𝖗𝖎𝖘𝖊 / 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒍

⸻ 𝒃𝒐𝒓𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒆

( ... ) today, keran keeps the tension coiled tight within her in anticipation of the next round, though there's time on the sundial before it. her eyes glance across the board to see that her opponent hasn't yet been determined, so she nods over to the holding tent that's a little down from the tournament ring. "your side needs seeing to, before aera pulls both our ears!"

Those weary embered eyes of his trace Keran's features as if they intend to hold her within them. The soft slope of her nose, those large eyes that tell every bit of what burns inside, the rosy tint across the apples of her cheeks from the heat of the battle, rising from that bright smile that compels him to never feel cross with her. Temptation to brush his fingers across her skin is simple to ignore when they are dirtied with his own filth, but he grips her hand strong, managing to rise to his feet with a pained grunt.

"Well matched... ugh, indeed..." Geonwoo takes pause, leaning into her unconsciously as they step from the ring. "H-had I not been distracted I would have— hrgh... I would have won!"

The words he chokes out are typical of their moments after battle. A brief banter, high spirits and goof sportsmanship. Rare, for the man to ever allow a hint of bitterness to seep into his lungs, but he tastes it in every inhale. Dust and steam and blood resemble the flavor of sorrow. He spits it out with a turn of his head.

"She need not know a thing if we are quick, then."

He meets pace with Keran's — slow and steady, shoulders brushing and bumping every so often. There is a pause in their steps, however, once they reach the tent. He leans away, reaches his hand toward. This one is unsullied and tender. Its thumb roughly wipes away a smearing of dirt across her jaw, other fingers intent on pushing those stray hairs from her face. A repeated ritual of the aftermath of their spars. The familiarity bubbles back into his chest. Bittersweet, undeserved.

"Your hair... needs brushing." The corner of his lip twitches. He has finally come back home.

( ... ) "you can imagine how shocked i was that so long had passed, for me it was only like a night." and a long one at that. "i was so scared that you and the others... that you–" she can't continue, but geonwoo will know what she means. it's still there among them, a wound that will never fully heal. "i'm just glad we're all alive, well and together." she offers him a wobbly smile. "i missed you an awful lot, brother."

"My injuries have healed by now, sister." he asserts when he pulls from her hug, offering her a reassuring widening of his eyes. "Rest assured, I have been treated well."

He allows Nara to do much of the talking, his gaze lingering on her with a mixture of awe and bewilderment. The sight of her, after being gone for so long, fills him with a flood of questions. What was it like? Was it painful? Are you ill? Did you see mother and father? How long did it feel? Each inquiry swirls in his mind, but he swallows them back, one by one, before they spill from his lips.

As they approach the threshold of the sitting room, Nara begins to answer some of his less probing questions, her words coming faster than he can form them.

"I see..." Geonwoo's gaze falters, dropping to the murky liquid in the tea cup placed before him by a servant."Perhaps I am in... shock..." He clears his throat, blinking rapidly to dispel the unease settling in his chest. A drop of something falls into the still plum-flavored water, but he feigns brushing a bead of sweat from his temple "Did you hear from Yura? She..." His mind ventures to their spat prior to the banquet. It remained a regret nagging in the corner of his head for the past two months. His head shakes and he quickly brushes the topic aside, finding the thought of lingering on what he could have done better useless by now.

( ... ) “i was simply training outside and time slipped away.” she still gave her brother a prompt answer, aware of his growing impatience. her words weren't outright lies, yet she chose to hide a part of the truth, hoping it will be enough to quell her brother's suspicions. “i am tired, i shall head to bed now.”

Geonwoo does not look away from Yura's gaze — he never does, even when she makes her propensity for obstinance known. No, it is especially due to this personality of hers that he finds the need to stand so firmly against her decisions. ( And, perhaps, there is something to be said about siblings closest in age butting heads twice as much. )

He knows well enough of the youngest Choi's feelings on the matter of their parents. In the short time that has gone by since their passing, he has been able to make use of this to his advantage in understanding her motivations, her feelings. All of which had been something of a mystery to him in all their two decades together.

Yura had always been fiercely independent, reluctant to accept help even when she needed it most. It is a trait they both share, inherited perhaps from their parents, who always encouraged them to stand on their own two feet and pave their own way. And yet, in moments like these, he couldn't help but wish she would let him in, if only for a moment. The wall that surrounds Yura becomes visible to him. Just once, he wishes to step over it; else he knows the only other option is to knock it down. He hears those words, however; those of their mother. If only you could be more like— He refuses to say them himself.

"Training... ? You are lying to me, Choi Yura," Geonwoo is firm in his stance, stepping close enough to her to cast a shadow over her features. It is a tangible reminder of his presence before her — his ability to assert authority over her. His eyes travel past her toward the sky. Am I overstepping, father? But, despite the man's strict demeanor, it is clear the affection he holds for his sisters is something that would never waver; even if it means drawing tension between them. He is protective to a fault. "If you are content to conceal the truth from me, I will inform our sister when the morning comes."

( ... ) with her good arm again, she draws the circles, summoning more flames. they circle around her, igniting part of the sleeve on her bad arm briefly. she smacks the flames away, blackening her hand without a care. "i am nothing, now." she fills her chest with a breath, then begins to hobble her way over to him, looking up at what parts of his face she can see. "so tell me, what can this nothing of grace do for you, my lord? what do you wish of me?" she looks down, past him, to the courtyard that now suffers a drenching from the rain, and she brushes past him, bumping him with her injured shoulder as she enters the rain. "all i can offer now is convinction."

Geonwoo does not know what it feels like to lose part of oneself. Akin to a severed limb. A loss of his own lavabending would feel the same way. Yet another piece of his father torn from his grasp. So painful, so empty. He can only assume it burns in the same way the loss of his parents did. To watch those pieces tumble away is to fall to one's knees and look to the sky, muttering pleas for any god who may be merciful enough to listen.

Thunder cracks, lightning moves through the sky and ripples through the dark clouds like molten fissures in earth. Is that what she chases?

The rain comes down hard. Pelts against the ground and roof mask her words with a jagged blanket. It is enough to obscure Yeongja's form as she steps within it, transforming her into nothing more than a blurry silhouette. The sight leaves him a brief moment of awe. Yeongja's determination of self knows no bounds. Even as the sky's warm tears drench her through, she does not seem to flinch. It is as she says — conviction.

He jolts into the courtyard after her with every sense of urgency in each step. No offer of words or sighs are given as he makes an attempt to shield her body with his own from the downpour. He must be delicate in touch, well aware of the injuries that linger, even as he makes attempt to urge her to turn to her room. If it is his command to protect her, then he must — even if it conflicts with her direct order to leave her be. He can sense those words coming. They are already said without her needing to speak them.

"Princess..." He begins with his voice low, conflicting thoughts ruining his mind. He did not want to be the object of that ire when she returns with a cold. His expression twists. He fights against his need to discard his position with his casual words — to be bold enough to chide a princess. Could he manage to live with such a thing? The odd sensation of concern of another sort surges through him. It could be said the past few months are evident that Geonwoo is, indeed, capable of compassion ( among other things he once found unsuitable for himself ).

( ... ) the reminder about the upcoming meal, however, is admittedly a welcome one. chanyul hadn't eaten in hours, rushed from one event to another in preparation for tonight's festivities. "thank you," he says, though he knows that the timely reminder will do more to prompt the servants to hasten their efforts to finish dressing him. some of their work, of course, could be made easier if chanyul makes a few decisions beforehand. before geonwoo manages to slink away, he holds up a hand and meets his gaze. "gold or red ?" he asks, holding two silk sashes he's been considering.

The very existence of the prince is unfair. Geonwoo's opinion turns to spite the moment he feels his assumptions are confirmed all those years ago. His disdain for Chanyul takes its root in their childhood.

It evolves from general suspicion into a disdainful view that has his spitting little more than venom in his direction. His mother chides the young teen to be careful with his words; and his father insists there is growth in rivalry so long as it is healthy. However, there is nothing less than mutually destructive about this feud between two boys who know nothing more than emotional drive and unmitigated tempers. It takes them fighting tooth and nail until they are knocked to their senses. Geonwoo remains convinced they could have very well killed each other had they not stopped.

Their state now is little more than a war of words; battles calculated through gazes and underhanded statements and gestures. Geonwoo's opinion of the man still rings true — still driven by the irrational state of his heart that pushes him into nothing short of passion. Fervor in his vitriolic inner dialogue.

"My apologies, your grace." There are no excuses to give that would satisfy the prince, nor rectify his observation. Preparations for the event and his need to monitor his own family as well as tend to his own duties have stretched him thin, lending him no more than a few hours a night to sleep — much of which he spends sitting, hopelessly awake. He hardly expected any extension of sympathy to his cause. No, particularly not from Chanyul. For his own negligence in remaining alert, he marks himself for a self-inflicted punishment once his duties are cleared.

( ... ) "geonwoo," suguru calls, gently touching his shoulder with his good arm. "geonwoo wake up, we need to leave, now." he looks around, but there is no one who can help him. it seems it's just the two of them now. "come on, get up, we gotta go."

Geonwoo drifts between states of consciousness as the world burns around him. Screams and panicked yells of names and requests blur into ringing that suffocates his ears with its drilling. He can still hear the lava bubbling, the agonized cries of those dragged within still piercing the air. His eyes close as he rolls closer to the wall. Should he accept this? Death?

A dream briefly comes over him. One where a bird calls out to him; sings a song like the one his mother once did when he was a child. A chickadee with eyes like simmering coals. It bounces toward him and tilts its head. Then the voice changes. To a man's. Familiar. Someone he knows that lives. "Sugu...— " He calls out a in a wheeze. It hurts to breathe, hurts to move. The forming bruises that grip his ribs make it so.

"Safe… everyone — … safe?" Delirious mumbling is the most he can manage as he sits up. His eyes scan the ruins of the tea house — not a soul in sight but the two royal guards. No glimpse of his sisters, the few friends he had, the royal family. In his most disastrous of thoughts, they are all gone, set to never return, and he provides himself no time to lament over it. They must heal and rebuild. "Fuck... damn it all..."

( ... ) she stands, her bad arm falling limp at her side as she sheds the sling, casting it to the ground. her left arm is dead weight, completely useless, but with the right hand she begins drawing those fluid circles in the air, trying to summon the storm within her, one she knows rages harder and fiercer than whatever childsplay nature was making outside. ribbons of flame appear, whipping out of her hand in elegant, fluid motions, but they grow more erratic and chaotic in nature the more she pushes for a different element she once held mastery of. she pushes and pushes until the flames nearly seer the ceiling, pushing them out through the doorway and into the rain with a shout of pure frustration. the pain pulses in her thigh and her arm, but she ignores it again, more wounded over her failure to conjure the one thing that made her her.

The ground still rumbles beneath the steps that he traces along the palace corridors. That day is a ghost that looms overhead, digging its fingers in like claws of dark spirits tearing at his flesh. The sites of past injury still ache beneath his armor, a constant reminder that only draws him closer to the nightmares he fought to keep away.

When he first received notice of his next assignment, he had hardly given it a second thought. ( The distraction from his mind's lure would be a welcome change. ) In all his seven years of serving as a guard, then one who protect and serve the royal family, he has grown to know their routines, served at each of their sides in succession ( sometimes to his chagrin ). But the weight of this duty draws heavy on his shoulders. Circumstance and tragedy befall the children of House Yi. In her ailment, her weakened state, the need for more personal protection has placed him in closer watch to Princess Yeongja. In mere appearance, the woman has faded from the doll-like sovereign's daughter he once knew. She is a shell of her former self, cracking and trembling in all her looming fears. Her once vibrant presence now seemed muted, as if she were but a shadow of her former self.

The sun has already begun its set over the horizon, bleeding colors into the darkening sky as it retreats. He stands outside the door to the courtyard of her quarters. Back presses against the wall and his eyes drifting to another passing guard he gives brief nod to. The man mentions a coming rain, tapping stray drops of moisture from the spiked helmet perched atop his head. The chill of the evening air seeps through the joints of his armor, raising goosebumps on his exposed skin.

Moments later, the door to the princess's chambers creak — a crack of thunder roars through the thick grey clouds in the seconds that follow. Geonwoo turns from his position with an urgency that swirls a dizzying sensation into his head. From her room bursts trails of fire, a cry of desperation before he sees her standing there, her eyes seem fixed on some distant point within the sky. Across the courtyard yells a maid, 'Princess, you mustn't!'

( ... ) “you think yourself above the law? is that it?” when he straightens up, just for a moment, he towers over geonwoo. “if it’s not your command he’s under, you’re stepping out of line. whether or not he deserves the rope isn’t your decision to make.” they’re bound to attract attention, very soon. jiyu’s not eager for it, and too hungover to want to deal with the situation at all. “who does he report to?”

Above the law? He scoffs at the notion. On the contrary. Geonwoo's own suggestion on the matter would differ, fall on deaf ears. "I follow the discretion of House Yi and my commanding officer's standard of enforcement."

The tone of his remains in its typical monotone; inflections nonexistent as he drones on about the official memorized 'laws' his ilk follow within the winding walls of Hari Bulkan. As if he were a tool and nothing more. "A guard must fulfill his duty to protect and serve at all times in accordance to the command that the royal family be protected and represented in a way that preserves their honor and strength. The code of conduct dictates harsh punishment for dissidents and problematic behaviors. Should this be your ship, I would concede to you."

He bites his tongue from further comment. In spite of his need to correct, he knows his place. Jiyu is still a naval commander, a revered son from a strong great house. He does not know of him in the way he does his younger sisters.

The royal guard considers himself to be far from in the wrong, steadfast in the convictions and morals instilled within him since they were all youth in the Fire Nation's best academies. Those who act in are to be reprimanded and, at the discretion of authority, subject for torture or death for any serious actions. He would live and die by the code of conduct — no matter how improper and inhumane it appeared when he enforced it in his own way.

In the most recent passing days, Geonwoo comes to ponder upon his true feelings concerning his profession. He takes immense pride in his position; knowing himself to be one of the Fire Nation's most formidable to be granted such a role. However, there are instances in which he can feel the regret creeping at his toes. His body has been honed over the years to be sturdy as a tree trunk, able to withstand the heaviest of blows and longest of days. And yet, a waver makes itself known in his legs.

He feels his eyes grow heavy, head bob to the side and— he clears his throat, startled by his own doze. Several blinks and a widening of his eyes jolts him back from the seductive fingers of dream world. One glance around would serve him a reminder of where he is. Trapped, he would say, within four walls of some extravagantly decorated bedroom. With honor from House Bae, each noble had been granted accommodations in the coming days before their illustrious banquet. The children of House Yi ( of course ) are housed in the most luxurious of spaces. Certainly no match for the royal household in Hari Bulkan but its interior is impressive. More than a man like Geonwoo would ever dream to stay in.

His special assignment to guard Prince Chanyul ( and the other members of the royal family ) only gives him a small peak into the life of unfettered opulence. Servants flit about the room with various items of clothing. They hold it up to the prince's body to see how it may fit for his banquet outfit. Outer robes, silk sashes, shoes with ornate designs. The man finds the repetitive notion of dressing and undressing in pieces one would not walk out and wear a daunting task.

Gods, free me now... or make the sun grow dark and end this suffering.

⸻ 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖐𝖘 𝖜𝖊 𝖜𝖊𝖆𝖗

a rise character development prompt for lord choi geonwoo

⸻ CHARACTER UPDATE

Given the events and some plotting I have done, as well as thinking, I've decided to write up a comprehensive update for Geonwoo and lay out the character development he will be going through and what happened to him during and following the events! This could lead into potential plots or further dev!