there was a time when he was the student. it was a time that sat vivid in his memories and yet somehow distant, as if last year had been ten years ago, or a hundred. his training sessions with his brother had been what he looked forward to every week, from the ring of steel against steel to the ache of muscles repairing themselves to the bruises of falling on his back over and over again because he was too rash next to junyongâs grace and strategy and poise. what he remembered most vividly was the sheer marvel of his brotherâs transformation. somehow his whites shone whiter than taeyongâs, his golds gleamed brighter, every movement catching the light of the moon, or the sunrise, depending on what time of day they trained. he looked like a king, something out of a fairy tale, and taeyong vowed every time that not only would he someday see his brother in action, on the battlefield, but that heâd be there fighting alongside him.
now his brother was dead, lost to oblivion, not even existing as ash in a jar in a box among rows of other lost loved ones. there was nothing of him left, no more warm smile that split his face in half, no more rich golds or impossible whites of his transformation, no more song of steel against steel in the privacy of their training corner. his memory, as it lived on in the minds of others, was tainted by the leagueâs lies. he only existed now, as he once was, in taeyongâs memories, in the steadiness of his stance and the levelness of his breathing during battle, in the whites and golds of his own hero garb, in the demanding need for revenge having crawled up from the base of his spine to sit just behind his heart, as if for good.
âyouâre not focusing,â he announced flatly, disappointed, after deflecting the swing of dannyâs mace and knocking it out of his hand in the next moment, his sword catching the moonlight in a flash as he let it hang by his side. he stepped back, giving the other hero a chance to retrieve his weapon. âyouâre too focused on trying to get a swing in at me that youâre leaving your weak spots wide open. i couldâve killed you twice just then. at least.â
he reached up to brush his hair out of his eyes, white on white, sweat beading on his brow. his jaw clenched. his own words sounded too familiar, bringing back vivid memories of junyong to the surface of his conscience. six months ago, he stood here, on this hillside, in this exact spot, blocking blows from his brother, practicing as hard as his body would let him. two years later and his brother was dead. something small in his chest shifted painfully. he was the mentor now.
âand youâre holding your breath,â he added, for good measure, to distract from the faltering of his own focus. so were you, he imagined his brother saying over his shoulder, an unwanted phantom sitting on his shoulder, a shadow of his own untapped grief hanging heavy in the night.
