back at you.

He could tell you any number of things and they would be true, but would they be enough? You’re the first face he’s seen in decades. You’re the first person who’s looked at him in years. You’re the first person who’s said his name without hurling it like a curse against him. You didn’t beg for your life when he appeared, you apologized like you bumped into him at the supermarket. Because he keeps waiting to see what you’re going to do next, say next, if you’re going to hold his gaze again.

But how does he say that to you?

He settles on his first realization of you. “Because you didn’t use me.”

You’re confused, fear falling away from your face completely as you puzzle through that statement. “I didn’t use you?”

He nods towards the book of spells that holds his invocation. “People summon demons to make deals—to use our power for their own gain. If we answer a call, it’s with the understanding that we’re being summoned to be leeched off of. You’re the first human I’ve ever come to who didn’t want anything from me.” If his throat tightens as he says it, he blames it on a millennium of loneliness and not the swell of pity that floods your eyes.

So he clears his throat and plops his chin in both palms. “Truth or dare?”

You’re warming up now, leaning into the rawness of the open wound he just exposed to you, and you feel your cheeks heat. “Dare.”

He’s stunned, delighted, and he smiles. “Dare?”

You swallow thickly, avoiding his gaze, and nod. “Dare.”

Jisung leans forward on his knees and one hand, the other lifting to wipe the last of your tears, and he lingers there, hovering right next to you. “Make a deal with me.”

The words strike you with conflicting fear and excitement, your eyes wide as you stare at him. Radiating heat from his skin kisses your face, feeding the blush on your cheeks. “But you just said—”

“It’s my deal,” He interrupts. “My terms with you.”

You don’t know whether to be scared or interested, but you have few options in the way of reactions. “What are the terms?”

“Summon me again.” He says simply. “Whenever you want to. Regularly. And I’ll protect you.”

You’re gaping directly into his face now, utterly baffled and not at all afraid. “Protect me from what?”

Jisung shrugs and lowers himself back into a seated position, this time so close that his knees are touching yours. “Anything, really. But there is the reality that once you’ve reached through the veil, there are traces of you on my side of it as well. Your presence is known now, you might be vulnerable to things from the other side.”

“Things?” You repeat. “What kinds of things?”

He frowns, like he doesn’t want to tell you. “Demons, spirits, the fallen. But I’ll protect you from all of them. They might not find you, they might not care—but if they do, I’ll be there.”

This is so much worse than a stupid prank demon summoning. “Why? Why would you make this deal?”

He smiles at you then, and it’s the most vulnerable he’s looked so far. “There’s not much in the way of goodness where I’m from. I miss it.”

“Goodness?” You repeat, frowning.

“You.” He says, reaching out and flicking your knee lightly. “Friendship. Smiles. Warm touch. Laughter. Shit—” He breaks off and turns his head away and you think you see him wiping wetness away from his own eyes. When he looks at you again, you almost think you had imagined it. “Give up your stupid ass friends and take me instead.”

You’re stunned; floored; flabbergasted. One of those weird hawk feathers on the bookshelves could knock you right over. “Jisung?” What do you even say to that?

He heaves a massive sigh and both of his hands curl over your knees. You don’t mind. You honestly don’t mind. Even if you know better than to trust him all at once, you don’t mind the way he’s touching you—the way he’s looking at you.

If he’s trying to trick you into some kind of possession, grooming you to be some kind of slave, you don’t know. You’re terrified that you’re being taken in by the most beautiful sad eyes you’ve ever seen, but right now you’re stuck.

He’s still watching you, eyes hooded and hoping, and you give a nod. “Okay. Deal.”

His fingers tighten around your knees and you would be terrified at the feeling of being caught in his grasp if it weren’t for the gaping grin that spreads across his face like you’ve just told a child he can go to Disney World.

“Is there some kind of blood pact we have to do to settle the deal? A contract?” You ask nervously, hoping you know which of the dozens of the books on the floor holds the invocation. “What if I summon the wrong demon on accident?”

“Just add my name to the invocation, I’ll come.” He says, and the smile on his face is addictive.

“You’ll come just because I call?”

Jisung squeezes your knees. “If you call me, I’ll come. And promise me you’ll ditch those assholes that locked you down here.” He pulls you closer to him, eyebrows lowering in earnest. “If any demon other than myself had answered, you could have come out of this experience very differently. I don’t want you around any more of their idiotic ideas.”

You laugh then, finally, and he stares at you in awe. “I promise.”

The demon straightens, satisfied, and then he’s extending one hand to you, which you willingly take this time. “The deal seals with a kiss. There’s no fine print, not for you. You have my word—regardless of what you think a demon’s word is worth.”

He has a point, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. You let him pull you to your feet, you help him find the spell book and tear the page out, slipping it into your pocket like you’ve just gotten his phone number.

When he circles back to you, he doesn’t look so dangerous anymore. “Are you ready?”

You’re nervous, still doubting what may come of your future, but you’re not scared right now. Instead, you nod, and let his warm hands tilt your chin up. You see the black flames ignite in his eyes once again, just before Jisung presses a searing kiss to your lips and fire shoots down your body.

It’s a simple kiss, as simple as pushing a stamp into a wax seal, but when he leans back to observe the heat blooming across your cheeks, your mind is gone. You feel his forehead touch yours, the whisper of his breath on your skin, the burning impact of his next words, but you’re only barely keeping up.

Because you definitely no longer regret coming to this party, or losing that stupid drinking game.

“You’re mine now, baby,” Jisung whispers against your cheek, and flashes you a wink. “Just call me and I’m yours.”

@whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @estella-novella @babyphotos0325 @softfor-svtptg @furfoxsake22 @tubelightanyaa @kayleefriedchicken @rockstarkkami @sp1derst0rrr @eastjonowhere @its-stayville-forever @allenajade-ite @naraportokala @jinniejjam @blackberryrains @feetoffthemalfoy @highandalive @scarlet789 @ramadiiiisme @thecutiepieme @lemonn015

comment a request to be tagged

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft.

“Hey,” you replied, stepping aside to let him in.

He hesitated for a moment before stepping inside, shaking the snow off his coat and toeing off his boots. He’d been coming around a lot lately—bringing groceries, fixing little things around the apartment, keeping you company even when you didn’t ask for it. He was Chan’s best friend, and now, in his absence, he seemed determined to fill the void.

You appreciated it. You did. But it also made things more complicated.

“You didn’t have to come,” you said, closing the door behind him.

“You didn’t answer my texts,” he said simply, his tone more matter-of-fact than accusatory. He shrugged off his coat, hanging it on the rack beside Chan’s. The sight of them together, one belonging to the past and one to the present, made your chest tighten.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, avoiding his gaze.

“It’s fine,” he said. “I just... wanted to check on you.”

You nodded, retreating to the couch. He followed, sitting down beside you but keeping a careful distance.

“How are you holding up?” he asked after a moment.

“I’m fine,” you said automatically, though the crack in your voice betrayed the lie.

Jisung sighed, leaning back against the couch. “You don’t have to say that, you know. Not with me.”

You didn’t respond, your eyes fixed on the cold tea on the table.

“It’s okay to not be okay,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You closed your eyes, willing the tears to stay at bay. “I miss him,” you admitted, your voice shaking.

“I know,” Jisung said.

You looked at him then, and the raw emotion in his eyes nearly undid you. He missed Chan too, you knew that. They’d been inseparable, practically brothers. Losing him had shattered Jisung in his own way, and yet he was here, trying to hold you together when he was still piecing himself back.

“Sometimes I feel like he’s still here,” you said, your voice barely audible. “Like if I turn around, I’ll see him standing there, smiling like nothing’s wrong.”

Jisung swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I feel that way too,” he admitted. “It’s like... he’s everywhere and nowhere at the same time.”

Silence settled between you, heavy with the weight of shared grief.

“I don’t know how to move on,” you said after a while, your voice trembling. “I don’t even know if I want to.”

Jisung shifted closer, his hand hovering near yours before he pulled it back. “You don’t have to move on,” he said softly. “Not in the way people think. You can carry him with you. It doesn’t mean you’re letting go. It just means... you’re finding a way to keep living.”

His words hit something deep inside you, something you’d been avoiding. You turned to look at him, and for the first time, you really saw him—not just as Chan’s best friend, but as someone who was trying to navigate this loss just like you.

“I’m scared,” you admitted, your voice breaking.

“I know,” he said. And then, after a beat, “Me too.”

The space between you seemed to shrink, the air charged with something you couldn’t quite name. His gaze dropped to your lips for a fleeting second before he quickly looked away, guilt flashing across his face.

“Sorry,” he muttered, pulling back.

“Jisung...” you began, but you didn’t know what to say.

He stood abruptly, running a hand through his hair. “I should go,” he said, his voice tight.

“Wait,” you said, standing as well.

He paused, his back to you, his shoulders tense.

“I don’t want to be alone,” you admitted, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

He turned slowly, his eyes searching yours. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice laced with both hope and hesitation.

You nodded, though your chest felt like it might cave in. “Stay.”

He hesitated for a moment before stepping closer, his hand reaching out to brush against yours. The touch sent a shiver down your spine, and for a brief, reckless moment, you wondered what it would feel like to close the distance completely.

But then the guilt hit you like a tidal wave, and you pulled your hand away.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, tears welling up again. “I can’t—”

“It’s okay,” he said quickly, his own eyes glistening. “I get it. I do.”

The tension between you was unbearable, a mix of longing and guilt and something you couldn’t name.

“I’ll stay,” he said finally, his voice steady despite the turmoil in his eyes. “But only as long as you need me to.”

You nodded, the tears spilling over as he pulled you into a hug. You clung to him, the warmth of his embrace both a comfort and a reminder of what you’d lost.

And as the night stretched on, you stayed there, tangled in a web of grief and love and the haunting presence of the one who was no longer there. The ghost of Chan lingered between you, a silent witness to the connection you and Jisung were too afraid to fully acknowledge.

You quickly turned your face away, your heart hammering in your chest. “Nothing,” you whispered, voice breaking as you tried to suppress the sobs that threatened to break free.

Jisung wasn’t fooled. “You’re crying again,” he said gently, his voice laced with concern. His hand brushed lightly over your arm, his touch warm and grounding in the cold emptiness of your heart. “Talk to me.”

“I’m fine,” you insisted, but your voice cracked on the last word, the lie feeling like acid on your tongue. “Go back to sleep.”

But Jisung didn’t move. He never did when you were like this. Instead, he slid closer to you, his body pressing against yours in the dark, the warmth of his presence steadying your fraying nerves. “I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep but filled with an unspoken promise.

The weight of his kindness, of his understanding, hit you like a tidal wave, and you couldn’t hold it in any longer. The sobs broke free, harsh and jagged, as you buried your face in your hands. “I’m sorry,” you choked out, the words raw and pained, the guilt swallowing you whole.

Jisung said nothing at first. He simply wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his chest. His fingers threaded through your hair, his touch tender, unhurried. He didn’t push you to explain, didn’t ask for more than you could give. He was just there.

“I know it’s hard,” he whispered after a while, his chin resting on top of your head, his breath warm against your scalp. “I know you miss him.”

“I hate this,” you whispered, the words muffled against his shirt. “I hate that I can’t let him go. That I’m still... holding onto him when you’re right here.”

Jisung’s arms tightened around you, a brief, fleeting hesitation before he pressed a soft kiss to your temple. His lips lingered there, the touch gentle but filled with an ache that mirrored your own.

“You don’t have to apologize for how you feel,” he said, his voice steady despite the heaviness of the moment. “I knew what I was getting into.”

“But it’s not fair,” you said, pulling back slightly to meet his eyes. “To you. To us.”

Jisung’s gaze met yours, and in that moment, you saw the raw, unfiltered emotion in his eyes—the hurt, the understanding, and something else. Something deeper. Something you hadn’t let yourself acknowledge before.

“Fair doesn’t matter,” he said quietly. “What matters is that I love you. And I’ll take whatever you’re able to give me, even if it’s not all of you right now.”

His words hit you like a blow, the guilt twisting in your chest, making it hard to breathe. “You deserve more than that,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

Jisung laughed softly, but it was bitter, touched with an emotion you didn’t quite recognize. “You think I don’t know that?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “You think I don’t see how much it hurts you to let me in? How much it hurts me to know I’ll never be him?”

You opened your mouth to say something, but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you reached for him, your hand trembling as it brushed against his. The guilt was suffocating, a constant weight on your chest that made it hard to breathe. You had never wanted to hurt him, but you were doing it anyway.

“I’m not saying this to make you feel worse,” he said softly, his tone suddenly tender. “I just... I want you to know that I get it. I know you’re still grieving him. And I know it’s going to take time. But I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you want me to.”

The tears came again, hot and unstoppable, as you reached for him, your hands trembling as you touched his face, desperate to feel the warmth of him. Jisung didn’t hesitate. He met you halfway, cupping your face gently in his hands. His lips found yours, slow and tentative, as if he were afraid you might pull away, that this would somehow break you more than you already were.

But you didn’t pull away. You clung to him instead, letting the kiss deepen, pouring all the gratitude, the apology, the guilt, and the love you felt for him into it. His lips were soft, warm against yours, and for a moment, the shadow of Chan seemed to fade just a little.

When you pulled away, your foreheads rested together, your breaths mingling in the quiet of the room.

“I dream about him sometimes,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “And when I wake up, it feels like I’m losing him all over again.”

Jisung’s eyes closed briefly, his jaw tightening as he held you even closer. “I know,” he said, his voice thick with sorrow. “And it kills me that I can’t make it better for you.”

“You do,” you said quickly, your hands gripping his shirt as if you could ground yourself in the safety of him. “You do, Jisung. You’re the only reason I’m still standing.”

His eyes opened, and there was a mix of hope and pain in them. “Then let me keep standing with you,” he said quietly. “Let me help you carry this, even if it’s heavy. Even if it hurts.”

You nodded, tears streaming down your face as you buried your face in his chest. His arms wrapped around you again, pulling you close, and for the first time in weeks, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe—just maybe—you could find a way to hold onto the past without losing the present.

“I love you,” Jisung whispered, his voice breaking just enough for you to feel the weight of his words.

“I love you too,” you whispered back, the truth of it settling into your chest like a bittersweet ache.

It wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t what either of you had imagined for your future. But for now, it was enough.

The words hung in the air between you. You froze for a moment, surprised by the simplicity of it, the quiet vulnerability in his voice. You hadn’t danced in what felt like forever—how could you, after everything? It seemed too frivolous, too indulgent, given everything that had happened. Yet tonight felt different. His presence felt different. You hadn’t realized how badly you needed something like this—something small and beautiful, something that wasn’t tainted by loss.

A slow smile tugged at your lips, and without fully realizing it, you placed your hands in his. He pulled you into his arms with gentle ease, guiding you out of the quiet routine you had built around yourself. His body was warm, his presence grounding, and the music that played softly in the background filled the space between your breaths. The rhythm of the song was slow, melancholic—almost as if it had been written for this very moment, for the two of you.

The kitchen, with its dim lighting and the faint smell of dinner still lingering in the air, began to fade into the background. It was just you and Jisung now—no grief, no memories, no past—just the present. The only sound was the soft shuffle of your feet moving together, the music swaying around you, and the rhythm of Jisung’s breathing against your ear as you rested your cheek against his shoulder.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly, his voice soft with the weight of a question he had asked before but still seemed to carry meaning, as though this time, the answer mattered more than ever.

You nodded, the sound of your heartbeat steady in your chest, even if it wasn’t entirely true. "I’m fine," you whispered, though the weight of everything still pressed against your ribs. But it wasn’t about being fine. You were here, in his arms, and in this moment, that was enough.

The seconds stretched on, the air between you thickening. But then, something shifted. The warmth of his embrace seemed to flicker, like a light struggling to stay on. You closed your eyes for a moment, feeling the subtle change in the air—a shift you couldn’t explain, but felt deep within your chest, a sensation that made your heart skip. It was faint, like a memory you couldn’t quite place, but it was there.

You inhaled, and for a moment, the scent of Jisung’s cologne seemed to fade, replaced by something else—something familiar, something that felt like the past. And you realized, with a quiet shock, that it wasn’t Jisung’s presence you were feeling right then. It was someone else’s, someone who had once filled your world with laughter, with warmth. The presence wasn’t sharp, wasn’t painful—it was soft. Gentle. It felt almost comforting, as if they were standing there beside you in a way that wasn’t demanding or intrusive. Just there, quietly, in the space between your breaths.

Your heart tightened, but it didn’t hurt. Not in the way it used to.

The music, still playing softly in the background, seemed to echo that presence, that understanding. It was as if Chan was there too, in the rhythm of the song, in the quiet space between your heartbeats. Not in sorrow or in grief, but as a reminder. A reminder that he was never really gone. He was there, in your memory, in your heart, a soft hum of love that still lingered in your life.

You swallowed hard, the sensation of his presence a bittersweet comfort. You pulled back just slightly, lifting your head to meet Jisung’s gaze. His eyes were soft, but there was something searching in them, like he could sense the shift inside you. The way you had changed, the way you had started to open up, even if just a little.

“You okay?” he asked again, more insistent this time, his voice filled with concern.

You nodded, this time more firmly. “Yeah,” you whispered, the weight of those words settling into your chest in a way that felt... right. “I’m okay.”

The song played on, the guitar riff gentle and soulful, and you found yourself swaying again, your steps moving with Jisung’s. But this time, it wasn’t just the two of you. It was like Chan was there too, in the melody, in the way your feet moved in sync with his. He wasn’t gone. He was still a part of you, a part of everything that had brought you here, to this moment.

Jisung’s arms tightened around you, pulling you closer, and you felt the ache in your chest begin to ease, softening like the fading note of a song. It wasn’t gone—no, it would never be gone—but in the rhythm of the dance, in Jisung’s embrace, it became more bearable. It became something you could carry, step by step, without it breaking you.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath, but it felt like the truest thing you had ever said.

Jisung didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to. Instead, he just nodded, his hand brushing the back of your hair, his touch tender. “I’m glad you’re here too.”

And in that quiet, lingering moment, as the last notes of the song played and the kitchen faded into stillness, you understood something. Grief would never fully leave you, not in the way you might have hoped, but it didn’t have to. It didn’t have to take everything from you. You could still move forward, step by step, with the memory of the past walking quietly beside you.

It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t perfect. But, somehow, it felt right.

As the final chord faded away, you rested your forehead against Jisung’s chest, your heart beating steadily against his. In that moment, you realized that even in the midst of chaos, even as the world around you shifted and changed, you could keep dancing. You could keep moving forward.

You rise and dress yourself, already mentally bracing for the long day ahead. Though you are determined to navigate yourself through the viper’s nest that is the king’s court, you must be very cautious while doing so.  There are real, deadly ramifications for what you did – for what you want to do again.  Though you will strive to maintain whatever possible liberties, you must not become complacent in the meanwhile. 

You do not want this to end before it can truly begin. 

You fear the light of day will reveal everything that transpired.  You feel it in yourself, a revolution, not just in the literal aches and tingles, but something in the very core of your being.  You feel like someone will see it a glance, in the way you move or carry yourself.  How could they not?  It changed everything. 

Your first encounter is Changbin.  There was another guard switch in the early hours of morning, sparing Minho some rest before due departure.   You are glad.   Minho heard everything last night and you were not keen on starting the day with that confrontation.   He has proven himself to be reliable, having returned the sleeping draft with little reservation, and he is clearly an intimate companion that Jisung trusts wholeheartedly, so it is not his stalwart dependability that makes you hesitate – just pure embarrassment. 

Changbin does not seem to notice anything untoward, not a single remark against your disposition, so you safely exhale as he escorts you through the camp. 

The king is still sleeping and no one is brave enough to prod him awake.  He will probably be angry in either scenario, so it has been decided to let him lay until he stirs on his own. 

It feels as though the entire contingency has released a long-held breath.  There is chatter and some games, people wandering about, eating and ambling without the stress of a holy gaze and its accompanying vocal thunder. 

Foot soldiers mill about the camp.  Chan guards the king.  Seungmin and Jeongin scout the perimeter for dangerous activity, on greater alert because of the assassination attempt. 

That leaves the remaining few kingsguards nearby.   Minho is slouched against a tree, peeling an orange, laughing at Hyunjin and Jisung who are locked in a very theatrical swordfight.  Changbin is clearly eager to join, so you get some food then happily head in that direction. 

“Yah, you call that fighting?” Changbin teases.

Jisung turns, just a brief glance of acknowledgement until he sees you and stumbles.  His sword is loose in his grip, like he has forgotten all his training, like he doesn’t even remember being a kingsguard. 

You forget yourself too, staring back, mouth open with some pleasant greeting utterly obliterated in the face of his longing gaze.  Last night should have tempered all this quiet yearning, but it seems to have exacerbated it. 

Fortunately, this exchange is only seconds, though it feels like hours.  Jisung might have forgotten himself but Hyunjin has not.  He knocks Jisung on the back and Jisung falls over, sword flying and palms skidding across the forest floor.  He coughs through the little puff of dirt that bursts under impact. 

“Tsk, task,” Changbin continues to tease.  “You make it too easy.” 

“Ah-ha-ha,” Jisung says, clapping his hands to clean them.  He stands then bends at the waist, bowing to you.  “Your Majesty.  Good morning.” 

“Good morning,” you reply, dipping your head respectfully in turn.  You greet Hyunjin as he bows too. 

You look at Minho long enough for him to bow his head then smile.  It is not taunting, at least not with any true malice.  An amused dimple indents his cheek and there is a sparkle in his eye.

“Your Majesty,” he says.  “I hope you slept well.” 

“Quite fine,” you say, feeling very hot in the face. 

“Ah.”  Minho wiggles an orange slice.  “Just fine, hm?”  He looks at Jisung and cackles maniacally at his exasperated expression.   He pops the orange slice into his mouth and smiles while chewing. 

Hyunjin looks at him funny but Changbin is non-plussed, unintentionally diverting the conversation when he says, “The king is sleeping more than fine, hey.” 

This distracts Hyunjin who immediately scoffs. He tosses his sword, spinning it with a flick of his wrist, and catches it just as smoothly.  He opens his mouth to speak. 

Changbin interjects, “Ah, ah, ah, you watch your pretty mouth.  You’ve blasphemed enough, kingsguard.” 

“Kingsguard.”  Hyunjin looks at his sword, runs his finger up the shiny reflection with a contemplative regard.  “There’s no king here right now,” he says.  “That makes me a queensguard, doesn’t it?” 

“It’s the same thing,” Changbin says, diplomatic. 

Hyunjin smiles, though it lacks amusement, just a dry upturn of his lips. 

“If you insist,” he says. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Jisung sings, wiggling into the middle of their rapport.  “King, queen, god, man – a vow is a vow.  We all know why we’re here, right? Right. Right. Awesome.” 

“I know why you’re here,” Hyunjin says, tapping Jisung with the blunt flat of his sword.  “It was to lose against me, as usual, wasn’t it?” 

“Ohhhh-ha-ha!” Jisung slashes his sword through the air with an ostentatious flourish.   “The pretty boy has jokes now.” 

“Bard boy,” Hyunjin retorts, teasing.  He curls his fingers, gesticulating for an approach.  “If you dare.” 

The boys return to their fighting, as playful as it is impressive.  You seat yourself beside Minho, though the sight of the queen on the forest ground does make Changbin squeak.  Fortunately, he does not protest, and Minho seems to understand your character well enough that it does not surprise him at all.  He simply hands you an orange slice. 

You watch Hyunjin and Jisung, smiling as they parry.  Minho and Changbin explain some of the manoeuvres, bringing an understanding to the harmony of their frantic steps and slashes. 

It is not surprising there is so much detail in even the simplest action.  The kingsguards do not fight with half-hearted swings, nor do they stumble with overemotional, retaliatory strikes.  Every step, every parry, every breath, is so carefully planned, so meticulously practiced, so utterly engrained in their every movement. 

In truth, you see it even when they are at rest.  Chan is the most natural with his authoritative air and quick reactions, having trained for so much of his youth.  Hyunjin moves with a dance-like fluidity even when he is not fighting, as if his long limbs are cutting through water.  Minho has a limber quick-footedness, sometimes disguised in an insouciant slouch, but quick to action when the inclination so strikes.  Every action that Changbin makes is a powerful one, as precise as it is strong.  Jeongin and Seungmin both have keen eyes and quick reflexes, their training and perseverance plain in every dedicated movement. 

Han Jisung is good at everything.  He can play at unassuming, so much so even the king does not see his utmost capabilities, but it is obvious that he has a vast repertoire of skill to call upon at any given moment.

Watching him and Hyunjin fight is exhilarating.  As you begin to understand their footwork and motions, it becomes even more impressive. 

“Show her the double knot,” Minho says, calling out like a spectator at a show.

He clearly delights in pestering his friends, but Jisung and Hyunjin are having fun.  They both relish the opportunity to flaunt their skills so they happily indulge his request. 

With wide eyes, you watch their swords clash.  Sparks burst where the metal scrapes at the angle of collision.  The men whirl around each other and bring their swords together again.  They continue to weave and parry, every step lightning quick.  It appears to be a defensive manoeuvre rather than an assault, but it is an extraordinary feat of speed and fortitude regardless. 

“Well done,” you say, applauding. 

Jisung sweeps into an exaggerated bow only for Hyunjin to kick him over.  You laugh as he chases after Hyunjin with sword raised, as if he intends to clobber him with it.  It makes Hyunjin laugh too, his face so bright when overcome with delight.  He clearly feels all his emotions very strongly.  You believe all these brave young men fight with as much as emotion as skill.  The kingsguard service is not just about soldiership, but faith and all that which is contained in the heart. 

They deserve a far better companion than the tyrant king.  That is what their monarch should be, a companion, a friend, a being more heart than ego. 

“I am duly impressed,” you say when the boys finish another bout. 

By now, their breathing is a little heavier. The morning is creeping toward noon, the heat intensifying with each passing moment.  You are tucked in the shade but the kingsguards move in and out of sunlight, no doubt warm in their black robes.  Still, they do not remove it. 

Not right now at least, you think, looking at the swish of Jisung’s cloak, remembering as it fell from his shoulders and he fell into your arms.  You feel flustered, letting the memory of each touch wash over you.  When Jisung finds your gaze, you swear you can see his own recollections teeming. 

“Show her the Levanter,” Minho calls, interrupting your shared daydreaming. 

Jisung snaps out of it.  He looks at Minho with a sardonic quirk of his brow. 

“Oh, now he’s got jokes too,” Jisung says, pointing to Minho while Hyunjin laughs. 

“The Levanter,” you repeat the word slowly, letting the weight of it linger.  “Levanter – like the god?” 

“The god of guardians,” Hyunjin says with a blazing look in his eye.  He tips his head back, gazing heavenward as he points with his sword to the skies.  “Levanter stands guard at the gates of the heavens.  The eternal vow-keeper.  He has never surrendered his post.” 

“Yes,” you say, nodding respectfully.  “I imagine the kingsguard revere him most of all.” 

“All the scripture is important,” Changbin adds, nodding too.  “But yes, the kingsguard order prays to Levanter for guidance before the rest.” 

“You do him a service,” you say.  “I suppose the Levanter manoeuvre must be particularly noteworthy to be named after him.” 

“You can say that,” Jisung says with a little laugh.  He runs his fingers through his hair. 

You feel like a prepubescent girl again, warm and flushed just watching his dark hair feather through his fingers, watching those fingers come down to his sword hilt, watching the movement of his hand as he grasps and twists. 

Truthfully, you forget your question – or was it a statement? – and it takes Minho gently nudging you to remember. 

“Levanter,” you say, shaking your head.  You smile politely.  “What is the manoeuvre then?”

Minho cackles.  Changbin reaches down to cuff him across the back of his head.  Minho snaps his jaws in return, like he intends to gnaw on Changbin like a disgruntled kitten. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Changbin says.  To you, he speaks more politely, “The Levanter is not a manoeuvre that can actually be performed.” 

“Well, it can be,” Jisung corrects, slashing his sword through the air.  He grins, a big, theatrical smile, wiggling his eyebrows.  “But it can only be performed once.” 

“Only once,” you say.  “What do you mean?” 

“All kingsguards are trained to master all manoeuvres and operations,” Hyunjin says, speaking a little more seriously than the others, still with that reverent look in his eye.  “But the Levanter has only been used a few times over the centuries.  It’s an… honourable death and killing.”

“Death and killing,” you repeat.  Your stomach twists with a little bit of anxiety, the weight this implication landing.  Though you know there is no real danger right at this precise moment, considering such dramatic circumstances makes you uneasy.  “You mean…” 

“It kills your opponent,” Jisung says, voice a little softer, perhaps seeing the unease on your face.  “It just… also kills…”

“Yourself,” you say, to which they both nod.  “Surely, there would never be a reason for such a manoeuvre?”

“Not necessarily,” Hyunjin says, a little less attuned to your discomfort, more excited to explain himself.  He sheathes his sword while speaking.  “It’s the last and final option for a kingsguard, when he has no other choice in front of him.  If death is inevitable, there is no dishonour in ending your own life if it means fulfilling your service to defend the crown.  So… in example… if a kingsguard was taken by an enemy who meant to torture or use them against heaven’s earthly sovereign, then it would be appropriate for the kingsguard to take action, to kill his opponent and himself so he could not be used.”

“My goodness,” you say.  “That – that’s very – ”

“It looks like this,” Hyunjin says. 

He draws a dagger from the folds of his robes, a weapon you did not even realize was concealed in the swathes of dark fabric.  In a blink, he draws back his arm and hurls the dagger.  It whizzes past Jisung and thuds into a tree.  You do not even have the chance to gasp before Hyunjin has drawn his sword and turned it towards himself.  He slams onto his knees, sliding the sword safely along his side and tucking it under his arm. 

You understand.  The kingsguard would throw a dagger at his opponent, killing them with a fatal injury, and he would just as swiftly fall on his own sword.  It would not slide past his side, but through his ribs and into his own heart.  He would kill both of them in one stroke.  It would take a lot of precision, but that would be easy for a soldier like Hyunjin, who is primarily a bowman.  Aim and precision is his specialty. 

You don’t want to imagine it, though. Jisung is right; this manoeuvre can only be performed once.  Hyunjin’s demonstration is harmless but you understand the visual, regardless. 

“My goodness,” you say again.  “I knew the kingsguard was devout, but that… that…” 

“Like we said before,” Jisung says gently.  “It’s easy to be devout when the queen is true.  Your Majesty, you are worth that.”

You are worth dying for, he means, gazing at you with those shiny dark eyes.  It is an extraordinary proclamation.  It makes your breath catch. 

“I appreciate the sentiment,” you say.  You manage to speak softly, though your heart thumps heavily.  “But I would prefer my queensguards live for me instead.”

“Your Majesty,” Hyunjin says, bowing.

The conversation is swiftly halted by a familiar raging voice.  The king has risen and he is not happy. 

What a surprise, you think.  Though no one vocalizes the sentiment, the frowns and sighs reveal a similar thought in your guards.  Despite the obvious reluctance, the king must be greeted, so the guards sheath their weapons and compose themselves. 

Changbin offers his hands and pulls you to your feet.  You accept his arm as he escorts you towards the centre of the camp.  Servants are bustling about, frantically tearing down what remains of the encampment.  They were taking their time as the king slept, but now it is well past departure time and he has no patience for dithering. 

Chan is beside the king, looking gloomy and austere.  His hand flexes on the hilt of his sword.  He stares at the king and only moves when he sees you.

Flanked by guards, your approach is difficult to ignore.  The king stutters in his speechifying.

“You.”  He hurls the word. 

You do not match his conduct.  You remain stoic and graceful, simply dipping into a respectful bow of greeting.  You say nothing and hope nothing is all he sees.  His glare is so fiery that you believe he might suspect you are responsible for his impromptu slumber.  However, he clearly cannot comprehend how that would be.

You are not forthcoming.  You simply stand before him, eyes downturned, with no answers to be given. 

He takes a breath.  It sounds like preparation to bellow. 

Before he can shout or accuse or even blink, there is a mad disruption in the camp.  The kingsguards grab their sword hilts, forming a protective circle around just you.  Chan grips his own sword hilt, striding forward to see what is causing the commotion. 

It is Seungmin and Jeongin, riding into the camp like there are devils on their tails. 

“Assassins,” Seungmin says, stopping just in front of Chan.  It takes him a second to calm his excited horse, trotting back and forth as he looks down at the kingsguard captain.  “We were scouting the perimeter, behind and ahead,” Seungmin continues.  “Some of the bandits from the unit the other day – they were camped not far from the main road.  They know we’re travelling that way.  They know—”  He looks at you, solemn.  “They know we have something they want.” 

“The queen is in danger!”  Jeongin blurts.  He looks a little more frantic than Seungmin, his horse equally agitated.  His expression is screwed up tight with lines of anxiety.  “Chan – Captain – We have to do something.” 

“Ridiculous,” the king says.  “There’s no more bandits on these roads.  The queen is not in any danger.  We cannot waste more time with delays.  I want to be back in the capital by—”

“Your Majesty,” Chan says, facing him squarely.  “Can you confirm unequivocally there are no more bandits waiting in those trees?”  His expression perceptibly darkens, downright menacing with the intensity of his stare.  “And if so, would you mind explaining where and how you acquired that knowledge?” 

The camp feels very silent.  Only the horses dare to make noise, plodding back and forth.  Seungmin soothes his animal, brushing his hand along the mane.   He, like everyone else, is looking at the king. 

Chan’s accusation is plain.  He looks at the king and challenges him.  He outright dares him to admit that the previous attack was targeted against you and that he arranged it.   Of course, the king does not admit this, but he has no other answer prepared either.  He stumbles over an aggrieved retort.  In the time it takes him to think, Chan shakes his head. 

“There is only one road between here and the capital big enough for a caravan to pass,” Chan says.  “It doesn’t surprise me enemies would wait on it.” 

He approaches you.  You hands began trembling from the first mention of the assassins, but your fear is somewhat assuaged by the protective circle of your guards.  Chan looks at them, then bows his head to you. 

“Your Majesty,” he says.  “It’s obvious these roads are not safe at this time.  If I may, I would like to separate you from the rest of the royal train.” 

The king scoffs indignantly but you feel relief regardless.  Chan is separating you from the royal retinue.  More importantly, he is separating you from the king.  It feels like a weight slides right off your shoulders.   You have won some more time and distance. 

“There are faster paths to the capital,” he says.  “But they won’t fit the wagons. Changbin, I’ll leave you in charge of leading the train back to the city without me, and I’ll personally take the queen ahead.  You continue as planned and be mindful of any attacks.  We’ll be long gone before anyone realizes we’re not with the caravan.” 

“You will do such thing!” the king snaps.  “Am I to be used as bait to lure these assassins while you protect that disobedient creature?  Remember your vows, captain!” 

Chan is facing you, his back to the king.  You watch his expression contort with frustration, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he holds that anger within.  You do not remotely blame him.  It is preposterously insulting for the king to accuse him of disrespecting his vows after everything the king has done.

Despite his aggravation, Chan maintains composure, turning to face the king. 

Chan is not especially giant, not in physicality.  The king is technically taller than him.  However, the kingsguard captain has such a domineering and confident air that it somehow dwarfs other men in relation.  The king has to make a point of holding his head up, but Chan overwhelms him with his sheer presence. 

“You’re right, Your Majesty,” Chan says, an edge to his voice despite the respectful address.  “I’ve sworn a vow as kingsguard leader to always stay at your side.”

“Precisely,” the king says.  He glances at you with a smug little smirk, clearly feeling that he has wrestled back his control. 

It takes a great deal of effort not to return a glare.  You let a breath shudder past your lips.  Hopefully it is mistaken for nerves and not irritation.   

“Yes,” Chan continues.  “That’s why I and the lower soldiers will stay behind to take you back to the capital.”  He looks at the guards gathered around you.  “And the rest of the kingsguards will escort the queen.” 

“What!”  The king reacts like he was slapped. 

You try not to laugh, swallowing the sound.  Hyunjin barely restrains it as his shoulders jump.  Jisung bites his bottom lip and looks at you sidelong.  You look back, smiling the subtlest smile you dare. 

“It’s the only choice of action, Your Majesty,” Chan says to the king, speaking with saccharine sweetness, as if explaining a complicated concept to a child.  “The gods-chosen queen has to be protected.  And because I have to stay with you, it goes without saying that the remaining guards have to stay with her.  We can’t allow any harm to come to her, can we?  Because that would be a violation of your vows.”  With that, Chan’s expression turns menacing again, brows slanting into an angry furrow.  “And you don’t want to be the first king in centuries to stand in violation of his vows.  Do you?”

The king has no reply.  The blatant threat stuns him into uncharacteristic silence. 

“Good,” Chan says, smiling.  “I’m glad we agree.  It’s the will of the gods, after all.  Seungmin, Jeongin.”  He turns to the guards.  “Pack the horses accordingly.  Bring a tent and bedroll for the queen.  Pack lightly, though.  Speed is imperative. Changbin, Minho, come with me and we’ll map your route to the capital.  If something happens, you’ll send a rider out to me.  You should arrive at least a week ahead of us if you maintain pace.” 

The king flounders, his mouth open with an interjection, but he is not afforded a moment to speak.  Chan is moving from person to person, issuing orders. 

“Hyunjin, Han,” Chan says.  “Ensure the queen has everything she needs.  My Queen, I apologize, but for the sake of your safety you may not be able to travel in the most comfort, and I would recommend you bring only the necessities.  We will safely deliver the rest of your trunks and belongings within the week.”

“Captain.”  You lay a hand over your heart, full of gratitude.  “I understand completely.  I commend your quick thinking.  You are an exemplary credit to your gods and the crown.”

“I’m glad you think so, Your Majesty,” Chan says, bowing.  “Safe travels.”  He turns to the king and gestures ahead, lifting a pointed brow.  “Well, we better hurry, Your Majesty.  As you were saying before, we don’t want to waste more time, do we?  It’s you and me now.  Without all these distractions, we’ll have opportunities in the nights ahead to pray to the gods for their revelation, provided you don’t fall asleep before we can.” 

Remarkably, you keep a straight face as Chan and the king retreat.  You, Hyunjin, and Jisung quietly make your way to the wagon with your trunks.  When safely out of sight of the sovereign and his clever captain, the three of you exchange a glance and promptly dissolve into laughter.  You try to contain it, desperately shaking your head, but it’s no use.  Hyunjin leans against the wagon, eyes closed while a laughing tear slides down his cheek.  Jisung doubles over, hands on his knees and shoulders shaking. 

“Did you see his face?”  Jisung wheezes.  He stands up, holding his middle like the laughter caused a strain.  “Ohhhh, sweet gods.  Forgive me.”  He makes the gesture of a blessing, crossing the symbol over his body and gazing heavenward.  It doesn’t stop his incessant giggling. 

“Shhh,” you say because it is appropriate, though your own laughter is still flowing.

Hyunjin covers his mouth and releases the rest of his laughter in the cup of his hand.  When you are all settled, you finish your task, only the occasional giggle as interruption.  You pack a small bag of necessities then meet the other kingsguards where they are arranging the horses.  The rest of the camp continues to prepare its own journey, though a few people watch as the kingsguards gather.  They make quite a sight, forming arrangement on horseback, their black robes flowing around them. 

Of course, the king does not see the value of their presence.  He focusses on a ridiculous detail, pointing to Hyunjin as the kingsguard mounts his horse.      

“She is not to ride with that one!” the king says. 

Hyunjin lays a hand over his heart, closing his eyes and looking dramatically sorrowful. 

“Han,” Chan says.  He sighs and gestures to Jisung.  “If you don’t mind taking the queen again.” 

Minho laughs.  He is perched on his own horse, reigns in one hand, rubbing the bridge of his nose with the other. 

“Of course,” Jisung says.  He bows quickly to Chan then spins towards you.  His hand emerges from the dark layers of his robes, held out to you in offering.  

He is wearing riding gloves, leather covering each finger to the knuckle.  You gaze at that hand and remember every tender touch.  It is remarkable that this same hand is used to fight. 

You lay your hand in his.  Even with the leather barrier, sparks ignite where your palms touch.  A frisson ripples all through your body, a still pond brought to life by a dropped pebble.   

He smiles at you, releases a breath of a laugh.  The tips of his ears are more than a little red, but no one else looks for that detail.  The king is glaring at Hyunjin who is simply staring at his own nails.  Chan is speaking with Minho who has assumed position at the front of the little contingency. 

Jisung holds your hand and takes the reigns of his horse with the other.  He guides you to the middle of the protective circle of guards.  Minho takes the lead, Seungmin and Jeongin flanking either side of you, with Hyunjin and Changbin defending the rear. 

You nod at them, smiling.  Jisung squeezes your hand as he turns you around to face him.  Your breath catches yet again when your eyes meet.  You fall into those dark eyes so easily, deep brown and fathomless.  You like his face so much, the softness of his features, the openness of his expression. 

He takes your waist in his hands.  There is a swooping rush in your belly as he lifts you.  So distracted with his eyes and face, you almost forgot what strength is hidden in the layers of holy black cloth.  He helps you onto the horse then smoothly swings up behind you. 

He lands with a soft little bounce, comfortably settling himself.  He flicks his robes with an unnecessary flourish and you bite your bottom lip to keep from giggling. He puts a finger to his lips, playfully scolding you. 

“You are incorrigible,” you murmur. 

His arms move around you as he picks up the reigns. His hips come forward, his chest against your back.  A flush of warmth moves through you.   It starts somewhere intimate, lower than that swooping rush, your body remembering all the way he touched you and aching for it again.  It startles you, how easily that feeling comes, when you never felt it before.  Now it is all you can think about, his body against yours, his breath on the nape of your neck. 

“Am I?” he asks in a soft, light voice. 

“Oh yes,” you answer quickly.  It makes him laugh. 

The king is not pleased with laughter, but the king does not have a chance to say anything.  Chan steps away from Minho and waves him forward.  Minho whistles and seconds later, the kingsguards are rearing into action.  The guards answer with a shout here and there, the horses kick with adrenaline, then the whole party bursts like lightning, fast as they fire across the earth and away from camp. 

You look over your shoulder, watching as the waiting figures shrink in size.  The king disappears before long and you smile, settling comfortably with Jisung’s arms around you.

-

You ride fast, careening down forest trails and cresting small hills far faster than the royal retinue would lumber along.   

Rest comes sooner too.  The kingsguards dismount to water their horses and themselves. 

Jisung leaps off his horse and holds out his arms to you.  You thank him, sliding into his waiting embrace where you linger just a moment too long. 

His eyes stray to a frizzy curl on your head.  Instinctively, he smooths it out.  You feel it all the way down your body, right to your toes.  You are a little sore from such hard riding, so maybe that explains how you shake, knees knocking as his fingertips sweep down the side of your face. 

“There,” he says, meeting your gaze with a smile. 

“Quite,” you reply. 

It is not what you want to say.  You want to ask when you can touch each other again and if he even wants to, though you suspect he does.  It’s in his eyes, the way he looks at every part of you.  It’s all-encompassing, fond and wanting, lingering too long in the places he dares to look.  He stares into your eyes, studies your expressions, gazes at your mouth. 

Yes, that makes your lips part as if in natural obedience.  His tongue touches his bottom lip and you feel tingles.  You know what that mouth feels like on your skin.  Just the recollection makes your insides melt.  How did you even survive that?  You want to try again and find out.   

Now is not the time.  The king might be far away but the kingsguards surround you.  You trust Minho, but it is hard to say how the others might react.  Hyunjin clearly does not respect the king, having decided he is not the true representation of the gods, but it is obvious this feeling derives from a steadfast devotion.  Just because he does not like the king, it does not mean he will be okay with Jisung breaking his vows.  The same goes for the others.  They are your allies for now and you need to keep them on your side before pushing further. 

This attraction is difficult to navigate.  You are not experienced with desire, having avoided it thus far in life.  It suited you then, but things are different with Jisung.  You find yourself reaching for him without thinking, brushing some hair across his forehead, then letting the back of your knuckles skim his cheek.  When he makes a light sound, an airy whine just from that simple touch, your poor trembling legs nearly give up altogether. 

Fortunately, you maintain your faculties.  You manage to separate when Jeongin approaches.  He does not remark on the intimacy of that fleeting exchange nor does he appear to notice at all.  His eyes are locked on some distant point, brow furrowed with deeply set anxiety.   His hand is on the hilt of his sword, gripping it so tightly it shakes a little.  His hair is dishevelled and not just from the exertion of riding, but like he has been frantically jamming his fingers in it, tugging at the scalp with fright. 

“Kingsguard Jeongin,” you say with a nod of acknowledgement.  “Is there something you need?”

He shakes his head.  He nods.  He shakes his head again.  

“Uh, you all right, man?” Jisung asks. 

Jeongin abruptly drops to his knees and throws his hands together in supplication.  He closes his eyes but it does not stop the few tears that fall.

“Oh!” you yelp, startled. 

“Whoa, hey!” Jisung says.  “Kid, what’s wrong?”

“Your Majesty, please forgive me,” Jeongin begs.  “And please ask the gods to forgive me too.”

“Jeongin,” you say, touching the top of his head.  It makes him shiver.  “Jeongin, what is it?”

“I lied to His Holiness,” Jeongin whispers.  He opens his watery dark eyes and looks up at you, brows knitting with his sorrow.  “I lied to Kingsguard Seungmin too.  And Captain Chan.  And to you.”  This final syllable is punched out with a sob.  He wipes his eyes.  “I know I shouldn’t have.  I’m a kingsguard.  I always have to make an honest report.  But I – I couldn’t – I didn’t want to watch—”

“Jeongin.”    You sink into a crouch so you can meet his gaze properly.  It makes his eyes widen and you think he might leap away, but your hand on his shoulder seems to steady him again.  “What did you lie about?”

“There were no assassins on the road,” he says.  “I told Seungmin there was.  I lied and I said it was too many for us to fight alone.  I said we had to tell Chan first.  I hoped if Chan thought there was a threat, he would send you down a different path, and I was right.” 

“Jeongin,” you say, rubbing his tense shoulder.  “Jeongin, it’s all right.  If I may, I just don’t understand why you did it?”

He obviously did not lie for the sake of itself, given he is so distraught.  It must have been a drastic decision for it to weigh so heavily now. 

He sniffles. 

“I’m sorry,” he says.  “It wasn’t my place.  The king has – the king has rights.  He’s the king.  I know.  I know.  But—”  He wipes his face and looks at you, imploring with his eyes.  “But he was going to hurt you the first chance he had,” Jeongin says.  “But you’re so – you’re so kind.  Your Majesty, it’s not right.  I didn’t want to watch him hurt you.  I couldn’t watch him hurt you.” 

“Oh, Jeongin,” you say.  You are so moved by his emotion that it leaves you stricken for a moment.  You can only stare at him.  Then, without thinking, you throw your arms around him.  Though it startles him at first, he slowly returns the embrace.  “You’re a very thoughtful man,” you say, your chin on his trembling shoulder.  “I could never hold any grudge against such a heartfelt action.”

“So I’m forgiven?” he asks. 

“You were never blamed, Jeongin,” you say, leaning back to look at him.  You cup his face and smile, your own eyes watery.   “Thank you,” you whisper. 

He nods and accepts your hands when you offer them.  You stand first and he bows his head to you, forehead pressed to your knuckles, then he rises as well. He bows one more time before he looks at the other kingsguards.  They went silent at his confession, all standing near their horses, contemplative looks on their faces. 

“Do we… go back?” Seungmin asks. 

They look at Minho.  Minho looks at you.  His face is pensive, not at all like that laughing jokester from this morning.  When he wants to be, his face is the most stoic, not revealing a single thought despite the scrutiny of his gaze. 

Finally, he shakes his head.  He looks at his horse, rubbing its nose. 

“There’s no harm in continuing our course,” he says.  “The king would just be agitated, hm?  We’ll spare him the trouble.” 

“Agreed,” Changbin says, though he cuffs Jeongin on the arm.  “You will pray for revelation tonight.  And you’ll take care of the horses.” 

“I will too,” Seungmin says, stepping forward and bowing his head.  “Honestly, I thought something was suspicious with his report.  I should have investigated myself and I didn’t, because I wanted the same thing as him.”

“Fine,” Changbin says.  “Both of you then.”

It is menial as far as punishments go, though you wish there was no repercussions at all.  They both acted on your behalf, but a kingsguard is not supposed to have such an emotional response and certainly never to the end of betraying his vows for even a moment.  Lying is a sin.  Lying to holy king, more so. 

You look at Jisung.  Perhaps surprisingly, he does not look especially shaken.  He exhales heavily, noisily fluttering his lips as if to make a point of his resignation.  When he looks at you, he winks.  It makes your voice catch, mouth open but words caught. 

He smiles and puts his hand on your lower back, guiding you forward. 

“Your Majesty,” he says.  “Come on.  Let me get you some water.”    

If Jisung is not afraid right now, then you will not be either.  Still, you look at Jeongin over your shoulder.  The guards all return to chatting while you let your mind wander. 

You are determined that no one will ever again be punished on your behalf.  You do not know how you will handle the king and the days to come, but you will think of something.  You must think of something.  Things cannot continue the way they have been.  Jisung’s affection has caused a revolution inside of you.  You will use those feelings for good.  Through his bravery and kindness, you will similarly impact your world.

You have spent your life passively receiving your fate.  You were never motivated to seek more.  That has changed.  You have feelings now. 

Things will change.  You will change them.

-

You stop in a riverside clearing just before nightfall.  Though your journey cuts through the forest, you weave back towards the water to make camp.  

Changbin and Minho take some time to peruse their maps and confirm their bearings, meanwhile Seungmin and Jeongin build and organize your little tent.  The boys will sleep on their bedrolls under the stars, the clear summer night permitting it, but it would not be appropriate for the queen to lay on the ground all night. 

You refuse to be totally useless so you go with Hyunjin and Jisung to collect some firewood.  They cut some larger pieces of wood and collect rocks while you gather sticks for kindling.  They show you how to arrange everything, then how to ignite a flame using a couple of twigs. 

The sun teeters on the horizon, a slash of orange darting through the lavender light of evening.  The faintest breath of wind stirs through dark locks of hair.  The boys decide they want to wash themselves while it is still relatively warm enough.  They go in groups of three so you are never left alone. 

The kingsguards may be tasked with watching the royal personage at all times in all circumstances, but that does not run the opposite direction.  It would be rather inappropriate for the queen to sit shoreside and ogle her naked guards as they splash around in the river. 

The nudity of bathing does not carry any shame, but these are kingsguards.  Their black robes feel like a part of them.  Even Jisung has not fully stripped in front of you.  The most skin you have seen came from Hyunjin when he was forced to disrobe for a whipping and that was not consensually granted.    

You are content to sit by the fire and listen to them on the other side of the treeline.  Jisung, Seungmin, and Jeongin bathe first, a rowdy little trio by the sounds of it.  Changbin and Hyunjin chuckle at their theatrics while Minho smiles.  They share some food and conversation with you.  

It is very calm and pleasant.  You feel like you can truly relax for the first time in days.  Even when the king was unconscious, the camp itself was always bustling with so many bodies and animals.  The encampment felt like a small city unto itself.  This is very different, slower and quieter but still very safe.  Yes, despite the darkening woods and the eerie quiet of its shadows, you are not afraid.  Changbin is at your side, Jisung is laughing somewhere, and Minho’s keen eyes are darting to and fro.  You have never felt more safe.

Of course, this arrangement is so intimate that you suspect it will be harder to be truly alone with Jisung.  It was easier to slip away in the busy crowd, but there is no where to hide in this clearing. 

It’s fine.  You can wait.  Patience, temperance, and self-denial are well-practiced traits of yours.

So you think until Han Jisung jumps some shrubbery and skips towards the fire.  He is wearing his shirt and pants again, though his outer robes are draped over his arm.  He is still damp, droplets of water slipping down the subtle but firm curve of his biceps.  He runs his fingers through his wet black hair, pushing it out of his eyes.  When he smiles at you, it makes you understand how poets like him can write endless songs about a single muse.  You wish you could better articulate just how deeply that smile touches you. 

Certain you will give yourself away otherwise, you do not smile back, dipping your gaze back to the fire and cramming some food in your mouth.  Minho gives you an amused look from the other side of the fire and it makes your face feel even hotter. 

Jisung takes a seat beside you.  A bedroll has been unfurled for your comfort and he sits just beside it, laying his robes on his other side.  He groans with satisfaction as he stretches his arms towards the fire. 

You chew your food with more concentration than it warrants, trying to ignore the flush caused by his unthinking moan.  It might be part of his silly theatrics but you will never hear that sound without thinking of the noises he made when inside you: his heavy breathing and the low pleasured moans exhaled softly into the tender skin of your throat as your bodies came together again and again. 

Jisung glances at you but you avoid his gaze, still too flustered to look at him.  Fortunately, Seungmin and Jeongin arrive seconds later.  They are also in their shirts and pants. While it is undoubtedly strange to see the kingsguards in that state, it does not affect you the same way.  It really is just Han Jisung, with his laughter and poetry, his silliness and seriousness alike.

Changbin, Minho, and Hyunjin leave to bathe.  Seungmin, Jeongin, and Jisung eat their share, continuing some silly jesting they started at the river.  They tease each other and make you laugh. 

Jeongin is the first to stand, sighing to himself.

“I’m going to say my prayers now,” he says.  “Like I was told, until I feel the gods’ revelation.” 

“I’ll go too,” Seungmin says, standing as well.  “Like I promised.”

You and Jisung nod.  You spare the boys a final glance that you hope conveys your gratitude.  You think it does because they both smile back.  They take their robes and venture further into the woods, presumably to be alone with the gods. 

Hyunjin, Changbin, and Minho are noisy but it is in the distance.  In the little space between you and Jisung, there is silence, only the fire crackling. 

You finally dare to meet his eye, each of you shyly glancing at the other.  He seems to have a slight blush but maybe that is the flames. 

“So,” you say.   

Changbin shouts something silly at Hyunjin.  Jisung looks in that direction before smiling an awkward sort of smile.  He rubs the back of his neck as he gazes at you.

You both understand that you are not truly alone.  He knows how precarious the situation is.  He clearly trusts Minho but is not sure how the others will react.  It is safer to keep your distance for now. 

“Are you excited to be back in the capital?” you ask.   

This causes his eyes to light up, bright as the flames.  His smile similarly jumps.

“Yeah, actually!” he says.  “You know, there’s some places I think you would like.  I wish I could take you there.”

You do not want to feel sad tonight, do not want to lament a life you do not have.  You want to imagine a reality where everything is possible.  Although poignancy tugs at your heartstrings, you rise above it, smiling at him.

“Talk to me as if we will go,” you say.

Some of the sadness seeps from his gaze.  The corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles, a true smile. 

“There are some amazing gardens, you know,” he says.  “Acres of tulips in more colours than you can imagine.  And an orchard of cherry blossom trees.  It’s – it’s very beautiful in the springtime.”

“Oh,” you say, swallowing.  “I think I will love it.”

“You will,” he says.  “You definitely will.  I can’t wait for you to see it.  There’s a tea house on the property.  They make a cherry tisane.  It sounds like something you’d enjoy.  I’ve noticed you have taste for sweet things.  You were—”  He giggles now, miming licking his fingertips.  “You were licking some sugar off your fingers in the first village when you thought no one was looking.”

“I should have known I would be caught,” you say, laughing. 

“Yes,” he says, still grinning.  “I couldn’t take my eyes off you if I tried.” 

“I know what you mean,” you reply softly.  “There was a bard at the banquet who sang so beautifully that it pulled me out of a lethargy I did not even realize I had slumped into.” 

“Oh wow,” Jisung says, blinking quickly, his eyes comically wide.  “He sounds amazing.  Was he that good of a singer?” 

“The best I’ve ever heard,” you say, giggling helplessly. 

“Oh wow, oh dang.”  He shakes his head.  “Was he handsome too?” 

“Mhm…”  Your face feels hot and you fidget with a loose thread on your gown.  “Very handsome, if I say so.”

“You are the gods-chosen queen,” he says solemnly.  “Your opinion is a sanctified one.  He must have been really good looking then, like, stunning, like probably the best looking bard who ever lived.  Fuck!  I can’t compete with that guy!” 

You laugh again, playfully shoving his shoulder while he giggles at his own silly joke. 

“This is probably a foolish confession,” you say, embarrassed to admit your words but spurred by desire nonetheless.  You think the growing darkness and loud flames might encourage your bravery.  “But when you stood in as proxy at the wedding,” you say, “For a moment… I imagined what it would be like to marry you instead.”

His eyes widen again but not overdramatically, his surprise pure and honest. 

“I didn’t know you yet, of course,” you say.  “I couldn’t truly imagine what that would look like.  It was a momentary fantasy.  I just – I imagined a life with music and a smiling face.” 

You stare back at him, your gazes locked.  The boys are still making noise by the water and the other two are off in prayer.  Darkness falls around you and the fire keeps you safe.  All this makes you bold, so you reach across the small space between your bodies and you touch his face.  When your palm cups his cheek, he takes in a breath and holds it. 

“I thought I would stop thinking about it as the days went on,” you whisper.  “Instead, now I see it better.  I think I would like to explore cities with you, and try sweet things.  And I think I would like even more to sit somewhere quiet at the end of the day, and do my needlework while you write songs.  And I think I should stop thinking about it…”  You drop your hand from his face, curl your fingers into your palm, and tuck your hand against your heart.  “Because I’m making myself sad again.  And I told myself I would not be sad tonight.” 

“I wish I could take it away from you,” he says earnestly.  “I like making you smile.  I could write a song about the way you laugh but the sound wouldn’t be half as beautiful.” 

You laugh at that, shaking your head, bashful.  He wags a scolding finger in your face.

“Hey!” he says.  “Don’t laugh at that.  I was completely serious.”

“I know you were,” you say.  “Trust me.” 

“I do,” he says, smiling.  His eyes roam your face, seeming to make a study of you.  He sighs, a sweet sound.  “I wish I could say I imagined marrying you,” he says.  “But honestly, never in my life would I have ever dreamed such a thing would be possible.  That you – that you – would ever look at me like—”  He is trying to be jovial but his tone drops, finishing in utter seriousness, “Like this.” 

“You speak so ill of yourself sometimes,” you say.  “I know you come from a small background, Han Jisung, but that is a testament to your character, not a fault of it.  I feel like I am the clumsy, foolish one, that I will forever be trying to reach the places you go.” 

You lift your hand in demonstration, above your head, glancing up at it.  He brings your gaze back down when he takes it in his own, lowering it so your clasped hands are between your hearts. 

“I think we’re somewhere here now,” he says. 

“Yes,” you say, swallowing again.  “I believe we are, against all odds.” 

“Against all odds,” he says and smiles.  It is that true smile again, the corner of his eyes so crinkled with joy.  It fills you with a similar happiness. 

The warmth of that delight simmers hotly when he brings your hand to his lips.  Surely, a kiss on the back of the hand is the most chaste kiss imaginable.  It should not summon a torrent of butterflies in your belly, yet you swear they burst so quickly that you could similarly take flight. 

He kisses that soft skin.  Your hand is so unblemished next to his.  You feel a sword callous where his thumb strokes you, a rough touch, though his lips are soft and warm. 

When you are not interrupted, he gets bolder, turning your hand over and kissing your palm.  He looks at you when he does.  His gaze is so penetrating that you feel it thunder through you, right down to your core.  This is not a chaste kiss, irrevocably claiming your hand with his mouth. 

The voices get louder as the three guards approach.   He releases your hand and you take it back, cradling it like something delicate.  You can still feel the place his mouth touched, radiating heat more thoroughly than the campfire. 

He is quicker at feigning indifference, immediately joking with his fellow guards as they approach the fire to dry off.  You smile politely but remain quiet, still so flustered inside. 

You spend the evening, sitting by the fire with the guards and talking about the days ahead.  The other guards also speak fondly of the capital and some people inside the castle walls.  You talk about your home too and they listen attentively. 

The day eventually catches up to you.  You yawn and apologize for the impolite action, covering your mouth.  It just makes the guards laugh fondly. 

“I suppose I best excuse myself for the night,” you say. 

You begin to stand and they all move, prepared to rise and help you.  Jisung beats them to it, on his feet and leaning over you in a matter of seconds. 

“Here,” Jisung says, holding out his hand.  “Let me, Your Majesty.” 

You take his hand.  Sparks ignite all over again, tingling all the way up your arm as he helps you to your feet.  Your tent is not far but Jisung walks you to it anyway, holding open the canvas as you step inside.  It is certainly not as big as the one in the encampment, the narrow space just big enough for a bedroll.   It is tall enough you can stand, but only barely. 

“Thank you,” you say, turning to face him.  You smile.  “Good night, Jisung.” 

“Good night, Your Majesty,” he says.  He is still holding your hand. 

A heartbeat passes.  He glances over his shoulder.  The other kingsguards must be occupied because he steps into the tent.  He is fast, taking the scarce second afforded to him. 

He does not waste it. 

He pulls you towards him.  His hand darts past your waist and circles your body so he can haul you up against him.  His other hand touches your face, his thumb on your chin to tilt your head. 

He kisses you.  Deeply, desperately. 

“Good night, Your Majesty,” he breathes, stealing one more kiss before he withdraws. 

It happens so fast but the effect lingers long after he is gone, your heart still racing and body still humming with desire. 

Your dreams the previous night do not begin to compare to the thoroughly involved and deeply sinful dreaming that comes to you tonight. 

-

You wake in a state, still flushed from a stimulating dream.  Your hands fumble on the ties of your dress as you prepare for the day.  You shake out your limbs before you open the tent canvas and step into the early morning light.

The kingsguards took shifts in guarding your tent.  Last night, you woke to some noisy nightingales and recognized Changbin’s silhouette outside your tent.  Content you were safe, you went back to sleep. 

The morning is crisp and cool, the air a balm on your warm skin.  That heat has no time to lessen, however, because the kingsguard standing post right now is Jisung. 

You look at each other for a moment.  It is very safe to say this regard is blatantly provocative.  He does not touch you, but it feels as though he is undressing you with his eyes, the dark depths skimming the loose ties of your bodice like he is calculating how quickly he can unravel it.  It would probably be fast.  He could crook his finger inside the knot and everything would come undone, yourself included. 

He is wearing his robes again.  It should make him little more than a shadow, but your body is imprinted with the feeling of his arms around you, his hands deft and firm where they touch and press.  

He looks over his shoulder.  You follow his gaze.  Hyunjin and Jeongin are still sleeping, dozing atop their bedrolls.  The others are nowhere to be seen but you can hear them in the distance, down by the river.

Jisung looks at you.  You do not doubt your hearts jump in unison with the same thought.

Seconds later, you are back inside the tent, his mouth on yours and his hands frantically squeezing your sides. 

“Jisung,” you whisper, throwing your arms around his neck.  You bury your fingers in his hair, thoughtlessly tugging at it, pushing your body right against his. 

He makes a low sound, short and quick, passed between your lips.  He pulls you into his arms so your bodies are flush against each other.  Even with the layers between, you feel him as he feels you, the plush curve of your breasts pressed against his flat chest, your thighs against his, the softness of your middle against the unmistakably stiff interest of his. 

“Gods help me,” he curses.

You think he tries to be graceful but you are both intoxicated with the kiss and it makes you clumsy.  You end up thumping down to earth, sprawling across on the bedroll.  It deters you for mere seconds, then he is back on you. 

You don’t have time to think, your body commandeering full control of your senses.  You lean back on your elbows, your legs falling open so he can fit his hips between them.  His hands come down on either side of you, leaning you back as he kisses you until you are dizzy. 

“I thought about you all night,” he whispers.

He kisses you again, his mouth open, his tongue on your lips.  You open your mouth instinctively, letting him in.  The place between your thighs seem to follow the same command, heat flooding so fast and intensely when he licks into your mouth.  You suddenly feel so empty down there in comparison, your body begging for more.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said,” he continues, then kisses you again, then groans.  “About us,” he says.  “If you were my wife – oh – gods be good—“

You mewl.  It is the only word to describe your whimpering when he lays you out and presses against you intimately, his hips rocking so you can feel exactly what he means. 

“I would have taken you right there,” he whispers, staring down in your eyes as he rolls his body against yours.  “I would have had you under those stars.  I’d have you again right now.  You’d never know anything but happiness and pleasure.  I’d make you feel so good.  So, so good. Always.  If you were mine.” 

“I am yours,” you whisper back, at least halfway delirious but nonetheless passionate.  It is your only coherent sentence before your head tips back and your eyes close, your hips raising to meet his with a frenetic desperation. 

He whimpers too.  His expression is almost pained, his shoulders shaking. 

“It takes me apart when you say things like that,” he says.  “Do you understand?  How you change everything?  My whole world?”

“Yes,” you say, nodding quickly.  You are certain your own expression borders pain and pleasure.  “Yes, I understand.  Jisung.  Jisung.” 

“Jisung?”  That voice is Changbin from outside the tent. 

It is effective as a bucket of cold water.  You and Jisung look at each other, wide-eyed and panting, then mutely rip apart.  He is the first out of the tent, practically bursting into the morning light.  It startles Changbin who nearly topples over.  He has barely righted himself when you emerge too. 

“Is everything all right?” Changbin asks, looking quickly between you.

“I fell,” you blurt.

“She fell,” Jisung repeats. 

“You fell?” Changbin asks, lifting his eyebrow.  He steps back to look at the tent, then he looks at you.  “Are you all right?”

“No,” you say, then shake your head.  “I mean, yes.  My apologies, kingsguard.  It just really startled me.  I hit my head.”

“She hit her head,” Jisung repeats.

“Jisung tried to help me but then he fell too.”

“I tried to help her but then I – wait—”

“That does sound like you,” Changbin says, frowning.  “Tsk, shame.”  He swats at Jisung before bowing appropriately to you.  “Your Majesty, are you all right?  Do you need anything?”

“Umm, some water if you don’t mind?” you say. 

“Of course,” Changbin says.  He puts a scolding finger in Jisung’s face.  “Try not to fall on her when I’m gone.” 

“I’ll certainly try,” Jisung says.  “No promises.”

When Changbin is out of sight, you playfully kick Jisung.  He feigns immense pain but then he winks at you. 

Your heart skips a beat. 

This might be a long journey after all.

-

Hyunjin and Jeongin wake not long after.  You depart earlier than scheduled. 

Jisung never gets a moment to calm down, still half-aroused when he sits behind you in the saddle.  It provokes your own arousal, impossible to shake the all too clear fantasy of him pressed against your backside, his body moving against yours, not entirely unlike the up-and-down sway in the quick canter of the horse ride. 

“Are you all right?” you ask after some time.

“Ha-ha,” he says.  “Fuck no.” 

It makes you laugh, though it also leaves you feeling very warm. 

Jisung sprinkles himself with water at the next rest stop, dabbing his neck and face while you pet his horse.  Minho and Changbin are conversing over a map, gesticulating and debating something.  Minho nods definitively and rolls up the paper. 

“We’re making better time than anticipated,” he says.  “If we don’t delay at our rests, we may be able to reach one of the outermost villages before nightfall.” 

“Sounds like a good plan to me,” Seungmin says, to which everyone concurs.  Finding an inn would be preferable to another night on the forest floor. 

You reach the first town just after nightfall.  The capital, itself, is at least another day’s ride, but towns and villages dot the landscape leading up to it. 

It does not take long to find an inn.  The kingsguards are an unmistakeable order, especially a pack of them, walking into a room with their black robes and shining swords.  The innkeepers fall over themselves, rushing up to greet the holy soldiers as they let themselves into the downstairs tavern. 

The kingsguards do not need to introduce you.  Though you must look a little wild with some undone curls and a well-worn dress, there is only one female figure the kingsguards – queensguards – would be escorting. 

At first, the guards are better received than you.  It is obvious these men have earned a good reputation with the people, regarded as a separate entity from the king.  If the king was unpopular with the common people in the country provinces, it becomes abundantly clear he is even less popular here.  You suppose that makes sense as he is much more likely to visit one of these provinces. 

You let your decency and good nature speak for itself.  The innkeepers warm up to you in no time, happily holding conversation while a couple of the kingsguards give the building a walkthrough.

You are all given some food and board.  The upper level has been cleared for privacy, which somewhat embarrasses you, but the kingsguards claim it is a worthwhile safety measure given the events of the last few days. 

Changbin takes the first shift, guarding you.  It is early and you are very awake from so much socializing, so you invite him inside to sit with you.   The room is not overly ostentatious but it is more than suitable, a decent size with a wide bed and a seating area. 

You and Changbin sit across from each other at the table.  You brought a small embroidery hoop and some thread so you work on that while chatting with Changbin.  He expresses some interest in what you are doing so you show him.  He takes to it as naturally as last time, giggling gleefully at his handiwork.   

The hours tick past.  There is a knock at the door, one of the kingsguards to relieve Changbin from his post.  They will continue to take turns through the night.

Though you mask your thoughts, you are disappointed when the door opens and it is Minho standing there.  Maybe it is for the best.  It would have been hard to explain why Jisung felt the need to guard you from inside your room all night – to say nothing of guarding you under the covers. 

Changbin bids you a good night.  Minho nods to him as he departs, then he looks at you with a rather drole quirk of his eyebrow.

“Try and get some sleep, Your Majesty,” he says, then he bows his head respectfully and closes the door. 

His tone was a little odd but you suppose Lee Minho is a rather quirky character at times. 

Shaking your head, you bolt and lock the door as you were advised.  You hum to yourself as you move around the room, supposing it is an appropriate hour to prepare for bed, though you are still quite awake.

You take your hair down and remove your shoes and stockings.  You have only just grasped the front ties of your dress when there is a knock.  You step towards the door when the knock comes again.  This time, it makes you pause, because the sound does not seem to resonate from the door.  You linger in the middle of the room, waiting and listening.

The knock comes again.  You turn around.  It is coming from the other side of the room.  Is someone knocking at the window?  That can’t be possible; you are on the third and uppermost floor of a building.  

You are about to turn and alert Minho when someone says your name.  It is not your title nor any honorific, simply your given name.  You recognize the voice immediately. 

You hurry over to the window, unlatching the casement and throwing it open.  Sure enough, Han Jisung is dangling from the ledge, grinning but sweating and looking rather strained. 

“What are you doing?” you whisper frantically. 

“I’m climbing,” Jisung whispers back.  “It’s romantic – whoa!” 

He nearly slips in an attempt to get his bearing, making you squeak with alarm.  He laughs nervously when he strengthens his grip, giving you an awkward smile. 

“Just give me a second,” he says.  “I promise, this is gonna be super romantic as soon as I get up there.  Oh.  Ouch.  Oof.  I really should have taken the robe off first.  Ouch.  Hold on.  Okay.  All right.  Here we go.”

He manages to lift himself onto the window ledge.  It is a rather narrow window so it is something of a comical sight, watching him try to find a way inside.  When he realizes he can’t turn enough to swing a leg in, he opts to tip into the room backwards, landing on his back with a thud. 

“Shhh,” you say, trying not to laugh, putting a finger over your lips.

He puts a finger over his lips too, eyes darting back and forth with joking panic.

“You are ridiculous,” you say, helping him to his feet.

“I thought I was incorrigible,” he replies.  He shakes out his robes, flapping them like wings.

“You’re that too.”  You close and lock the casement, firmly bolting the latch. 

The amusement and giddiness fades, though the adrenaline remains.  You and Jisung look at each other, completely alone in a locked room for the first time in a couple days.  It seems impossible that you were similarly alone in a room at a different inn, just a handful of days past.  So much has transpired in so little time.  You can only imagine what else could happen.  You think the possibilities are limitless, so long as he keeps looking at you like that. 

Even if his gaze does make you feel flushed.  You have already been very intimate and it is obvious you both want to continue that, but it does not get easier to proposition it.  The more you want him, the more tension you feel. 

“Right,” you say with a weak little laugh as you march past. 

His eyes follow you.  You hear him cross the room, the slow thud of booted steps as he moves.  He takes off his outer robe, the swishing slither unmistakable as the fabric sweeps the floor.  

You approach the table with your embroidery, keeping your back to him as you organize your tools. 

“Um, so I suppose, um,” you start and stumble.  You do not know what to say.  There is so much and yet there are no words. 

You struggle another moment, mouth open around empty, airy syllables.

He touches your arm, just the gentlest sweep of his knuckles from your shoulder to your elbow.  You did not even hear him step behind you, but now he conquers all your senses.  You feel him even where he is not touching you.  You close your eyes and his face is there, those familiar eyes and that devastating smile. 

“Your Majesty,” he says, his voice light, undemanding yet so seductive.  It makes your core tighten.  “If I only keep one vow my whole life – I want it to be this.”  His hand sweeps back up your arm, across your shoulder, brushing some hair off your neck.  “The gods brought me to you to keep you safe and to serve you.  You have let me keep the first vow.  Please.”  His breath touches your neck.  “Please.”  His tone is truly pleading.  “Please let me keep the second vow.”    

It is not a surprise you cannot formulate a verbal reply.  Your voice and breath are caught, no doubt trapped by your pounding heart.  You are captivated and glad to be. 

You turn around.  Your eyes meet.  The eye contact alone stirs your arousal.  You remember him looking at you through the mirror, the most he dared, at least until he snuck into your tent and made love like he was writing songs of worship. 

Your eyes remain locked as you gather the front ties of your dress and begin to unravel the knot.  Without looking down, he takes them from you.  He tugs the ends, drawing you closer to him.  Closer and closer until you are pressed between him and the table edge.  You lean against it and surrender, sliding your hands up his bare arms until they are resting on his clothed shoulders. 

He kisses you.  It is different than earlier, not so frantic but just as searching.  He makes a sound like pain, his brow knitting together, mouth opening against yours.

Your dress comes apart in his hands.  You murmur his name as he pulls the material down, leaving you clad in your shift.  You expect him to let the dress fall and lift your shift over your head, but he follows the fabric of the dress down, carefully guiding it over your hips.  He sinks lower, lower, and lower still, until he is down on one knee, still guiding the dress.  It falls past your knees and puddles on the floor, leaving you in your shift. 

“Jisung,” you say, touching the side of his face. 

His eyes are closed.  He shudders when you touch his face.  It makes his eyes fly open, flickering with something like fear until he looks into your eyes and it all goes away. 

“I want…” he says.

Suddenly his other knee drops.  He sits back on his heels, tilting his head so far back to gaze up at you imploringly. 

“I don’t know,” he says, laughing at himself.  His eyes wander down your body, the plain shift that he has seen in so many revealing stages, down the curve of your breasts and their excited peaks, down over your hips, down between your legs. 

Yes, he focusses there, taking a deep breath.  He kneels upright, taking the hem of your shift in hand. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says, gathering the material, guiding it up.  “I mean, I do.  I know but I – I don’t.”  He glances up at your face then he looks down again, eyes once more between your thighs as he reveals more and more skin.  His fingers are trembling where they clutch the material.   “I want to, though,” he says.  “Please. Please. Your Majesty.” 

“Jisung,” you say softly.

You run your fingers through his hair.  He positively melts under the gentle ministration, pressing his face over the material between your legs.  His nose swipes somewhere sensitive and it makes you jump, tugging on his hair. 

“Jisung, you can do what you want with me,” you say.  “You know that.  You know—”

“I do,” he says, kissing you through the material, making your thighs twitch.  “I do.  I want.  I want.” 

He lifts the hem up past your belly.  You take the material, holding it as you hold your breath.  His hands skim your sides and the curve of your hips, his eyes nearly crossing each other with his hypnotized concentration. 

You are not sure what he is doing, not when he kisses your thighs, not when he touches you behind the knee and guides it over his shoulder.  You just know the sight of him on his knees makes your whole body weak.  You are glad the table is behind you, offering support, or you would already be a useless puddle on the floor, much like your discarded dress. 

You think he is just kissing you, just teasing you, moving further along your inner thigh.  Then he kisses the place between your legs, no barrier between his mouth and the soft, wet place that is begging for him. 

“Oh,” you say. 

It is the only thing you can say for a while, mouth frozen in a round O of surprise when he continues to kiss there.  Chaste – if they can be called that – kisses until his tongue pokes through.  His fingers press into your thigh as he moans and buries his face between your legs, his open mouth ravishing you. 

Your head falls back, chest rising and falling rapidly, not a coherent sound crossing your lips as he puts his tongue inside you and coaxes all those half-mad noises from within you.  It goes on until you are so hot and dizzy that, when he takes your leg off his shoulder, you must fully slouch against the table to stay standing. 

You look down at him, so desperate for more that you must look feral with want.   He wipes his face, glancing down at the wetness that has touched his black shirt.

You realize now why he stopped.  He reaches back over his head, taking the fabric in his fists and pulling.  He tugs the shirt off and throws it to the side, exposing all that honey-smooth skin to your hungry, roving eyes. 

Then he dives back in, putting your leg on his bare shoulder and his tongue inside you.  You cry out, gripping his hair, your hips bucking of their own volition as he runs his tongue back and forth, back and forth, tormenting that bead of pleasure until little waves of anticipation start to build inside you. 

“Jisung, Jisung,” you whisper, the roughness of your own voice unrecognizable to you.  He is the one on his knees but you sound like the one in prayer, uttering his name with so much reverence as he takes you over an impossible crest of pleasure.  One hand is buried in his hair but the other you use to cover your mouth, eyes closing as you ride the height of your pleasure on his eager face. 

You both take a gasping breath when it is over.  You look at each other the way romantics gaze at the heavens, full of wonder and awe. 

“How—” he begins then clears his throat.  He wipes his face as he stands, yearning eyes rivetted to yours.  “How do you feel?”

“I feel – I feel—”  You really think about it, following each tingle as it bolts, lightning quick, back to its source.  Your thighs twitch and your body clenches, tightening around nothing, and you know the answer.  “Empty,” you say.  “I feel – I need—”

“Oh,” he says, nudging your legs apart and standing between them.  “Oh, my darling.” 

You grab his face with both hands and pull it to yours, tasting yourself on his lips and tongue.  He kisses your mouth as eagerly as he kissed down there, his hands on your waist, moving up under the shift.  You quickly lift it off, tossing it blindly behind you.  You lean back and he follows you, his mouth in a quick but hot chase, moving down your throat to your breasts. 

You plant your hands behind you, sitting fully on the table now.  You let your head fall back as he stands between your open legs and kisses so many sensitive places. 

“The king won’t see you for at least a week,” he murmurs, leaving little kisses around the stiff bud.  It makes your back arch, offering yourself up to him.  

You lift your head to look at him.  He meets your gaze, his dark eyes turned up as his open mouth descends. 

“Jiii—” is the only syllable you manage, biting your lip to stop because it was too loud. 

It is hardly fair, though, when he bites the tender skin only to love at it with his tongue. 

“Oh, sweet gods,” you say, watching, hips bucking, as he does it again.  “I thought you were a chaste virgin.” 

“I am,” he says, then smiles.  “Was.  But—”  He leaves another love bite, then kisses his way back up to your face.  He smiles at you.  “I’m good at everything.”

“Oh, I see,” you say, laughing at his playfulness.  “Vanity is a sin, you know.”

A laugh bursts out of him, louder than all your previous moans.  You both slap a hand over his mouth, barely stifling the giggles that follow. 

Smiling at each other, you take your hand off his mouth.  You tuck some of his hair behind his ear.  His neck is already a little sweaty and there is a line of sweat in the middle of his bare chest.  You trace it, your finger circling his pectoral, almost as sensitive as your peaks given how his eyelids flutter and get heavy with want. 

“Jisung,” you whisper.  “I want you.”

“You want me,” he says, all at once intoxicated with desire.  “I want you.” 

“Have me,” you say, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck and pulling him to you.  “Jisung, I’m yours.  Please.  Please.”

“Oh gods.” Despite his playful cockiness, his hands are shaking when they go to the ties of his trousers.  He fumbles with them like last time, needing your help to undo the knot.  Your fingers weave through the string, loosening it, and he releases a breath when he can pull the front material apart. 

You wrap your legs around him, guiding him towards your centre.  He nearly topples you and the table, practically falling into your arms.  He laughs nervously, then closes his eyes as you put your arms around him.  He groans with deep-set pleasure when you drag your fingernails from his shoulders all the way down his back. 

He has himself in hand and he is shivering as you scrape your nails down his back.  It makes him as wet as he is hard, the tip of him gliding along your wetness in a way that leaves you shaking. 

“You’re torturing me,” you whisper, grinding against his tip, shuddering when he rubs up and down over that still-sensitive bead of pleasure.   “What are you – what are you—”     

“I’m not torturing you, ‘m not,” he says, slurring just a little, kissing your cheeks and your jaw and your neck.  “Majesty.  Queen.  You.  My – Oh.  I’m just – I want to see you – I want to feel you—”

He wants to make you reach that climax again, which he does, just by grinding against you.  It washes over you with so much intensity that you rear up then fall back.  It causes a table leg to crack.

You look at each other with wide eyes, glancing beneath you to see the damage.  You both fail to stifle another giggle, exchanging a shocked expression, then mutely changing location. 

Your feet touch the ground for mere seconds before he picks you up, hands on your waist, the same gentlemanly touch when he helps you onto his horse.   This time he puts you on the bed, crawling up after you as you scoot to lay in the centre of it. 

His pants are still on but low slung.  He pushes them further until they are around his thighs, nothing more than a useless hindrance as your legs open for him.  He hooks his arms under your knees and pulls you to him.  You are so wet and so open and ready. 

It is easier than the first time, but still a momentary sting as he enters you, one that disappears as he sinks in deeper until you are as intimate as two humans can be. 

“Yes,” you say.  It feels so good that you release a tear.

“Oh, my – my darling, my queen, I—”  He kisses that tear track, then moves his arms so he can plant his hands on either side of your head.  He moans at the depth afforded to him in that angle, rocking against you with an energy more needy than calculated. 

“Be – be careful—” you say with a little laugh, because he is thrusting so haphazardly that it is making the bed squeak.  “Unless you want everyone to know what you’re doing to me.”

“Well,” he says with a laughing exhale.  “Maybe I do.  I mean, I don’t, that would be very bad.  But also—” 

He moves slower, mindfully, counting each stroke and measuring its impact by the look on your face.  He is slow, then a little faster, but not enough to squeak the bed again – just enough that you forget how to speak, staring at him through dizzy eyes as he takes you so deeply and so precisely. 

“No one else has you like this,” he whispers.  “You are – so beautiful – and composed – and gr-graceful – but for me—”

He covers your mouth when you moan too loud, but it just makes you whimper pathetically into his hand.  Your eyes close as he rolls his hips into yours, relentlessly riding you to an entirely different precipice of pleasure. 

“For me,” he says.  “You’re like this.  I know you.  I know you.”  He emphasizes this with a hand between your bodies, stroking that place again as he takes you. 

It’s no wonder the kingsguards are considered deadly; his coordination is truly fatal, never faltering for a second.  He is even quick enough to cover your mouth when you reach that crest, sobbing into his palm with nothing but sheer pleasure. 

“Yes,” he says and kisses your wet face, down your throat.  He puts his face against your neck and rocks his hips a little more frantically.  “You feel – you are – I never want to stop – I want – oh gods – it’s you.  It’s you.  You’re everything.  You’re my – you’re mine, you’re all of it.  Fuck.”

He pulls out before reaching his climax.  This time you finish him, taking him in hand.  It takes only one stroke for him to come to you, his face twisted up with his pleasure and a whine in his throat as he releases himself all over your thighs. 

He falls on top of you after, his head on your chest and his eyes closed.  You run your fingers through his messy hair, then down his spine and back up again.  He trembles a little but every exhale sounds like relief. 

Eventually, he lifts his head.  You are not sure who initiates the kiss, only that you fall into it with the same all-encompassing desire as all the others. 

“Will you stay a while?” you ask. 

He nods.  His dark eyes are a little shiny and his laugh is a little watery when he says, “I’d stay forever if I could.”

“I know,” you say, swallowing down the same emotion as you take him back into your arms.  “I know, Jisung.” 

You really do.

The kingsguard has a sanctified power, burdened with the responsibility of protecting the crown above all else.  This manifests as protecting the king, so long as oaths are kept and holy accords obeyed.   The king is abundantly aware he is not in the leader’s good graces right now.   Even that petulant fool of a man is smart enough to recognize that antagonism from an ancient religious order is a perilous position for a holy king. 

Because he cannot harass Chan, the king directs his ire towards Hyunjin, so Chan sends Hyunjin across the camp to help there.  Jisung accompanies him.  As the lowest ranked kingsguard, his absence will not be minded. 

You are irate, watching Hyunjin limp away with Jisung following behind him.  You think of their skill and bravery in protecting you from the assassins.  You think of their loyalty and good hearts.  They both deserve better. 

Stewing in irritation, you opt to stay out of the way.  It is better to remain unobtrusive rather than instigate more dramatics after the events of today.   

You kneel down in the grass, out of the way of the tents.  You are organizing a bag of personal effects when an unfamiliar pair of painted boots appear in your line of your vision.  You slowly look up, startled to find one of the king’s courtiers looming over you.  He is one of the few who has been riding in the carriage and you are surprised he is so far from the inner circle now. 

“Your Holy Majesty,” he says, surprising you with the appropriately respectful title.  He surprises you further by offering his hand and helping you to your feet.  The final surprise is a bow so deep he bends his knees.  “I ask for your grace and forgiveness,” he says.  “And I ask for you to pray on my behalf that the gods may also forgive me for my petty transgressions.  I would never speak ill of the gods-chosen king but—”  He looks over his shoulder briefly, spots the king far across the camp with the remainder of his inner circle.  Satisfied with the distance, he looks at you, expression solemn.  “But I believe human error may have conquered the holy senses,” he says.  In a lower voice, tinged with resentment, he says, “To raise hands to the queen in public, especially after the events of the other day…” 

You are still too surprised to respond.  You stand there, hands folded in front of you, blinking at the man. 

He says with some finality, “I know I am not alone in feeling this way.  Your Holiness, please ensure that you have support in some noble factions here – particularly after today.  And please do recall, this is not all the court, merely the king’s personal selection, and there are those at home in the capital who will also support you.” 

The sincerity of his oath leaves you stunned.  You stare at his footprints long after he has departed. 

The courtier does not return to the inner circle but joins a different cluster of palace residents.  Their attention turns to you,  followed by dips and bows. 

Your bewildered mind finally catches up to your racing heart.  You sweep into a quick return bow.  When you turn away, you let out a breath.  Your eyes trace the treeline around the clearing.  The smoky orange mist of sunset winds through the branches.  You look but do not see, mentally replaying the whole exchange.

It seems even the most devout courtiers have a restricted capacity for tolerance.  Their motivations may be selfish, in seeing a flagrant disrespect of the gods’ will and worrying what ramifications will manifest for them, but it is still a significant loyalty shift.

You allow yourself a little smile.  Knowing the camp is no longer brimming with hostiles lightens your heavy heart.

You are barely at ease when you turn around, startled again by yet another visitor.  This time is the kingsguard Minho.  He stands as still and patient as marble, poised like a handsome statue, hand on the hilt of his sword.  He lists slightly to that side, his other hand dangling in a fist. 

“Your Majesty,” he says.  His bow is more of a nod as he seems lost in contemplation – or maybe that is scrutiny, studying you like your face holds the answer to some profound question. 

You are open as ever, as patiently marble, waiting for him.  

He exhales.  It sounds like a surrendering.   It makes you nervous, especially with the way he darts a glances over his shoulder.  The king and other kingsguards are busy, the courtiers turned to their own affairs, and servants busy with meal preparation.

You cannot imagine what Minho has to say or do that cannot be witnessed.

Your answer comes without a word, but a gesture, his closed first opening between you.  You jump at what he reveals.

The phial of sleeping draft.  You assumed it was lost in the ocean tide.  Last you touched it, it went into your dress pocket, and that dress is now underwater.  You thought the draft was lost too.  You lamented the only protection you had in prolonging the king’s advances. 

It must have fallen out of your pocket earlier than that, when you threw yourself to the forest floor in sickness.  Minho helped you through it.  Somewhere in your distraction, he must have grabbed the bottle. 

A hot flash of terror spreads through you, looking at the dark liquid sloshing around in that little phial.  When you look up, his brow is furrowed, face pinched with intense scrutiny. 

You are not sure what to expect.   Minho is decent and he seems close with Jisung, which naturally lends your trust to him, but your interactions have been minimal and cordial.   He could grab you by the wrist and drag you to Chan, accusing you of harbouring poison.  It would no doubt instigate the king’s wrath and everything would spiral before you could catch your breath. 

Minho sighs. 

“Will it kill him?” he asks. 

“Oh.”  It is not the question you are expecting.  Nonetheless, with sincerity and pleading eyes, you reply, “No.  I swear.  It’s just a sleeping draft.  For – for myself.  To help me – at night.” 

He has clever eyes, full of thought.  You suspect he can deduce what that really means.    

“Mm,” is all he says.  He takes your hand and puts the phial in your palm, then he closes your fingers around it.  He gives you a look, something stern, something that demands secrecy without a word. 

You nod, clutching the bottle tightly. 

“Be careful,” he says. 

“Of course,” you reply. 

He walks away while you gather yourself, the adrenaline of two unpredictable encounters simmering.  It has not yet settled when the king barks an order, his voice making you jump, particularly when your name is included in his angry tone. 

It draws Hyunjin from the outskirts.  He is still teeming, looking as though he wants any excuse to swing at the king again, punishments be damned.  Jisung is a step behind him, looking with worried eyes while the king seeks you out. 

The king stops a distance from you, shouting across a fire pit, like he cannot be bothered to cross that space – or maybe because he sees a fuming Hyunjin in his periphery.  He does not look at the kingsguards, not even Chan who approaches on his other side. 

He glares at you, enunciating every word with a snarling upturn of his lip as he says, “Go to the river.  Bathe yourself.  You will see me tonight.” 

This gives you another flash of terror, wide-eyed as you stare at his retreating form.  The implications are not subtle.  They are also not surprising.  He has spent the day being belittled and tested and he blames the brunt of it on you.  Of course a cruel and violent man would wrestle back his supposed dignity in the only hateful way he can, putting you in whatever perceived place he believes you belong. 

You know he will make it awful.   He would have been unkind on your initial wedding night, but now you are certain he will be brutal.   He does not just want to use you, he wants to hurt you. 

You wish you could be stronger in the face of this reality, uncaring and brash and mouthy, snarking at him behind his back.  Your heart is not built that way.  You are frightened and very sad, fist curled so tightly at your side that it shakes. 

You almost forget what that fist is holding until you glance at Minho.  He is leaning against a tree, out of sight of the king.  He quirks an eyebrow then mimes taking a drink. 

Unfortunately, this makes you laugh, your nerves melting into the outburst of sound. 

The king looks at you over his shoulder, his eyes furious.  You feel the sparkle in your own as you stare back at him. 

Before the king speaks again, Chan steps forward.  His displeasure is obvious, his concern more so.   He looks at you with that despondency, helpless to do anything insofar as the marriage bed.  That is not the realm of the kingsguard, to say the least, though Chan looks like he wishes he could command otherwise. 

“The queen should not be left unaccompanied,” Chan says.  Looking at the king, he says bitingly, “Especially considering recent attempts on her life, Your Holiness.” 

Holiness sounds like an accusation in that tone. 

The king straightens, glaring back at Chan. 

Hyunjin, seemingly determined to escalate the mounting tension, walks towards you with an easy gait.  He smiles a very charming smile. 

“I can escort the queen,” he says, in a very different voice than usual, almost sultry in its depth.  It makes you blink in confusion.   

The king forgets Chan entirely as he reels around, pointing a finger at Hyunjin. 

“You will burn for eternity first, kingsguard,” the king snaps. 

Hyunjin just smiles prettily, hands folded neatly behind his back.  The lack of response agitates the already exasperated king, who huffs and shakes his head.  His eyes dart around and inevitably land on Han Jisung.  It startles Jisung who swings into an instinctive bow.  He stares wide-eyed at the ground. 

“Bard boy,” the king says.  “Take the queen.” 

You look at Jisung as he straightens.  His blinking gaze moves from the king to you. 

That laughter is still caught in your throat, its bubbling delight only intensifying as you look at each other.  You think of that kiss on the riverbank, the softness of his every glance since then.  You do not even think it is especially subtle, or maybe you are just supremely aware of it, holding his gaze as he approaches you.  You feel like it gives everything away. 

But the king is arrogant and he thinks Jisung is nobody important.  He does not even glance at Jisung, his eyes following Hyunjin as he waltzes away. 

“Are you going to take me then, bard boy?” you whisper. 

Jisung chokes on a laugh, a blush darkening the tips of his ears.  He looks over his shoulder but everyone else is ambling back to their posts.  

He looks at your innocently fluttering eyelashes. 

“Don’t tease,” he says with a nervous giggle.  “I think it might kill me.” 

He means it in a playfully hyperbolic way, but you grant there is a sobering truth to that statement.  It succeeds in quieting you, your fingers now clammy where they grip the phial.  You let your mind wander to that, preoccupied with the thought of tonight while you fetch some necessities.  Jisung is dutifully quiet the entire trek, following at an appropriate length all the way down to the riverside. 

You think he has similarly sobered, so quiet behind you as you step through the trees to the water.  The grass turns to sand and pebbles beneath your feet, crunching with every step. 

Your mind is far away, thinking of your very precarious position, how you can slip the king sleeping draft tonight, if it is even worth it to prolong the inevitable.  You doubt he will ever change his feelings for you.  You cannot be so demure and loving that a man with no respect for humanity will somehow see the special humanity in you. 

Your gaze rests on the flowing river, the setting sun as it casts streak of orange and lavender over the water.   The breeze is laced with an evening chill, brushing a curl off your shoulder.

You realize that is not the breeze.  The gentle touch is Jisung.  You shiver as his fingertips follow the tumbling curl down your back, until he is not even touching you but you still feel the proximity.  It moves through you with an intensity far more powerful than the king’s threatening glower. 

This warmth is not terror, a different heat that rushes and burns with startling efficiency. 

“What can I do?” he asks in that careful, low voice. 

You remember him behind you just like this, supporting your body, the look on his face and the feel of him as you discovered more pleasure than you ever knew existed.  You are amazed that it is not the most preached phenomenon of them all, that the gods would bestow such a gift on humanity.  You cannot imagine what you would have done without the revelation.  The immensity of it all has you shivering. 

“You’ve already done so much,” you say. 

“I’ll come to you after,” he says, words flowing in a nervous rush.  “I’ll help you.  Whatever you need – if you’re – if something happens – I can come.  The king won’t care if it’s just me.  I’m just bard boy, ha-ha, I don’t – it won’t matter, at least—”

You turn around.  His breath catches as your eyes meet.  His hand is still hovering, trembling, but he drops it to his side.  His eyes dart to the empty treeline and back. 

“Bard boy,” you whisper with a smile, teasing.  “The king may believe otherwise, but you are most assuredly admired by your queen.”  

“You—”  He looks at the still-empty treeline then you again.  He is so clearly flustered. On a startled, nervous laugh, he says, “You can’t say things like that to me.”

“Why not?” 

He kisses you, a reply made with no hesitation.  He cups a hand around your jaw, fingers firm on your neck with a guiding pull.  He kisses you and it is more than a touch.  If some kisses are whispers, this is a song, rhythmic and grand. 

Your knees nearly buckle beneath you.  This is your third kiss but it feels like first and the thousandth, the natural way you move together, gasps of breath and pressing lips.  His hand moves under your hair, cupping the back of your neck.  Your own hand raises, fingertips stroking his jaw then resting between his neck and shoulder. 

He makes a noise into the kiss, tilting his head, kissing you with so much intensity that you both stumble.  His eyes widen at his own actions, a hand covering his mouth as he looks at the treeline.  His startled expression makes you burst into giggles, still riding the high of the kiss itself. 

“That was – that was my fault,” he says, throwing his hands into a surrender, then raking them through his hair until it is a dishevelled mess.  “My fault, my fault, it’s fine, it’s fine.”  He makes a series of faces while muttering to himself, giggling nervously at you, then walking away to stand guard. 

You turn your back to him, hiding your smile as you touch your lips.  Somehow a kiss provided all the courage you needed to decide, yes, it will be worth prolonging the king’s advances.  You and Jisung are already outsmarting him, his arrogant eye turned to the wrong kingsguard, and you will continue to find ways to do so.   The sleeping draft was made by a friend and you know you will develop more.  Perhaps alone you cannot combat a king, but you are not alone. 

For now, you play his game.  A quick wash will feel good after the long day in the summer sun regardless of intention. 

You do not fully strip down, simply to your shift, as is appropriate for a queen bathing out-of-doors.  It is about the only appropriate protocol, as you should have more company than solitary male guard, even a kingsguard.  It is not surprising the king has you left you bereft of any ladies, forgoing introductions, actively discouraging his nobles.  That is something you will remedy yourself, in the capital. 

For now, you are not mad it is just you and Jisung.  You glance at him while disrobing, catching his eye, smiling at his flustered blush as he looks away again.

You pile your curls as high as you can, then step to the water.  Even though there is a chill in the air, the water is warm because the hot sun has been pouring down all day.  You suspect it will be colder to emerge than to enter.  For now, it is comfortable as it laps at the foot of your shift, darkening the hem as you walk. 

You find a smooth boulder to perch yourself, grateful to use one of your own soaps from home as you scrub your skin.  The breeze is sharp against your wet skin so you sink into the water up to your shoulders, paddling around for a little bit as you let the day wash off you. 

The sunset has lost its golden traces, from orange to pink, and you let yourself admire the colours as they swirl overhead. 

When you look at Jisung, he is already staring at you.  He is sitting on a rock, fiddling with the hilt of his sword in an absent-minded distraction.  He exhales heavily when you look at him. 

“What is it?” you ask. 

“I—”  He laughs, seemingly at himself.  He thuds the heel of his palm against his forehead in a punishing little smack.  “Nothing,” he says.  He looks at the ground then slowly at you, his gaze moving across the shimmering water before tracing up your shoulders, neck, and face.   “I just hope no one tries to attack us right now,” he says.  “Because honestly?”  He lets go of the hilt to show his hand, revealing the slight tremble.  He immediately crosses his arms, tucking his hands under them.  “I don’t think I’d be much help,” he finishes with a laugh. 

“Don’t worry,” you say, matching his smile.  “I’ll keep you safe.” 

“Oh,” he says.  “Good.” 

You smile at each other for another moment.  It is disturbed when you hear the king shouting about food, far into the distance.  A couple of birds, no doubt settled for the night, fly out of the trees and away.  You spread your arms in the water and watch them go, wishing it was so easy to escape. 

“We should go back,” Jisung says, though he sounds as uneasy as he looks, biting his bottom lip, his big eyes as shiny and concerned as ever. 

The water is not very deep.  When you stand, it comes below your hips.  You squeak, a mousey and unqueenly sound, as the evening chill swarms you.

“Oh goodness,” you say, too distracted with the cold to think of much else.  “Robe, please.” 

Jisung is a very capable soldier.  You have witnessed it firsthand.  Where most of the kingsguards appear to specialize in certain skills, he has so far proven to be a master of everything.

But he trips over his own feet now.  He slides clumsily across the gravel, drawing a sharp line in the sand.   He manages to remain upright, only just, muttering to himself as he picks up the robe you requested. 

He steps to the water’s edge, the robe under his arm.  He holds out a hand to help guide you forward, but he is very distracted with looking at the rest of you, so he keeps accidentally moving it out of reach. 

You finally clasp his wandering hand.  Only then does he lift his frantic gaze to your eyes. 

This is your second time emerging from water in nothing but a shift, the light material leaving nothing to the imagination.  Last time, you were shy and embarrassed, but it seems a bit silly to be modest now considering what he has seen.  Furthermore, you do not feel embarrassed, not with the way he looks at you.  The shift clings to every curve, nearly translucent, more so with the chill as the sensitive peaks of your breasts pebble against the wet white fabric.   

His eyes dart there again, his mouth open.  He doesn’t say anything.  With a bit of struggle, he manages to say, “Ahhhh…?”

“Robe, please,” you say again, amused.  Truthfully, you are not as cold under his gaze, flushed with a tingling warmth that conquers the other senses. 

“Fuck,” Jisung says, shaking his head as he wraps the robe around your shoulders.  “Sorry for cursing, pretend you didn’t hear it.”

Now that he is speaking, the words come in a breathless stream.  It comes from an honest, human subconscious that a kingsguard should have under control, but which he has evidently relinquished from mental bondage. 

“I can hit him on the head,” Jisung says.  “I mean – fuck.  I can’t do that, obviously.  He’s the king.  I wouldn’t do that – but also I would, if you asked.  If you ask, it’s fine, I’d do anything for the queen.  I should obey the queen.  I must protect her.  Then again, if I hit him on the head, it could go wrong, and he could die, then I didn’t just hit the king but killed him, and kingsguards aren’t supposed to do that.  Well, sometimes they do, but that’s very rare and definitely not the bard’s call.  I shouldn’t kill the king, even if you ask, right?  Right.  Fuck.  Sorry for cursing.  You wouldn’t ask that anyway, even if he deserves it – ah!  I didn’t say that.  Maybe, instead, if I get him drunk, then he won’t be able to – you know–”

He lifts his finger, a rather impolite mime of a rising erection, which he realizes is a very rude gesture to make in front of the queen.   He throws his hands together in a prayer position instead. 

“By which I mean,” he says, “Nothing.  I meant none of that at all.  Of course.  Unless you say otherwise, your Majesty.  Then I meant it all.” 

It is silent save the sound of the river lapping at the shore.  His hands are still clasped for prayer and you are holding the robe closed.  He blinks at you.  You are already smiling. 

“Right,” he says.  “Umm… Fuck.”

You pat him on the arm, stepping around him.  You go to your bag of possessions, kneeling down to find the phial. 

“I wasn’t going to ask for help,” you say.  “I fear I have already put you in a precarious enough position as is—”

“You haven’t done anything,” he says, quick and sharp.  His black robes swish with the swiftness of his spin.  He marches to where you are knelt down. 

You look up at him, your hand closed around the phial, but he does not see it.  His eyes are on your face.

“Your Majesty,” Jisung says.  He crouches down so you can look at each other.  “I’m a lot better at speaking when I’m not – when I’m singing, especially a story about someone else.  That’s easier.  But I—”  He stares into your eyes.  His shoulders fall with an exhale, his expression softening just as surely.  “I wouldn’t go back to the easy I knew days ago.  I know I’m a mess now.  I don’t know what’s happening anymore, or what’s going to happen soon, but—”

He looks at the treeline.  It is still empty, of course.  The king does not see the pretty bard boy as a threat to his dignity and masculinity.  He is probably stomping and brooding and yelling some more, glaring at Hyunjin and Chan, while it is Jisung who lays a hand on your cheek.  Jisung captures you more completely than the king could do with iron. 

“It’s probably wrong to say,” Jisung speaks in a low, rasping voice, his face close to yours.  A tuft of dark hair falls near his brown eyes.  “It’s too selfish for a kingsguard or any mortal to say, but…   You said it first, that you feel the gods when we’re together.”  His thumb strokes your cheek and it might as well be a lightning bolt launched from the heavens, wracking your whole body with a shiver.  “I feel it too,” he says.  “I think I’m supposed to be here.  My life, the war, becoming a kingsguard, a – a – a queensguard – it was supposed to happen.  The gods led us here and we made it happen, and the gods allowed us, so we must – it must – it can’t be completely wrong, right?  When the king is like that, and you are like this.”

You are everything I ever dreamed of worshipping, he told you two nights ago, before you ever kissed, before you even really touched.  It seems those feelings have grown with yours. 

“You’re worth a thousand kings, Han Jisung,” you say. 

It is confident amidst his stammering, and it makes his eyes go wide.  You brush the hair away from those eyes. 

“I don’t know what will happen either,” you say.  “I know the king will try something untoward sooner than later, whether I am faithful and obedient or not.  I believe it is thus appropriate to reserve my faith and loyalty to that which I pray directly.”

You turn your face and kiss his palm.  You look at him from the corner of your eye, watching his breath catch as his eyes are bound to where your lips touch his skin. 

You wonder if he is so flushed because he is remembering how you said physical love was like prayer.  Hearing your words now, seeing and feeling your kiss, he seems to stop breathing entirely. 

“And in such a case as that,” you say, “I believe I would like at least once more night to pray for answers.” 

You open your hand and reveal the phial.  His gaze drops.  His eyebrows leap comically high as he looks between you and the bottle. 

He snatches it, looking at the treeline, then whispering so frantically that his voice breaks again, “Is that poison? Where in the name of all the gods did you get poison?”

You cup his face with both hands, laughing helplessly at his expression.  You stroke your thumbs across his cheeks and it lessens his panic. 

“It’s not poison,” you whisper.  “It’s just a sleeping draft.”

“A sleeping draft,” he says, words a little slurred as his cheeks are squished in your hands.  He looks down at the phial again, then at you.  “Well,” he says and gets to his feet.  He adjusts his sword belt, swishes the length of his robe and clears his throat.  “You could have opened with that,” he says. 

You are laughing as he helps you to your feet. 

-

Thanks to your friend’s sleeping draft and Jisung’s help, you escape the king unscathed for another night. 

Jisung completes his task in the only way Han Jisung would and could: with a great deal of theatricality. 

The sun is nearly set and everyone is gathered around the fire pits.  The king is with his inner circle, guarded by Changbin.  After changing into a clean dress, you sit with the remaining kingsguards.  The meal is simple, meat cooked in a spicy broth.  Apparently, esteemed kingsguard leader Bang Chan is tragically intolerant towards heavy spice, a fact you learn because the others relentlessly tease him. 

It makes him crack a smile, the first one all day.  He has charmingly deep dimples when he lets himself go.   You are sitting beside him and the sight delights you. 

In the midst of comforting food and friendly laughter, Chan looks at you.  While the others are rowdy and distracted, he takes a moment to say, “I’ll guard the king’s tent tonight,” he says.  “Find me, yeah?  If you need… anything.” 

“Thank you,” you say, genuinely touched.

His chivalry will not be required, however.  Moments after he says that, the king starts screaming. 

“You incompetent mongrel!” he shouts, clear across the campsite, scaring another pair of birds. 

The kingsguards are quickly on their feet, food and jibes forgotten. 

You stay sitting, slurping your soup.

“Your Holy Majesty, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, a thousand times sorry,” Jisung says to the king. 

You glance over there, watching as Jisung alternates between bowing and scooping up the bits of meat that splattered on the ground when he knocked over the king’s bowl of soup. 

When Jisung told you he would take care of administering the sleeping draft, he did not tell you his plan, maybe assuming you would not like it.  You cannot honestly say you are happy to see him intentionally drawing the king’s anger, but it is certainly a fair strategy.  The king is too surrounded to truly sneak up on him.  He is, however, very easy to antagonize.    

Jisung tries to hold out a dirty piece of meat as offering.  The king slaps it out of his hand.  Jisung looks at it with dramatically wide eyes.

“I swear to the gods, kingsguard—” the king says, raising his hand as if to strike Jisung.

Jisung bows again, holding up his hands in supplication. 

“I apologize, your Holiness,” he says, bowing some more as he grabs the king’s empty bowl.  He remains bent over while scampering around.  “It was an accident.  I’ll get you more food.  Forgive me, sire, I’m a worthless dog, I’m a flea on a dog, I’m a flea on a flea—”

The king kicks at him as Jisung scampers off to get more soup.   The other kingsguards sit back down, either laughing at the nonsense of shaking their heads, chalking it up to Jisung being a little clumsy and silly. 

You slurp some more soup. 

The king only makes it halfway through his meal before he falls asleep.  The remainder of his soup splashes onto the ground when the bowl falls out of his lap, so fortunately no one else ingests it.  

No one seems bothered by the peculiarity of his sudden slumber.   This seems to a combination of acknowledging the day was very exhausting, but also sighing with some relief that there is no more yelling. 

Chan, Changbin, and Minho carry the king back to his tent where he shall sleep alone, and where you shall not be visiting any time soon.  

Seungmin is assigned the first shift to guard your tent, but Jisung escorts you while Seungmin is still finishing his meal.  You and Jisung walk side by side, saying nothing suspicious or untoward.  Nothing beyond his wink and your smile, at least. 

“Was the king this bad on the journey over?” you ask while Jisung unties the clasps of your tent. 

“Almost worse,” Jisung admits.  “He doesn’t like travelling.  And you already know he wasn’t, um, happy with the wedding, heh.  Now everything with Felix—”

“Right,” you say, watching as the last clasp comes undone.  “I suppose an affair can change a man.”

Jisung laughs, though it is more of an exhale. 

“So I’ve heard,” he says.  

The tent opens.  There is a lit lantern inside, brightening the night with golden warmth.  The interior is simple, though marginally more comfortable than the average tent. It is tall enough you can walk around without ducking. The ground is neatly covered, a thick bedroll unfurled in the middle of the space.  It looks as inviting as it can be, blankets draped across the long cushion, a pillow at the head.  One of your smaller trunks is in the room.  There is a low table and a cushion beneath it, a tea pot and cup in wait.  The lantern sits on the ground, near the bed. 

You look at each other. 

It would require only a step, out of the darkness and into the light, and he could kiss you again.  Only a step, yet a serious one with real ramifications. 

Despite all that, you want him as you have never wanted anything before.  You want him so much that you learned how to want.   Before him, you were numb but content.  Now you feel every prickling tingle of a hair standing on edge, the anticipation twisting inside you, and the flush of heat that moves through you when his eyes move to your lips. 

“I—” he starts and never finishes.

You can see the complicated gears and cogs spinning in his head.  You think of him on his knees before you, kissing your hands, shaking with desperation.  Every kiss is both a gift and a surrendering, the forging of a serious vow in the breaking of another.  You want him, but not in the way a king wants his kingdom, not with a selfish and possessive cruelty, not with a command. 

“I enjoy your company,” you say.  “When Seungmin takes his post, would you play some music for me?  It would make me happy.” 

He releases a breath, laughter spilling out of him. 

“Yes,” he says, smiling at you.  “Yes, that would make me happy too.” 

Jisung stands guard until Seungmin arrives, then he leaves to fetch his guitar.  You dress down for the evening, removing your layers and letting your curls loose.  You sit on the bedroll in nothing but your shift.  It goes without saying that it does a better job of modesty when it is dry.  The recollection of Jisung’s staring makes your cheeks feel hot. 

You are smiling down at your embroidery when he returns.  There is only a brief conversation between him and Seungmin, the latter somewhat perplexed by his presence. It is not inappropriate for a kingsguard to guard the royal personage from inside the tent, but it has not been deemed necessary, nor has Jisung been posted. 

Jisung lets the guitar does most of the talking.  It is very persuasive.

Moments later, Jisung is inside the tent, lacing it closed again, the guitar on his back.  Somehow, the lacing of the tent ties feel even sturdier than a lock.  It would take a long time for someone to undo it, making it nearly impossible to sneak up on you. 

Though, you suspect it would also take you a long time to become conscious of the real world.  Jisung is not kissing you, not even touching you, just moving inside the same small space as you, and you are already distractingly rivetted. 

So distracted, you poke your finger on a needle.  You put your finger in your mouth to catch and wipe the tiny pinprick of blood, looking at Jisung as he sits down.  He does not sit on the bedroll, just beside it on the ground. 

His eyes flick to your mouth, his face a little flushed. 

“Ha-ha,” he speaks it more than laughs it.  “Right.  Music.  Um.” 

The first strum of the guitar feels very loud in this small space, making your heart jump.  The alarm slows to a gradual stop as you let the music surround you, the gentle plucking of each string.  He hums softly until you are visibly comfortable with the sound, then he starts to sing too. 

He starts with a familiar ballad, famous enough it reached your land at the borders.  The next song you do not know, but he has hummed snippets here and there over the past couple days.  The third song is about you, though it takes a second to realize it.  Your eyes are on your embroidery, knotting little loops of cherry blossom petals, when you realize the ‘mermaid in white with curly hair’ who has ‘wanting eyes for the soldier on the shore’ is maybe not so distant or fantastical as the lyrics might imply. 

You look at him, flicking your gaze to the sealed tent flap as if to remind him that others can hear.  He grins innocently and keeps singing, your story hidden in the details of some fictional recreation.  

Hearing his interpretation of your supposed thoughts makes you laugh, as he is often doing everything to make you laugh.  Hearing the thoughts of the soldier on the shore stirs rather differently, heart palpitating as he sings about longing and terror.  Both those feelings seem to torment the soldier, a man equal parts integrity, desire, and fear. 

The lyrics trail off though he keeps strumming the guitar.  You suppose the story is not yet finished. 

The melody changes a little.  He hums to chase it, perhaps crafting another song in his mind. 

You look at your cherry blossoms, listening to him, remembering the first time he sang to you.  He had never even spoken to you.  You did not know him at all.  You were alone and miserable, sulking in the dark, and he jumped into the light and touched you with his music. 

It feels like so much has changed, even while technically nothing has.  You are still married to the king.  You have both sworn oaths. 

His music still touches you.

Your vision blurs, then the first teardrop plunks onto a cherry blossom.  He notices immediately, just like he was the only one to see your tears at the ceremony.  The music comes to an abrupt stop, a suspended note awkwardly fractured.  He puts the guitar aside and gets on his knees, leaning over your embroidery to lift your face. 

You sniffle, smiling at him through your tears. 

“I’m sorry,” you say.  “I’m not even crying because of the sad things.” 

“That’s okay,” he says, his face as morose.  He tries to smile softly, though his brow is still pinched with concern.  “You can cry,” he says.  “If it will make you feel better.” 

Yes, you think it will.  You have too long repressed feeling.  You are allowed to be angry and passionate and sad.  Crying and raging will not necessarily solve all your problems, but it will empty the clutter of your mind and soul. 

You let it wash away, then you let him wipe your eyes. 

“Thank you,” you say, wiping the last teardrop as he sits back. 

He picks up his guitar, though he just looks at it, running his hand along the neck while you tidy up your embroidery tools.  He looks from his art to yours, blinking at the cherry blossoms. 

“What are you making?” he asks. 

“Just bits and pieces, really,” you say.  “Spring is my favourite season.  It’s beautiful back home, with the blossoms and warm rain showers.  Everything sparkles all the time.”  

If you had not already cried, thinking of home might have done it.   Now, you just sniffle and lay the fabric down.  You smile at him. 

“What’s your favourite season?” you ask.

“Mine?”  His eyebrows lift.  His mouth is open as he looks for an answer, then he glances at your embroidery and laughs.  “Spring,” he says.

You swat his arm and he playfully howls, clutching it. 

“You can’t just say that because it’s mine,” you say. 

“Why not?” he asks, laughing. 

“Because!” 

“All right, all right,” he says.  He taps his chin with great contemplation.  “Autumn?  No, no, it’s gross in the capital then.  The rain doesn’t sparkle there, not in the fall.  It sort of just – pings.”  He makes a high-pitched sound on the word, miming each droplet as it tumbles and rings out.  “Let’s see then – it’s not autumn and spring is forbidden to me.  Ah, winter?  No.  No.  Guard duty in the winter is the worst.  Oops, I’m not supposed to say that – of course being a kingsguard is a blessing, and I can’t wait to experience the next winter, Amen.”  He opens his palms and pretends to pray, then bows his head before continuing.  “So it’s not those.  Then, ah, let me think.  What’s left? Hmmm…” 

You are already giggling when he leans towards you, grinning.

“Remind me,” he says.  “What’s left?”

“Summer, of course,” you say. 

“Ah, of course.  Let’s think.  It’s hot, muggy, and the rain doesn’t help either of those things.  Everything feels a bit like soup.  But…” 

“But…?”  You lean towards him as well, playfully eager, like this is the most important secret he could reveal.

“But,” he says, eyes dropping momentarily to your smile, then lifting again.  They crinkle with his own gentle grin, drawing your eyes there as well.  “That’s when we met,” he says. 

You look from his mouth to his eyes.  The joining of your gazes makes everything feel very quiet, slow, and warm.  Nothing exists past the golden light beside you. 

“It is,” you say. 

“Yes,” he says.  “Summer.  I think I used to hate it.  I think – I’ll never hate it again.” 

“That’s funny,” you say. “I feel the same way.”

“Well, you can’t,” he says, abruptly teasing again, “Because that’s my favourite, and you can’t just pick it because I did.” 

You laugh, but it catches you off guard so it is a rather ugly laugh, more of a snort.  Your hand flies up to cover your mouth.  He laughs at that sound more than anyting, though he tries to stifle it. 

You swat each other, trying and failing to keep the laughter down.  A kingsguard keeping watch, a bard playing music, that is one thing.  Giggling with the queen is a little different.   

He accidentally pokes himself on your needle.  It is laying between you, forgotten, and he puts his hand down.  He hisses as he lifts it, grimacing like he was run through with a sword rather than pinpricked with a sewing needle. 

“Oh my goodness,” you say, shaking your head with playful irritation.  You gather your embroidery things and place them out of reach so there are no more accidents.  “Silly,” you say.  “Big strong guard, you are.  It couldn’t have hurt that much.”

“It’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt,” he says with dramatically sad eyes and a spectacular pout. 

“Oh, I’m sure,” you say, taking his hand.  It is not even bleeding.  Still, you bring it to your mouth. 

You do not intend to be seductive.  You are truly just playing, intending to wet his finger against your lips and tease him some more.  The moment your lips touch his skin, however, the whole energy inside the tent seems to shift.  If you did not know better, you would say the earth itself tilted.  You stomach drops with a swoop, as if you took off flying. 

You look at him while taking the tip of his finger in your mouth.  His smile vanishes too, those dark eyes suddenly smouldering in the lamplight.  Your heart is pounding so hard that it wakes up the rest of your body.  When you kiss that fingertip again, moving your mouth, making no mistake of its deliberateness, your heart seems to plummet as well.  It drops right between your legs when it continues to pound, sending heat in every direction, so stark and sure that it makes you want to double over. 

“Jisung,” you say, your lips a little wet. 

He does not have far to go, cupping your face and pulling you in for a kiss.  You clasp his shoulders, closing your eyes and kissing him back.  You definitely would not notice an intruder, nor even a fire, not even a god walking the earth.  You lose yourself completely, even more than those precious kisses from before.  Maybe it is knowing you are truly alone, that the king is out cold, that it is nighttime and you are in your shift and he is right here, and it would be so easy to lay down and—

“I—”  He abruptly breaks the kiss.  He still looks lost in it, eyes half-open, face tinged with a blush.  He pushes his fingers through his hair, shaking his head like that will pull him out of it. 

He looks at you, then your mouth, and falls right back in.  His eyes close like it is a little painful, and he groans when he kisses you, like it is rearranging him.   He cups your face with both hands and guides the kiss, opening his mouth, inexpertly but hungrily.  You follow, just as inexpertly but just as passionately.  You make a sound of your own, higher and lighter, sweet in the kiss as he licks into your open mouth. 

He is affected, either by the sound or your taste or your tongue against his.  He pulls back again, with a shuddering gasp, like he forgot to breathe the whole time.  You think you forgot too, breathing much harder than before. 

“I—I’m so—”  he says, forcing himself to look away.  He stares down at the lantern.  His eyes look a little wet, verging on tears as well.  He rubs his face, pushes his hand into his hair and keeps it there, the dark locks messy around his fingers. 

“Jisung,” you whisper his name, touching his shoulder, then his face.  “Jisung, I know.  This is – this is all crazy.”  He looks at you, eyes still sad, hand still shoved in his hair.  “I know,” you say.  “You’re not alone.  I know this is complicated.”  You stammer, tripping over your racing heart.  You cup his face and stroke his cheek.  “I’m not asking for anything but what you want to give me.”

“I know,” he whispers.  “I’m not scared of you.  I’m scared of me.  Of what I want to give.  It would be—”  He finally lets go of his hair.  It takes a second to fall back into place after being pushed for so long, falling messily across his forehead.  “It would be easier,” he says again, “if I didn’t want to, at all.  But I—” 

It is certainly easier for him to speak in song.  He conveyed so much as a soldier on the shore, longing and terror in equal parts.  Yes, that is all over his face as he looks at you, even if he cannot articulate it like this.  He just breathes, in and out.  He tilts his head and looks at you.  He is right, that this would all be easier if that expression was not so tender and loving. 

“What about you?” he asks.  “What do – what do you want to – give?” 

“Jisung,” you say, almost laughing, because isn’t it obvious?  “I want to give you everything.”

You thought that was so obvious, but his look says otherwise, that he is surprised and taken back and overcome. 

“I believe,” you say, “that even though we are surrounded by danger, my heart and my body would be truly safe with you.”

“Oh,” he says.  He gazes back at you for a time, then he looks down.  He takes your hand.  His eyes closed, he brings it to his mouth and kisses your palm.  He holds it to his face after, eyes still closed, clearly thinking very hard.  When he straightens, he says, “It is.  But when it comes to me, I—”  He laughs without much humour, looking at you, his expression rather withering and his tone self-deprecating.  “I think I’m broken beyond help.  I think I always have been.  I don’t even have a good reason why.  I just know I feel worthless if I don’t cling to the other vow that has ever meant anything and you – and I – and—”

“You’re safe with me too,” you say gently.  “Whatever that looks like, Jisung.  Whether you think it’s broken or not, I’ll take care of it all.” 

He nods, sharp and quick.  He rests his forehead against yours.  You close your eyes and stay there for a time, just breathing until your racing hearts are under control again.  He kisses your forehead before standing.  You stand as well, mostly to see that your legs still work, everything fuzzy after all that. 

He picks up his guitar and goes to the tent entrance.  He unlaces it carefully, then looks at you before parting it.  His expression is fond, his mouth open with some parting words, but his eyes widen and he swallows whatever gentle words were on his lips.  You look over your shoulder, wondering what surprised him, but there is nothing there.

“What is it?” you ask, smiling when he does. 

“Ah, uh, you—”  He points behind you with the guitar.  There is still nothing there.  When you lift an eyebrow at him, he giggles.  “Um, the light,” he says.  “Behind you – it, um.” 

Oh.  The lantern is shining right through your thin white shift.  Perhaps it is not reliable for modesty, even when dry, turning almost invisible as it reveals the shape of everything beneath the fabric. 

“Well,” you say, brushing the material out.  “I suppose it’s nothing you haven’t seen.” 

“Yes,” he says, breathlessly.  His eyes move down your body and up again.  It is such a thorough, thinking regard, that you think he might be changing his mind.  Then he swallows, closes his eyes, bows his head.  He departs without another word. 

You do not listen to hear if he and Seungmin speak some more.  You douse the lantern and climb under your blankets.  You thought you had tempered yourself, but that last look was hungrier and more powerful than a kiss.  With the image of him so fresh and clear in your mind, and with the tent securely laced shut again, you slide a hand beneath the covers and whisper his name again and again. 

-

You wake in the middle of the night.  You do not know what time, but it is nowhere near daylight, the world in darkness all around the tent.  You went to sleep to some bustling noise in the camp, but now it is silent, so you believe it is many hours later.

Your eyes adjust to the midnight blue, making out the shape of your table and trunk, the unlit lantern.   The only light is outside the tent, the guard posted with a lantern of his own.   He is holding it in the air so you can see his silhouette. 

Two silhouettes. 

It takes a moment for your groggy mind to catch up, but it does, and you realize there is a hushed argument happening on the other side of the tent.  You realize you are also right about the hour, because it is late enough that there was a guard change.  That is not Seungmin’s voice or silhouette outside the tent, but Minho.

“It’s the middle of the night,” Minho whispers, in obvious agitation.  “She’s sleeping.  Why would I let you into the queen’s tent?”

“I just want to see her.”  That voice is unmistakably Jisung.  You would recognize his voice anywhere.  Your heart wakes up faster than your mind, skipping beats. 

“In the middle of the night?”  Minho asks.  “Are you crazy?”

“Yes!” Jisung whispers back, with a high-pitched strain.  “I am!  Now let me see her!” 

“What kind of argument is that?” Minho asks. 

“I just—”  Jisung sighs.  You watch his silhouette, his hands moving through the air as he gestures at nothing.  “I’ve been thinking—”

“I get that’s new for you,” Minho says dryly, “But the queen can be alerted to this miracle tomorrow.”

“And I just need to see her,” Jisung finishes.  “Because – because I only have half my thoughts when I’m not with her.  Like the world is only half full and I’m only—”  He jabs his chest, exhales heavily.  “Only half whole.” 

The lantern lowers slightly, Minho seemingly losing power as his arm lowers. 

“Please,” Jisung says.  “I’m just going to talk to her.  I’ll be fast.  She won’t mind.  The king will be passed out until noon at least.  This is just – I need to see her.”

“I hate you,” Minho says.  “If I hear even one disgruntled squeak from her, I’m considering it permission to kill you for being a nuisance.”

“I can’t wait to haunt you forever,” Jisung says, clapping him on the shoulder with a friendly pat.

Minho shrugs him off.  The lantern swings away as Minho stalks back to his post.  He plunks the light on the ground. 

You can no longer see his silhouette, but you can hear as the tent unlaces.  Each slip of a tie has your heartbeat skipping.  You prop yourself up your elbows, watching slivers of moonlight slip into the tent.  Eventually the tent is undone enough that Jisung can step inside, then he grumbles and swears to himself as he tries to lace it back up again.

You sit all the way upright but he evidently does not see you.  At first, he is preoccupied with the laces.  Then, once the tent is secure, he turns around.  Your eyes are adjusted to the darkness so you see him perfectly, but his are not adjusted, and he evidently has no idea you are awake and upright and staring at him.

He seems to go through a myriad of emotions, his face an entire theatrical spectacle in the span of thirty seconds.  Then he curses and turns around and reaches for the laces, having seemingly lost all his nerves, intent on departing again. 

“Jisung?” you say.

It makes him jump, shoulders leaping.  He slowly turns around to face you.  He still does not see you properly, squinting through the dark, but you think your general shape is taking form.  He faces the correct angle, at least. 

“Um, yes?” he asks. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask. 

“Oh, that,” he says.  “Right. Um.  You see.  I was thinking about everything you said.  And everything I said.  And did.  And we did.  And he said and he did, the king I mean.  And I was just – I was thinking – what I mean is.”  He clasps his hands together and punctuates his words with a pointed gesture.  “The. reason. I. am. here.” 

He lets his arms fall to his side.  You think he can see you much better now, because his eyes finally find yours. 

He should be a terrifying figure in the dark, all long dark robes with a shiny sword at his hip.  But you are not scared.  His hands are the ones shaking, his eyes wide.  

“Yes?” you say softly, encouraging. 

He takes a step forward.  His hand rests on the hilt of his sword out of habit, no doubt a consolation to his nerves.  He looks down at it, seems to contemplate it like it has answers, or maybe just more questions.  Eventually, he reaches into his robes and undoes the sword belt.  You watch with baited breath as the sword falls into his hand. 

He crouches down, laying the sword on the ground.  On one knee, looking at the sword, then looking at you, he unclasps the top layer of his robes. 

“I think,” he says, “I’m here to pray.”

You are quickly out of the covers, crawling down the bedroll towards him.  He drops his other knee so he is kneeling upright at the foot of your bed, his robes open to the dark layer underneath, his chest rising and falling as quickly as his heart must be racing. 

You get up on your knees too, hands floating between you as you take a second to just look at each other.  His mouth is open like he has more to say, but he never finds the words.  You think there might be words, but they have all been said, and they are better encapsulated in a kiss. 

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in.  His hands find your waist, at first with the chivalrous touch of a guard, as he has been holding your waist and hips when he helps you from here to there.  Then the kiss deepens, your eyes close.  His tongue pushes against yours and his hands are searching, squeezing, feeling the shape of every curve under his palm. 

He says your name, not your title, your shift messily gathered in his fists.  He kisses you softly, just a peck, then another, then those kisses move across your face and down your neck.  You sink your fingers into his hair, holding him there as he kisses a long, hot kiss against your throat.  You feel it all the way down between your thighs, liquid heat and a pounding need.  You scratch  at his scalp as his open mouth moves across your skin and he moans.

“Shh,” you say gently, his voice softening against your neck, just a light sound as he licks the place he kissed. 

You want to tear the robe off his body, but you don’t want to startle him, his hands already shaking where they move over your clothed body.  You decide to go first, already more comfortable with it. 

You always thought disrobing for a lover would be petrifying, aghast at the thought of ever baring yourself to a husband.  Well, perhaps that last part is still true.  But it is not difficult to share yourself with Jisung.  You like the way he looks at you, like he is writing songs of worship in his head. 

You lean back, breathing hard, smiling at his face.  He looks flushed and messy, his lips wet.  He blinks at you, though his gaze lowers when you gather the hem of your shift and lift.  His mouth is hanging open when you toss it to the side. 

“It’s not like you haven’t seen me before,” you whisper, laughing lightly. 

“That was different,” he says.  “I couldn’t really look.  I tried not to look.  I knew if I did, I’d want to touch you.  I tried to pray instead.  But I can’t hear the gods when you’re not near me.  Now—”  His hand moves up your naked side, skimming your curves, his eyes following the trail.  He swipes his thumb across your breast and your back arches into him.  “Now,” he says again, dipping his head, “I know where I was made to be.”

His mouth closes around the tip of your breast, already pert from stimulation, hardening further between his lips.  He sweeps his tongue across your skin, moves to the other side.  His hands move everywhere, up and down. 

Before long, you are moving, laying on your back.  He tears off his outer robe and leaves it on the ground, following you down.  You will not push him for more, knowing already how much he is giving you, though one day you want to feel every inch of him, skin to skin.  It will happen, you decide.  One day, you will be in a bed, and there will be time, and you will never be done exploring. 

He lets your put your hand under his shirt, scratching down his spine.  His arms are bare so you squeeze those too.  Your legs part to make room for his hips.  You are kissing and you make a sound in each other’s mouths when he lowers his hips against you.  You can feel him through the material of his trousers, like you could that other night.  But where he ran away that night, ignoring his own feelings, this time he lets your hand wander down.  When you cup the hard shape of him in your palm, it makes your breath catch in an uneven stutter. 

“Jisung,” you whisper, arching against him when he says your name back. 

“Yes,” he says, pushing himself upright with shaking arms.  He kneels between your open legs, pushing his hair back, swallowing as he looks down.  His mouth moves but he doesn’t speak, though he does make a garbled noise when running his hands along the soft skin of your inner thigh. 

That skin is very sensitive.  You are already jumping by the time his hand is on you.  You have to cover your mouth.  No amount of touching yourself could prepare you for his touch, his fingers rougher and calloused both from his sword and his guitar. 

You are very wet, from earlier, from seconds ago.  He makes a face like he can feel the pleasure too, even though it his fingers, rubbing through all that wetness.   He finds that place he showed you, that he talked about, as adept with the instrument of your body as he is with any other tool he puts in his hands.  Just as he is always determined to make you laugh, he is now determined to give you that burst of pleasure.   He grips your thigh in one strong hand and deftly moves his other thumb around and around that small centre of pleasure. 

You twitch in his grip, still gasping with those short, stunted breaths.  You can keep your voice down on your own, but it requires more concentration now, swallowing those sounds as that pleasure breaks apart inside you.  Your hips lift, chasing his touch, then drop in shy retreat, oversensitive. 

He grips both thighs, squeezing the soft flesh, then runs his fingertips back to their centre, then up, up the curve of your chest, touching your open mouth.  You take his fingers in your mouth, nothing like before, which was playful then uncertain and demure.  You take them like you want to take everything, deep and wet and needy, moving your head, sucking them hard between your lips until he has to cover his own mouth to stop himself from being loud. 

He takes his hand back.  The other drops from his mouth.  You look at each other, hearts racing.   His hands are shaking again as he reaches for the ties of his trousers, fumbling more than a little. 

You sit up to help.  With him kneeling upright, it puts your face at a rather advantageous position.  His fingers get even more clumsy until he is no help at all, leaving it to you to unlace. 

You look up at him, holding his gaze.  This is certainly not the wedding night you were ever prepared to participate in.  You were instructed to lay back and wait, then it would happen and be over.   That could not be more different than your searching hands, eager to feel him, your eyes on any sliver of skin he shows you. 

Once the trousers are unlaced, there is little hiding, the fabric falling open and everything inside lifting up.  Truthfully, you are nervous again too, but also emboldened with passionate wanting.  You are aware you are about to do something that cannot be reversed in the eyes of the law. 

I’m the queen, you think.  I make my own law.

You touch him as he lays you back down.  When you are on your back, you lay your hands at your sides, your legs open around him, hair spread out underneath you. 

He pushes his trousers down his hips.  He looks into your face for as long as he can, but he eventually needs to look down.  He curses to himself as he is a little clumsy again, trying to guide himself to your entrance.  He finds it, but your body is a little resistant even though you are so wet.  You wince a little, but shake your head when he stops, telling him to keep going, please, please, please. 

You can only imagine how painful this would have been with the king.  Well, that man will never be your first, no matter what he tries in future.  It will always be Han Jisung, slowly pushing inside you, his sweaty face buried in your neck, murmuring your name as he fills you to utter completion. 

You almost cry when he is all the way inside you, not even from the tenderness, but just the rightness.  You cling to him, sliding a hand down the back of his shirt.  He rocks his hips a little, kissing your neck when you whimper. 

“It’s okay,” he says, lifting his face to look at you.  He kisses your lips, a few short pecks that leave you wanting more.  He stares down into your face like he can hardly believe you are real.  “I have you,” he says.  “I have you.” 

He knows how to listen beyond words, hearing every cry and request of your body, even if you cannot articulate it.  He is careful until that tender burn lessens, careful for his own sake too, muttering the occasional oath when you squeeze around him.  it soon really does sound like praying with how often he calls the gods and you. 

You kiss him, moaning into his mouth, probably clawing up his shoulders as he starts to understand how to roll his hips.  Those scratches won’t matter because he’s a kingsguard and he will be completely covered tomorrow.  Only you will know his back is a canvas of your pleasure, fingers bruising and nails raking desperately as he takes you, deeply, thoroughly. 

“I’m – I can’t – inside,” he says between breaths, face scrunched up as he nears his pleasure. 

“I know,” you say, but whimper helplessly.  “One day.” 

That makes him moan deeply, a sharp thrust into you, then he is quickly pulling out.  It just takes a single stroke from his hand before he finishes too.   It is more than you knew it would be, a white streak that falls across the soft skin of your belly.  It takes a second for the sight to register for him, then he squeaks and grabs his robe again. 

Cleaning that off the queen is almost certainly not the intended use of the kingsguard robes, but it makes the most sense, as he is more likely to be able to clean it without any questions.  Still, he seems to realize just how sacrilegious it is, looking at the black fabric, then at you. 

Then, he smiles.  It turns to a short laugh, a sound of disbelief. 

“We—” he says. 

“Yes,” you say, giggling too. 

You are not sure if he is more amazed with you or himself.  It certainly takes him a moment to stop looking so shocked, even though he was the one who walked in here.  Eventually, he comes to his senses, at least enough to lay down in your arms for a time. 

He can’t sleep here, but you hold him for a while and he is happy to let you, his head pillowed on the softness of your breasts, his arms around your middle.   He turns his face and kisses your skin, just a chaste kiss, but there is a fire simmering beneath your skin now, and you fear it will never be doused. 

You sit up together.  You kiss his bare arm, right up to where the shoulder of his shirt gets in the way.  He looks at you, appreciative, fond, and a little less scared. 

“We need to be careful,” he says. 

“Of course,” you say.

“I can’t let anything happen to you,” he says, cupping your face.  He brings it close to his, your noses touching. 

“I know you won’t,” you say.  “I’m safe in your hands, bard boy.” 

He laughs, then steals one final kiss.  He doesn’t put the outer robe back on, giving you a chagrined smile while you giggle.  You shuffle back into your shift while he stands up and re-ties his trousers.  He smooths his hair as best he can.  He hooks his swordbelt into place.

He looks somewhat more composed, but not entirely untouched.  You wonder if you look like that, if it’s all over your face, in the lines of your body.  You can certainly feel it inside, both literally with the ache between your thighs, and also emotionally. 

He unlaces the tent and looks at you again, gives you one last departing smile before he steps out. 

He has barely laced the tent shut before the lantern re-appears.  You catch Minho’s silhouette, his hand swinging down to swat Jisung hard on the backside.

“Ouch!” Jisung jumps.

“That was not talking, you asshole,” Minho hisses. 

Jisung, in much better spirits than his friend, simply plants a kiss on the other guard’s cheek and ruffles his hair.  Even in silhouette form, Minho is clearly shocked by this.  It takes him too long to retaliate, left standing there as Jisung skips away.

Minho shakes his head.

You are disappointed but not surprised.  Last night, your father hosted a welcome banquet but your husband-to-be ignored the lavish festivities in favour of drinking himself into a stupor.  It did not matter that banners were hung in the great hall, that a feast was prepared, that the palace glittered in anticipation of his arrival.  It did not matter that you were a vision, resplendent in ivory and pearl, prepared and perfected just for him. 

The house, the money, the bride.  It did not matter at all.     

Such insult would not have been tolerated in any other man, but he is not just another man.  He is a king.  Only the heavens can issue him orders, just as he commands common blood like yours. 

The king holds nothing but disdain for your union and last night it moved like a poisonous mist through your home.  There was nothing you could do.  You sat and watched your royal betrothed make a crude mockery of your arranged marriage.  He travelled to your lands with a contingency of courtiers and they filled your house with his contempt.    

They all detest you.  Your family is wealthy but your father’s land sits at the border.  Many at court consider you foreigners in all but paperwork. 

Regardless of that status, your family owns the most prosperous land in the kingdom – a kingdom with coffers long since drained from an overseas war that reaped nothing but blood. 

This arrangement will save the kingdom and your betrothed knows that, but he is not happy to marry for money when his bloodline is better.  He spent the night belittling your family name, sneering at you, and pawing at the servant girls between drinks.   

The king drank.  The courtiers laughed. 

Only one group extended any civility towards you at all. 

“His Majesty sends his regards,” the leader of that group speaks to you now. 

He is in black robes, a sword at his hip.  He is the leader of the holy kingsguard, an ancient order sworn to defend heaven’s earthly sovereign.  There is nothing holy about the degenerate king, but his kingsguard is an ordained ministry nonetheless.  They surrender all earthly goods and fortunes, devoting themselves to service and soldiership.  That includes a vow of total chastity, so they are the only men permitted to perceive the future queen prior to the ceremony. 

What little remains of the ceremony.   

The soldier – Chan, you recall – informs you the ceremony will now be conducted by proxy.  The king is bedridden today, but the wedding cannot be delayed as he is needed back at court and the return journey is long. 

Chan is polite and respectful.  He does not mention that the marriage cannot be delayed because the king wants money now.  You are certain your betrothed’s condemnation of his otherwise worthless bride was rather more unkind.   

You remember the cold eyes of his courtiers, his even crueler sneer, and you blink back tears.    

“I understand,” you say.  You are practiced at maintaining grace in the greatest adversity.  “Thank you, soldier.” 

Chan wears a pitying expression.  It looks like he wants to say more but he knows his place.  The kingsguard is the strictest order in the kingdom.  Only the most devout are granted the black cloth and silver sword. 

“Your Majesty,” he says with a bow. 

You are not a majesty yet.  You have weddings vows to swear to a stranger first.

Until then, you are just another woman.

-

You made the wedding dress yourself.  You have always enjoyed the craft of needlework, even where certain jobs could be passed along to a seamstress.  Growing up, you spent more hours alongside the working women than at your mother’s table, a behaviour that was indulged until the war. 

You run your fingers along every familiar stitch, tracing the embroidered floral patterns down your forearm.  You always wanted a spring wedding, but it was not meant to be.  You enter the hall with the hot summer sun pouring over the crystal and marble. 

It is an ostentatious ceremony.  Not even the king could afford such a spectacle.  It makes you think he absconded on purpose.  What better way to wrestle back his dignity than to disregard the expensive ceremony?   

The king’s absence is felt more than your presence.  It turns the grandeur of the hall into a theatrical farce.  Courtiers giggle behind their hands, the traditionalists casting you withering looks of disapproval. 

Your own family smiles and you smile weakly back. 

For all their faults, you love your family.  They thought they were doing something good by arranging this marriage.  A small, childish part of you even hoped they were right, but that hope is gone now.  You have resigned yourself to the sad reality of the world.  Life is a dreary wash save what small bits of colour one dares sew into its seams. 

There are flashes of black cloth around the hall.  Chan is not among the present kingsguards as the leader stays close to the king, but a handful of the regiment has been spared to witness the proxy vows.

You recognize a soldier named Hyunjin, standing apart for his beauty as much as position.  Several of the ladies tittered about him last night, lamenting that such a handsome form was sworn to a chaste life. 

You do not recognize the other two.  One is short and stocky.  The other has silver hair and a freckled face, smiling at you from the far corner.  You stare back at him, taking the proffered comfort of that open sweetness. 

You finally reach the front of the hall.  You step onto the dais.  The minister rises and a hush cascades down the congregation. 

You worry your pounding heart can be heard in the highest arches of the hall. 

The first words of the ceremony are a name.  “Han Jisung,” the minister says.  It echoes with a swinging reverberation. “As an ordained soldier of the kingsguard, you have been called upon by His Holy Majesty to stand in proxy for the swearing of the vows.”

Footsteps break the silence, beat by beat.  Someone ascends the dais. 

At first, you do not look at him.  You cast your eyes up to the arches of the great hall, tracing the grandiose architecture.  It carries cultural traces of the borderlands.  The art of this place is home to you, though it draws ire from the courtiers behind you. 

You think that you may never feel so at home again, then you turn and catch the warmth of deep brown eyes.  You see the man who will receive your vows on behalf of the king. 

Your racing heart stumbles over itself. 

Han Jisung.  You recognize this soldier from the banquet last night.   

The strange man stands beside you.  His nails are painted black, stark where he rests his hand on the silver hilt of his sword.  His hair is as black as his midnight robes, his brown eyes darkly lined, but his intimidating shadows are softened by the gentler slopes of his face.  There is a raw and open tenderness, even where he tries to stifle it with appropriate solemnity. 

Your eyes are drawn to his lips and you remember his smile last night.  Jisung strode into the banquet with a sword at his hip and a guitar at his back.  It is not unusual for the kingsguard to have a bard of sorts, someone who can conjure a flattering song at whim, someone who can perform as if the gods speak through his guitar strings. 

Last night, while people danced and drank, you sank further and further into yourself.  You smiled prettily but all the spring blossoms in your heart rotted as the summer sunset turned to a miserable black gloaming.  Torches were lit and the cackling faces on spinning bodies looked like demons in the lamplight.  The king ignored you so everyone else did the same. 

Jisung, armed with a guitar, was enchanting a crowd of courtiers and some local palace residents.  You watched from a distant seat.  You could not help but stare, captivated by this stranger, this combination of soldier and musician and holy man.  His glowing face in the torchlight was a solitary beacon, his smile more intoxicating than the ever-flowing wine.  His laughter rang out like a symphonic chord, travelling the air to touch your ears where you sat alone. 

The man was no one to you, just another stranger in your home, but there such a simple, honest delight to him. 

He just seemed so alive.   

You were not prepared for the moment he met your gaze.  His black robes swished as he jumped, his dark hair bouncing. His eyes seemed to flash gold in the firelight.  He stood on a chair above the crowd and said, “A song for the future queen!” 

He could not know you loved the springtime but that is what he sang.  Perhaps the gods really did speak through his guitar string as he sang of new beginnings and hopeful seasons and cherry blossoms.  You smiled.

It was your first real smile all day. 

He looks at you now, a flicker of something kind in his dark eyes.  You see that twinkle only briefly because he dips into a respectful bow.

You unravel at the sight. 

You imagine truly marrying this man, swearing oaths to him and not some wretched figment he serves.  You imagine the promise of laughter.  You imagine those warm eyes seeking you across the room.  You imagine a song every spring. 

You know it is a fantasy.  This man is a stranger and that version of him is a fabrication.  But your heart breaks because that version of you – the girl who is happy for the rest of her life – is just as much an impossible fantasy. 

Jisung looks up while bowing.  He meets your gaze just as a tear trickles down your cheek.  No one else notices, just like one else noticed you last night.

His eye twitches, his polite smile faltering. 

He sees you.  He straightens slowly.  His brow furrows ever so slightly, his teeth tugging at his lip with thought. 

You jump when he waves, flicking his wrist like he is batting a fly.  The discreet sweep of his thumb across your cheek is so fast, you only know it happened because the tear track dries. 

“In the name of the gods,” the minister speaks, “the ancient and the almighty, we gather here today to unite in matrimony the holiest of subjects.  This couple has been brought together through heaven’s all-knowing divine intervention.”   

You bow your head.  There is nothing else you can do.  You listen to the recitations and make your oaths when prompted.  You swear before gods and men to serve your husband, to obey him, to always be pure and faithful to him. 

“The gods grant you to speak on behalf of the divine blood,” the minister says to Jisung. 

You look at Jisung.  He is already looking at you.  His gaze darts down your dress, across the floral embroidery, and lands at your feet. 

Your breath catches when he slowly gets down on one knee, keeping his head bowed and eyes down.  A gentle murmur disturbs the congregation, but there is no outrage.  The king would not have bowed before the queen, but perhaps the genuflection of a proxy is appropriate. 

“I swear,” Jisung says, his theatrical voice replaced with a gentler rasp that tingles up your spine, “I will honour you as a wife and a queen.  I will revere you as the gods’ chosen consort.”   He looks up, his lashes long and dark, his brown eyes so big and warm.  You think he is so beautiful; it almost makes you sick.  That dizziness worsens when he smiles and says,  “I will be your protector.  Until the day I die, no harm will ever come to you.”   

He stands.  Blessings are made.  The minister pronounces the union has been sanctified by the gods.  The congregation kneels in genuflection, respectful of the rituals even if they don’t like you.   You stand on the dais above them all, maintaining a stoic expression.  

You are a wife and a queen, though your husband is nowhere in sight, and your eyes stray to a head of dark hair, bowed with the rest of them. 

Jisung looks up, a bit of hair falling over his eyes.  He flashes a smile. 

Your heart picks itself up and starts running again. 

-

You cannot do this. 

You thought you could try for the sake of your family.  You thought you could try for the sake of the gods.  You thought you could try for the sake of the kingdom and all the innocent people within it. 

Then the king came to your chamber.  He did not attend the wedding feast, just as he did not attend the ceremony.  It was a fair excuse to make an early departure, returning to your room while the music played and wine flowed.  You were exhausted, emotionally weary, and your face was sore from so many false smiles. 

You discarded your elaborate gown.  You were in a shift, sitting at your vanity and removing jewelry, when the king arrived.  He did not announce himself or knock.  He threw open the door and marched inside like a conquering force.  He looked over your room with a scrunched face of displeasure, grimacing as if he was standing in a barnyard.  He looked at you with the same hateful distaste.     

Your throat closed up as if you inhaled poison.

You stood on shaking legs.  You had practiced a speech for this moment.  You thought perhaps you could convince the king to regard you as a decent friend if not a cherished wife.  You were willing to compromise on happiness. 

He backhanded you without hesitation.  No one had ever hit you so hard.  It felt as though he struck you with hot iron, your cheek a stinging welt.  Bells seemed to drown out the music downstairs.   

“Sire,” you said, your voice shaking worse than your legs. 

You found you could not look at him directly.  Your eyes burned just turning towards him. 

“Get on the bed,” he said.  “Wife.”  He might as well have said whore for all that the word was spat. 

You never expected to enjoy your wedding night.  All women know there is no pleasure in acts of copulation.  But this was something else entirely.  You approached the bed like a deer skirts the edge of the woods.  One wrong step and you knew it would be over. 

He grabbed you from behind before you could sit.  You slammed your eyes shut, curled your fists tighter.

In the darkness, you heard music, a distant voice belting some sweeter tune.  You recognized Jisung, his crystalline voice soaring above the bells. Your heart chased the sound, a desperate stampede up your body.  It seized control and before the king could do more harm, you blurted, “I’ve started my monthly bleeding.”

He stopped, the hem of your shift in his fists.

“Just – just so you know,” you said. 

It was a lie.  You braced yourself for the worst.  If he chose to disregard it, if he chose to take you anyway, he would quickly see there was no blood and you were trying to deceive him.  He had rights as a husband and it was sinful to deny him. 

He made a sound like gagging.  He shoved you forward.  You collapsed in a heap on the bed. 

He walked away. 

“I will not have you on the road,” he said.  You are not sure if he looked at you again because you hid your face in the blankets.  Hiding, as if you could will the world away by not seeing it.  “You’re filthy enough as is,” he continued.  “When we reach civilized society, you will be made as appropriate as you can be.  You will be cleaned, you will lose weight, you will be made to look halfway respectable, not like some borderland animal laying in its own filth. I will have you then without exception.  Wife.” 

You shuddered when the door slammed shut. 

The sun was still setting when he left.  It has long since vanished from the sky.  You have not moved.  You fear if you lift your head, he will be there, waiting to strike. 

After a long, long time, you surface.  Your room is empty.  The lavender light of sunset is gone and there is a darker puddle of moonlight, trickling between the curtains, pouring down your back.  You shiver.  You touch your cheek and find it is still tender. 

You try to pray but you are surrounded by silence.   Even the music has ended. 

In the ringing silence, you stand.  Your body is sore from laying curled up for so long.  It takes some pacing to straighten fully.  Back and forth, across your room.  Back and forth, in the silence. 

I cannot do this, you think.  Back and forth, the same thought, again and again. 

Disobeying the king is unlawful.  Abandoning him when you have sworn an oath is treasonous.  Even the kingsguards are bound to their vows for life.   If a soldier breaks his oath, he is put to death, swift and sure.  The punishment for a disobedient wife is the same. 

The silence is agonizing. 

You know what you have to do.   It will not be easy. 

You have to try for sake of yourself. 

-

The risks are great but you would rather die a swift death than suffer the slow poisoning of contempt. 

Your adrenaline pounds.  You pack all your jewelry in a sack to sell.  You bring some clean clothes.

There are servants clothes in a stack by the unlit fireplace.  You mend their worn garments during the busy seasons.  They are always appreciative and you like helping people. 

You don a pageboy’s garb and tuck your hair into a hat.  The king commented on your build and you grant it gives you away, built with your mother’s curves with a cascade of your father’s curly black hair.  You hide all your prominent features as best you can. You will be more inconspicuous as a roaming servant boy than as a notable queen. 

You tip-toe into the corridor, uncertain if the hallway is guarded.  The palace is usually safe but you are a queen now, so maybe the king sent guards.  Protecting you was in his oath, after all.

Kings are not beholden to their oaths.  The hallway is empty but you are hardly aggrieved.  You seize the opportunity and let your racing heart carry you away. 

Down the hall, down the winding stairs, through the kitchen, past the door.  You slow to a nonchalant canter when passing other servants, making sure to turn your face down and keep to the shadows.  Everyone is either busy, drunk, or tired, so you manage to slip past without notice. 

Once you are alone outside, you break into a run.  You do not leave yourself a moment to think.  If you begin to doubt, you will falter, and this will all be over. 

You are panting and sweating by the time you reach the stables.  You are not exactly in the habit of great exertion.  You take a moment to catch your breath while scanning for guards.  There must be some.  The courtiers have their animals in camps around the palace but the king’s horses are stabled.  The kingsguards have alternated shifts to keep an eye on the king’s property.  

There are no guards to be found.  You approach the stable with cautious steps.  No one appears and you slip into the stables unseen.  There is a lit lamp, swinging as though recently bumped, but there is no one in here.  Just the horses. 

You step to the first stall.  Your heartbeat is erratic and it pounds harder when you find a horse already bridled.  Did they forget to remove the saddle?  This is one of your father’s horses and that is unusual, but you do not question it. 

You lead the horse out of the stall and into the middle of the stable.  You speak gentle nothings to him.  You have not often ridden this horse as he is one of the faster animals, but you will need that speed tonight.   

Perhaps the gods are on your side after all. 

You take hold of the saddle.  You are about to hoist yourself onto the mount when a zing of metal slashes through the silent night.   The tip of a sword touches your shoulder.   

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

You recognize that voice. 

Of all the kingsguards to find you, of course it would be Han Jisung. 

You are so startled  that your adrenaline turns from fire to ice.  You freeze solid. 

“Hey! Little boy!” He lightly jabs you with the sword, just enough to scratch the material of your stolen shirt.  “A kingsguard asked you something.  Answer me!  Now!”

Your hands are still raised when you turn around.  It is a slow, begrudging reveal.  Your eyes are on the hay-spattered stable floor.  You look at his black boots, the silver sheath hanging at his hip.  Up, up, up, your eyes slowly lift. 

You meet his gaze.  His brow is furrowed with frustration but it uncrinkles when he recognizes you.  That irritation is smacked off his face, shock changing his whole disposition.  The sword wobbles and he takes a startled step back. 

“You—” he says.  He looks at you, jaw-slacked, then rubs his eye as if he cannot believe what he is seeing. 

Finally, the sword lowers to his side. His long black robes swish with the movement.  His shock gives way to panic.   

“What are you doing?” he demands, his voice breaking on a harsh whisper.  He swiftly sheaths the sword and takes several determined steps closer to you.  “Are you crazy?  Where are you going?  And what are you wearing?”

“I’m leaving,” you snap back.  The burgeoning panic in your chest begins to putter, making you indignant in your desperation.  “And I’m obviously in disguise.”

“Oh.  A disguise,” he says, utterly dry.  His face is theatrical by nature, brows jumping and eyes widening as he speaks.  “Yeah, no one could recognize you like this.  Except for, oh, I don’t know—”

Audaciously, Jisung snatches the hat off your head.  You yelp, throwing your hands up to grab it, but he pulls it away faster than a blink. 

Your hair tumbles free, curls even messier than before.  You slap your hands over your head, frantically smoothing them down.  Your arms start to shake, all that panic and adrenaline bubbling, needing somewhere to go.  You feel as though you are going to burst, a screaming firework shooting through the roof of this stable. 

“I would have been fine with the hat,” you snap.  “I made it this far.” 

“Only because half this house is drunk,” he replies with equal verve.  “Look at you, your hair, your woman’s face, your – your woman’s body.”  He stumbles over that one, eyes flicking down your form and up again.  He clears his throat and shakes his head.  “You would have been caught immediately.  You were caught immediately.” 

“I’ll be fine,” you say.  “I know my way.”

“There’s no way a girl like you has ever ridden anywhere past your family’s land,” he says.

You are flushed with heat and aggravation.  You want to argue but he is not wrong.  You know the general direction to the nearest town but you have never ridden there on horseback. 

“I know my way,” you say again. 

“Do you?”  He takes a step closer.  “You go north – do you know which trail is overrun with bandits?  And the east – do you know which path to take to avoid the mountain lions?  Or the west – if you go over the border and the men who live in those woods discover you alone—”

“Stop it!”  You throw your hands up over your ears.  All that panicked heat simmers and spills.  It turns to tears. 

You sob.     

He’s right.  You know he’s right.  You let your desperation and your adrenaline carry you this far, but you are not prepared for an arduous journey.  You have a sack of jewels that are a greater liability than asset on dangerous roads.  What would you have done if they were stolen?  What would you have done if someone hurt you?  You have nothing.  No map, no direction, and no hope.

Jisung’s shoulders drop as he watches you cry.  His own passion tempers itself, his frustration cooling in the face of your tears.  He let himself get carried away too, but you don’t blame him.  He is a kingsguard.  He is duty-bound to protect the king and the king’s property, which you are. 

He found you committing treason.  You are lucky he did not hold a sword to your throat and drag you to the king. 

His sword stays sheathed.  He looks at you, expression morose.   

“I’m sorry,” he says in a soft voice.  “You know I can’t let you go.” 

“I know,” you whisper, gasping through your tears. 

If you were not so miserable, you might have laughed at the look on his face.  You are certain this man has encountered many adversaries, but never a sobbing woman.  He would have been happier dealing with a real thief. 

His hand lifts and falls as he wars with himself, evidently debating whether he should touch you or not.  You stand there, sobbing into your hands while he watches helplessly. 

When he does touch you, it is careful.  First, just his fingertips, light on your shoulder, then the slow curving touch of his palm as he gently squeezes.   It is the first kind touch in days and it sends a shiver down your spine.  You look at him, eyes wet with tears, imploring with no words. 

His mouth opens but he doesn’t speak.  A breath stutters past his lips.  Slowly, he takes back his hand, curls his fingers into his palm.   He swallows. 

You stare at each other in the dim lamplight.  You are not sure how long you would have stood there, silent, staring, but you are interrupted before you can find out.  There is a soft knock at the stable door and Jisung jumps as if it was an explosion.  His head whips around, looking between you and the door. 

“Fuck,” he says.  His brows jump and he covers his mouth.  “You didn’t hear that.  Quick.” 

He does not stop to explain.  You have no opportunity to ask questions.  He swiftly ushers you into the empty stall, closing the door behind you.  He races to the stable door to greet whoever is there. 

You hold your breath, hiding in the shadows as someone enters the stable.  Jisung and the intruder speak in hushed tones that you cannot decipher.  You inch closer to the door, peeking through the slats between the wood.    

 It is another kingsguard.  You recognize him as one from the ceremony, the silver-haired one with the face full of freckles, who smiled at you so kindly.  You would recognize such a unique face anywhere, even though he is out of uniform.  For some reason, he is dressed in civilian garb, even though you know the kingsguard is not allowed to wear anything but their black robes. 

“Thank you again,” the silver-haired man says.  You can hear better as they step further inside. 

“Don’t thank me yet, Felix,” Jisung replies.  “I still think you’re crazy, man.”    

“Still,” the man, Felix, replies.  “Not everyone would have helped.  You didn’t have any problems?”

Jisung is adjusting the saddle on the horse.  His eyes briefly lift and meet yours.  You duck further into shadow. 

Jisung sighs and shakes his head.  He tightens the reigns then hands them to Felix.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Jisung says.

Another figure steps into view, one who has been silent this whole time.  You watch as the person draws back their hood, revealing a woman around your age.  By the style of her gown, you can tell she is a courtier from the capital.  She smiles at Jisung. 

“Thank you, Han Jisung,” she says.  “The gods will reward your courageous heart.”

“Ah-ha-ha.”  He giggles nervously, scratching the back of his neck.  “I already have everything I need.  Some of us—”  He casts a withering look at Felix, though his tone is light and teasing, “—can keep our chastity vows.  I don’t need anything more than service.” 

Felix chuckles, holding out his hand to the woman.  She hurries into his arms. 

“If that’s your path, I hope it will make you happy,” Felix says. 

You watch as they help the woman onto the horse.  Felix swings up behind her.  They both pull hoods over their heads. 

Jisung reaches up, offering Felix his hand.  Felix clasps it.

“Brother,” Felix says. 

“Crazy man,” Jisung replies. 

Felix smiles.  They drop hands and Felix takes the reigns.  With an expert click, he marches the horse into a swift canter and rides out the open stable door.  Jisung strides forward to watch them leave, craning his neck to see further. 

Now you know why there were no guards.  Now you know why the horse was prepared.  Felix and Jisung must have been posted as guards and took the opportunity to sneak Felix away.  Felix, who has evidently committed treason, breaking his vow as a kingsguard to literally ride off with a woman.  

You doubt this was a whim.  You wonder how long the trio has been planning this.  If there was ever a time for a guard to steal a horse and sneak away, it would be in the busy chaos of a wedding week.  Like Jisung said, most of the household is drunk.  Others are tired and resting.  A long journey back to the capital begins tomorrow. 

A journey you will have to make. 

You nudge the door open.  Jisung’s shoulders jump, eyes wide as he looks at you, as if he forgot you were there.  He regards you warily as you step forward. 

“So,” you say.  “It’s okay for some people to commit treason.”

“It’s not the same thing,” Jisung answers quickly.  “And Felix can handle himself out there.” 

You have both witnessed the other commit a treasonous act.  You could rat him out to the king, just as he could drag you back and do the same.   Instead, you stare at each other, your gazes measuring.  They meet in the middle. 

“Do you think we understand each other?” he asks. 

He holds out his hand in offering.  You remember his quick but substantial touch at the ceremony, that moment he wiped the tear from your cheek.  For all that darkness circles the periphery of him, there is something warm at the centre of his character.  It compels you to trust him. 

You take his hand.