#god!au

Notes: Phew, hello, hello!! Welcome! So this took a looot of time to write because there was just soo much to fit in there. But! It's done! And I hope that you enjoy, this was so much fun to write (Except on the days I simply stared at my screen blankly willing it to write itself lmao) I hope yall are ready!! Because boy oh boy hehehehehe (no, i do NAWt wanna see smth "funny") Anyway!! go forth and enjoy!!

There were stories, whispered from one generation to the next, of a time when the world thrived under the watchful eyes of the gods. When trees never withered, their leaves forever lush and green. When fields stretched endlessly, golden with grain, and the land was generous in its bounty. The sun would rise on honey-washed mornings, bathing the earth in warmth, while the moon chased it away, unveiling a vast expanse of stars that pulsed with the rhythm of the universe. 

The seasons were ruled by four divine siblings, each shaping the world in their own time. The God of Winter wove the ice and snow, sculpting the world into quiet stillness. The God of Spring painted the land in color, coaxing life from the frozen ground. The God of Summer brought the sun’s embrace, ripening fruit upon the vine and warming the rivers until they shimmered. And the God of the Harvest---the keeper of abundance, the silent hand that ensured fields bore fruit and autumnal rains softened the soil. 

The harvest season had once been a time of celebration. The air would cool, a gentle prelude to winter’s embrace. The people would gather in gratitude, offering songs and laughter to the heavens, their voices carried by the wind in praise of the gods who watched over them. Among them, none was more revered than the God of the Harvest. 

Under the full moon’s glow, they honored him with feasts and revelry. They danced beneath lantern-lit skies, sang hymns woven with devotion, and laid offerings upon his altar. A gesture of thanks for his toil, a promise to never take his gifts for granted. 

But time is unkind to gods who demand remembrance. 

As the world expanded, as men turned their hearts toward conquest and coin, there was little room left for worship. The feasts grew smaller. The songs faded. And slowly, the God of the Harvest and his brothers became nothing more than a tale---told in passing, then only to children, until even that, too, was lost. 

He felt It, the unraveling. 

It was slow at first---a whisper of power slipping through his grasp, a hollowness where once there had been warmth. Then came the cold. The absence. The silence where prayers had once been. He turned to his siblings, seeking solace, only to watch as they too withered. The Winter God’s frost grew bitter; it brought nothing but storms of hail and ice so thick that the halls of his house froze over. The Spring God lost his bloom, the flowers he once breathed to life struggling to root, fruit withered on their vines. The Summer God, who had burned the brightest, flickered and dimmed, like a candle in the wind.  

One by one, they faded. Slipping away, like grain through open fingers. Forgotten. Dismissed. Abandoned. Until only he remained. 

And he raged. 

His name would not be spoken in reverence? Then let it be spoken in fear. Let them cry and beg and plead.  

The land, once fertile, turned against those who had forsaken him. Crops withered before they could take root. Rains became scarce, leaving fields cracked and barren. The seasons themselves fell into ruin---winters sharpened into bitter, unyielding cold; springs bore fruit too weak to survive; summers stretched long and dry, a relentless blaze that stole the breath from the earth. 

For centuries, the people repented. They scraped together what little they had, offered prayers beneath the waning moon, pleading for mercy. But he did not listen. 

The god who had once given so freely had turned to stone. Spiteful. Unyielding.  

And he let them suffer. 

The day started off with a series of unfortunate events; your father had sworn up and down his ancient pick-up was A-ok for the trip, and you ended up spending two hours and a little too much cash at a mechanic. The sun glares down from the cloudless sky, hot enough that the distance for miles ahead looks like a liquidized mirage. The AC gave nothing but warm air pulled in from outside, and the window on the right wouldn’t roll down.  

Your phone beeps for the second time in three minutes --- battery draining faster than you anticipated. It’s old and you promised yourself you’d replace it. Your father was never known for being tech savvy, so a car charger was out of the question. It slides along the glossy surface of a brochure you picked up from the gas station a couple miles back, screen lighting up, and then tunking softly against the backrest of the seat as the truck gives a little – concerning – jerk.  

Road stretches on for miles, and if you hadn’t been down this one at least once a year, you’d think you were lost in the backrooms.  

This chapter of unfortunate event is yet to close, and it comes with a sputter, a clinking of something, and the truck slowing down. You lead it to the side of the road, the crunch of little stones and hard dirt unpleasant.  

“No, no. Please don---” despite your pleas, the truck defiantly rolls to a stop, wheezing on its wheels. A hundred dollars down the drain. Your hands grip the steering wheel, leaning forward to press your forehead against it with a loud, drawn-out sigh.  

“I swear to God.” You mutter, reaching for your phone. It vibrates in your hand, the ringtone you’d set specifically for your mother blaring from the speaker. You glance at the top – not much power left.  

Your mother calls your name when you answer, “You should’ve been here by now.”  

Your father yells something in the background, “Oh, your father is asking if you can pick up something from Jerry’s on your way in.”  

“Mom…” She keeps on going, asking you what time you think you’d be rolling into town, and you sigh, watching a tumbleweed tumble across the wide road. “Mom. The truck broke down.”  

“Oh dear.” She says, “Honey! She said the truck broke down. Where are you?”  

“I’m out on route twenty. I---mom? Hello?” Your mother’s words crack in between, dipping in and out of your ear. You pull the phone away and the screen lights dimly. Cupping your hand over the top, you squint. The network bar winks at you before it blips completely. 

“Can this day get any worse?”  

Your phone dies.  

You let out a pitiful groan, smacking a hand against the steering wheel before sighing again. Unbuckling your seatbelt, you grab your phone, the charger, your purse and keys and step out into the sweltering heat.  

You, decidedly, reach into the glove compartment for the bottle of water you stored there. It’s more than a little warm, but it’s better than being without it.  

You roll the window up and slam the door shut. Tucking your phone into your jeans pocket, you start your trek forward. There’s supposed to be a town somewhere near, hopefully.  

The walk Is long, and looking behind you, you can still see the truck, dancing in the heatwaves.  

You don’t think you ever remember it being this hot out here, especially for this time of year. It feels like the dog days of summer, sweat trailing down your spine, your tee-shirt sticking to your tummy uncomfortably. You’re thankful you’d decided on jean shorts for the ride.  

There’s a rickety old sign hanging off of a wooden pole, swaying in a gentle blow of hot breeze. The name of the town is faded, bleached by the elements, some letters completely missing from the sign. The dark green paint on it is wrinkled and peeling, and you don’t bother to try and figure out what it’s saying. 

The road it’s situated on veers off the road, and you could just about see the beginnings of buildings in the distance. It looks like an even longer walk, but, if you can just get someone to come out here and help you with that stupid truck, you’ll be just peachy.  

Drinking from your bottle of hot water doesn’t offer much reprieve, all it does it makes you even more thirsty. Oh, the things you’d do for a tall cold glass right now.  

The buildings grow clearer as you trudge forward, their worn exteriors glowing faintly under the harsh sun. It’s not a big town by any means---just a single stretch of road lined with modest buildings: a diner, a general store, a mechanic’s shop with a rusted sign swinging in the wind. It looks like every small town you’ve ever seen on TV, like a place where the most exciting thing to happen is a bake sale. 

Some of the shops have what seem to be homes above them, curtains drawn over small, dusty windows, the occasional planter box perched on a ledge with flowers. Beyond the main strip, more houses dot the landscape, modest and quiet, their porches sagging slightly under the weight of time. Some have wind chimes that barely move in the still air, others with rocking chairs that sit empty, facing the road. 

But something feels…strange. 

You shake it off, chalking it up to your exhaustion and the oppressive heat pressing down on your shoulders. A low hum fills the air as you approach---a constant noise you can’t quite place until you notice the small generator outside the diner. It rattles and puffs out bursts of exhaust, the smell of gasoline mixing with the faint scent of fried food. 

“Finally,” you mutter, quickening your pace toward the diner. The thought of cold water and a working phone makes your steps lighter, despite the stickiness of your clothes clinging to your skin. 

A bell jingles softly as you step inside. The blast of cool air feels like heaven, even if it carries the greasy tang of old oil. A handful of people sit scattered in the diner, their voices blending into the low drone of conversation. A man leans over his coffee cup, a couple by the window shares a plate of fries, and a teenage girl in a stained apron wipes down a table with slow, methodical movements.  

“Can I help you, hon?” a voice asks. 

You turn to see a small middle-aged woman stepping out from behind the counter, a dish towel slung over her shoulder. She’s smiling warmly, but something about the way her eyes linger on you sets your nerves on edge. The smile doesn’t quite reach them, like someone wearing a mask they’ve long since forgotten how to take off.  

Maybe you’re paranoid.  

“My truck broke down,” you explain, forcing yourself to smile back. “I was hoping there’s someone who could take a look at it?” 

“Truck, huh?” she says, her gaze dropping to your dust-covered sneakers. “Must’a been quite the walk.” 

“Yeah,” you reply, your laugh coming out more strained than you’d like. You’re hoping to not become the first three minutes of a Supernatural episode. “Not my best day.” 

The woman chuckles, the sound short and clipped. “Well, Mae’s husband is the mechanic around here. He’s out right now, but you can check in with her over at the inn. She’ll know when he’ll be back.” 

You nod, glancing around the room again. The teenage girl scrubs the same spot on the table, her head down like she’s listening to every word. The couple by the window stops talking for a moment, both turning to glance at you before going back to their fries. Your stomach twists, but you push the feeling down. 

“Thanks.” you say, turning toward the door. 

This is normal, you think. Perfectly normal. The town is small, probably, not even a blip on a map. Doesn’t look like they offer much in terms of tourist attraction, and you’re just a stranger passing through.  

Your mouth feels impossibly dry when you step back outside, glancing around. Well, you can only look in one direction, as the other way is back where you crawled from.  

The Inn sits at the far end of the road, between two houses, a two-story building with faded white paint and a wraparound porch. Flower baskets hang from the posts, the blossoms long since wilted from the sun. A hand-painted wooden sign swings above the entrance: The Winding Oak Inn. You pause, glancing around. No oak trees in sight. 

Another generator hums louder here, vibrating through the porch steps as you climb them. It grates against your nerves, a constant buzz in the background like a gigantic insect. You tug the screen door, and it opens with a little jingle, stepping into the dim, cool interior. The air smells faintly of lemon polish and old wood. 

The lobby Is quaint, like something out of an old postcard. A small desk sits against the far wall, next to a bulletin board pinned with faded advertisements for long-past events. A couch and two mismatched chairs form a seating area near the window, their fabric worn but clean. A single fan turns lazily overhead; you can tell it’s rickety from the way it sways side to side on every spin but can’t hear it over the humming generator. A polished counter takes up half the wall in front of you, within the space behind it is a single beige door and framed photos hung on the wall. 

“Hello?” you call out, hoping you’re loud enough. 

A moment later, the door behind the counter creaks open, and a woman steps out. Mae, you presume. She looks to be in her late forties, with a kind face framed by loose dark curls streaked with gray. She’s wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, the faint sheen of sweat on her forehead makes her olive skin shine.  

“Oh, hello there!” she says, her voice and eager like you’re the first person she’s seen in a long time. “You must be the girl with the broken truck. Dottie called ahead.” 

You blink. Already? You hadn’t seen the diner lady touch a phone. 

“Uh, yeah, that’s me,” you say, brushing the thought aside. Small towns. Gossip probably travels faster than cell service here. 

Mae’s smile widens as she steps behind the desk, tucking the towel into her apron. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. My husband’s the town mechanic. He’s out on an errand right now, but he should be back by evenin’. Why don’ya get yourself a room while you wait? It’s much cooler in here than out there.” 

“That sounds… great,” you reply, though you hesitate. “Is there… maybe a phone I could use? Mine’s dead, and I need to let my parents know what’s going on.” 

Mae’s smile falters for a split second, so brief you almost miss it. “Ah, we don’t really use phones much ‘round here,” she says, her tone apologetic. “Reception’s spotty, and the landline’s been out for weeks. The only connection we’ve got is between businesses. But don’t worry, hon, when my husband gets back, we’ll have you fixed up and on your way.” 

Something tightens in your chest, but you force a smile. “Thanks. I’ll just... get a room, then.” 

Mae nods, pulling out a large, leather-bound ledger. She turns it toward you, sliding a pen across the counter. “Sign here, and I’ll get you a key. It’s forty for the night. Cash only.” 

Only one name is signed on the page, the ink of the date is too faded for you to make sense of.  

You scribble your name, fishing bills from your wallet. Mae hands you a brass key attached to a wooden tag with the number ‘3’ carved into it.  

“Your room’s up the stairs, second door on the right,” she says. “I’ll bring you up some water and a fresh towel in a bit. Let me know if you need anythin’ else.” 

“Thanks,” you mumble, taking the key and heading toward the staircase. Mae’s gaze lingers on you as you climb, her warm smile never wavering. 

Upstairs, the hallway is narrow and dim, lit only by a single bulb at the far end. Your footsteps creak on the wooden floorboards as you reach your room. The door sticks a little before swinging open, revealing a small, tidy space. A bed with a patchwork quilt, a nightstand with a glass oil lamp, and a dresser with a mirror that looks like it belongs in an antique store. The single window offers a view of the street below, the horizon shimmering in the heat. 

Sighing you sit on the bed; it creaks its complaint. You wonder if this old town has seen anyone in the past fifty years. It seems so out of place in modernity, like they’re living in a time capsule and have no idea what Wi-Fi is.  

The quilt Is soft under your fingers, and blessedly cool. Sighing, you wander around the room looking for an outlet – you don’t find one, of course. You think briefly, if you should ask Mae to charge it for you, but something makes you decide against it.  

It's just about noon, and you sit quietly in your room until Mae comes knocking. She’s brought you fresh towels and a glass of cold water that you take gratefully.  

“Bathrooms the last door.” She smiles, “This lil’ old place don’ offer much, so if you’re hungry you can head on down to Dottie’s for a bite.”  

She turns, taking a few steps back down the hall before she pauses and then, “Oh! The generators turn off at six sharp, so I’ll bring by some candles if you like? For later?” She leans her head to look around your frame, pointing with her mouth, “We’re ou’ta kerosene for the lamps.” 

You hold tightly to the soft cotton towels, “Would your husband not be back?”  

You’re not particularly thrilled at the idea of spending the night, you’d rather avoid it if you can. Mae looks a little sheepish, and she smoothens the invisible wrinkles in her apron with a terse smile.  

“Well…he said he wouldn’t be long today. He goes ou’ta town a lot but never too far.” She says, taking a breath, “He would usually be back before sundown.” 

“Oh…That’s okay. I’ll wait, Thank you.” You slowly close the creaking door and carry everything over to the little nightstand under the window. Perhaps, later when the sun’s a little more forgiving you’ll make to get your things from the truck.  

You spend the next couple of hours not doing much but twiddling your fingers, peeking out the window at the sky and listening to the generator’s buzzing. Over the course of the last few hours, you watched people move from building to building or sit in little groups on porches. Children ran through the road, playing and laughing.  

From the window, the houses further away seem like they’re sitting on what used to be farmland. A couple of barns scattered about, their red roofs look pale and dance less in the distance at this hour. You can just make out the blobby figure of a lone cow in a fenced off area, chewing on God knows what. The land looks so dry over there, whatever wind that blows kicks up nothing but dust.  

When the sun looked to be about three pm, you make your way downstairs. Mae is nowhere in sight, but the door behind the counter is propped open with a wooden chair weighed down by a couple thick books.  

Looking around, you eye the framed photos that hang on the wall. You don’t make much out, but you do see a photo of a younger looking Mae, standing next to a burly man with a beard in overalls.  

“Mae?” You call out, placing your palms on the counter you lean forward a bit to peer through the door. The light back there is dim and flickering and lights the short corridor that turns sharply left at the end. “Hello?”  

The sound of the bell jingling makes you jump, turning around to find Mae coming in. She’s carrying a brown paper bag, “Oh!” she smiles, “Did’ya need something hon? I just went ‘round to Paul’s for them candles.”  

“I’m alright, thank you.” You wave a hand, “Just thought I should let you know I’m heading out…”  

Mae nods as she walks along the side of the countertop, reaching her hand over to the corner closest to the wall. She flips a latch and the door swings inward. “You take your time, don’ lose your key. I’ll give you the candles when you get back.” 

The air outside is still pretty warm, but not as stifling as it was at noon. You pat the pocket of your jeans, double checking that your phone is in there. The charger cable and adapter are sitting comfortably in your back pocket.  

The town seems more alive at this hour, and you keep saying it, but it really does look like something out of a movie. One of those hallmark ones about family life and getting back to your roots. Children run by with dust covered shoes and knees, paying no mind to the adults around them.  

You stop outside the mechanic shop; that’s only a few houses down from the inn. You’ve not seen a single car today, just like you haven’t seen anyone leave or enter this town. Though, it’s quite likely there’s only a few people that knows it’s here.  

Dottie’s chatting animatedly with some people outside the dinner, two young men in stained overalls. She offers you a wave as you walk by.  

The trek out the dirt road seems to take a lot longer than it had going in, but looking back, you’ve gotten a good way away from the town already.  

Your father’s truck is exactly where you left it, rolled off the road, your bag safely inside. Unlocking the door, you decide to try your luck, and spend a good ten minutes willing the engine to start with every turn of the key. The truck does nothing but gurgle and sputter. You sigh harshly through your nose.  

You grab your bag from the back seat and slide out of the truck. Maybe someone in the town has jumper cables? You really don’t want to be stuck out here for longer than you have to be. It’s already almost four pm, and you’ve seen no sign of Mae’s husband. The next town is at least one hundred miles off, not a reasonable walking distance. Who knows when he’d be back and if he’ll be able to get your truck sorted in enough time for you to get back on the road.  

You stand and stare at the wooden sign, the faded paint, and the dirt road leading back into the town. You look down the asphalt stretch of road to your right and contemplate going back. There’s nothing wrong, of course there isn’t. It’s just a normal town, no need to fret. But that little tinkle in the back of your mind sounds like a warning bell.  

Honestly, you don’t have many options, on one hand, you could go walking to the next town---which is very, very far---or you can wait it out. With a sigh, you make your way back down the dirt road. You were only planning to stay with your parents for the weekend, so you don’t have many clothes in your bag, but hopefully, that shouldn’t be an issue.  

You go back to the inn to drop your bag off in your room, and Mae gives you the candles and matches to take up with you. It’s nowhere near dark yet, so you set them down on the bed with your bag and head back outside.  

Dottie’s diner is near empty, and the teenage girl from earlier is behind the counter this time, writing something into a book with pencil. When the bell jingles, she looks up and offers you a halfhearted greeting before dragging her feet to where you stood.  

“Hello,” you smile, and she bobs her head once back, looking very much like a kid who got stuck working for her parents when she would rather be anywhere else. “Do you guys sell any sandwiches?” 

Can’t go wrong with a good sandwich.  

The girl blinks at you, and the raises a finger to point at the menu behind her. The words are neatly chalked onto a mounted blackboard, their prices reasonable, and you go for a simple ham sandwich.  

After paying, the girl walks to the door behind her and pokes her head in, “Emmet…a ham sandwich.”  

It wasn’t long before you had your ham sandwich, coupled with cheese that strings with every bite. It’s wrapped nicely in brown paper that you tuck under your fingers as you walk back to the inn. The townsfolk seem to pay you no mind but give you too much attention at the same time as you go by. You just keep reminding yourself that it’s a small place.  

The mechanic shop is still closed, and a look back down the dirt road shows no sign of anyone coming in.  

Mae is sitting at the counter when you get back to the Winding Oak. Horn-rimmed glasses perched on her nose; she thumbs through a stack of ancient looking books. She carefully dusts them off with a cloth and sets them aside in a little stack.  

She peers over the frames of her glasses at you and smiles, “Had a nice walk?”  

You swallow your bite of sandwich, giving her a soft ‘mhm!’ as you wipe your grubby fingers with a napkin.  

Mae chuckles and then sets aside the cloth she was using, “Want somethin’ cold? Heat won’t get much better till nighttime m’afraid.”  

Without waiting for your answer, she’s off her little chair and through the door behind her. Not long after, she’s back with a tall glass of fizzy red soda.  

“The old fridge ain’t doing so hot these days, wouldn’t want these to waste. Gave some out to the kids a bit ago, and I thought you woulda liked somethin’ sweet.”  

You accept the soda with thanks, taking a few sips of it, cherry flavor bursts on your tongue.  

Mae watches you with a smile until the glass was empty and takes it back when you were finished. “My husband shouldn’t be long again, hon.”  

“Yeah, okay.” With nothing else to do, you thank her once more for the soda and climb back up to your room.  

You really hope it won’t be much longer.  

You sigh as you sit on the bed, tucking your wallet and keys into a pocket of your bag before using it as a pillow. Staring up at the ceiling, sleepiness tugs at your eyelids.  

The ceiling is plain; there’s no patterns for you to count from one side to another. Just a plain white slab of roofing with a few cracks running along the corners.  

You take a breath, and then another. You blink once. Twice, eyes blurring at the corners the longer you stare at one spot. You raise a heavy hand to cover a sudden yawn, frowning as you smack your lips; mouth suddenly dry as the desert. Your head feels heavy and you’re thankful you’re already laying down. With some effort, you turn your head to stare out the window with a frown, watching the way the windowsill dances in your vision.  

You blink. 

A muffled sound drags you from unconsciousness. Voices, low and hushed, words slipping through the thick fog in your mind like water through cupped hands. You can’t grasp them, not fully, but they’re there---murmuring, weaving in and out of your awareness. 

“…finally save our town… No longer have to suffer…” 

Mae’s voice. But it’s wrong. The warm, familiar lilt is gone, stripped of its easy drawl, left flat and distant; devoid of kindness. 

Your eyelids feel like lead, heavy and unwilling to lift. Your body is worse---numb at the edges, but tingling, like you’ve been lying still for too long. Something cold wraps around your wrists, your ankles. A damp breeze kisses your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. 

Not the inn. 

Not the bed. 

Panic surges through the sluggishness, a sharp spike of clarity cutting through the fog. You wrench your eyes open, blinking rapidly. Shapes loom above you, dark against the glow of the full moon. The world tilts, your vision swimming as your breath stutters behind something---fabric, thick and coarse---tied around your mouth. 

You’re outside. The sky above is vast, endless, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and something faintly metallic. A forest, dense and stretching far beyond what little you can see. You try to move, but the bindings bite into your skin. 

Then you see them. 

Mae. Dottie. A handful of others, men with sharp faces and hands dirtied by labor. They stand around you, forming a circle. The lanterns they carry flicker strangely, their light casting jagged shadows that seem to dance, stretch, shift. 

You have no time to wonder what’s happening, how you ended up here. 

Mae steps closer. She no longer looks like the woman who handed you a glass of cherry soda, all gentle smiles and kindness. Her expression is empty. Her dark eyes hold something unreadable. She’s dressed differently now cloaked, the fabric deep and worn, marked with symbols that twist in ways that make your head throb. 

“You are awake,” she murmurs, more to herself than to you. Then, she turns to the others. “It is time.” 

You try to speak, to scream, but the gag swallows your voice. 

Dottie kneels beside you, her movements slow, deliberate. She reaches for something at her belt---a knife, thin and gleaming in the moonlight. Your pulse roars in your ears as she takes your hand, turns it palm-up. 

The blade bites into your skin. 

A sharp, burning pain blooms across your palm, and you jerk, a muffled cry ripping from your throat. Blood wells up, dark and glistening. Dottie catches it in a small, shallow bowl. Beside her, one of the men holds out a lock of your hair, cut from your head without you even noticing. 

The bowl Is lifted toward the altar---a stone slab, ancient and worn, standing at the heart of this twisted gathering. The air grows heavy, thick with something unseen but felt. 

Mae’s voice rises, weaving strange words into the night. The others follow, their voices joining in a cadence that makes your head spin. 

You thrash, desperate, wild---but it doesn’t matter. 

The symbols on their robes shift. The air hums. The earth beneath you feels like it’s vibrating, pulsing with something old, something wrong. The edges of your vision blur. The last thing you see is the sky, vast and endless above you. 

Then--- 

Nothing. 

Strangely, Seokjin only notices the absence at night. 

When the moon sits high in the sky and his books can no longer keep him company. When the birdsong gives way to the murmuring of insects, the occasional hoot of an owl, and the wind carries a chill from over yonder. It isn’t the kind of cold that bites---it’s softer, quieter, settling into the marrow of his bones like an old ache.  

Before, his brothers would converge here, in his domain, and bring with them warmth. Laughter would fill these halls, bouncing off the stone and timber, seeping into the very foundation of his home. Since their absence, Seokjin’s home has felt hollowed. As though someone had reached in and pulled out the most vital parts of it, and scattered them on the wind. 

His brothers who shadowed his every step, who clung to him and never gave him a moment’s peace. They’ve left him now. Gone to a place he could not follow. 

His footsteps echo as he wanders the halls, a lonely sound swallowed by the dark. The glow of lanterns casts long, shifting shadows across the walls, stretching long dark fingers as if trying to grasp something just out of their reach.  

He’s wandered this particular hall too many times, and the first days into his grief he never left it. The hallway housed three doors that were above the rest. They were one of the few things he has left of his brothers; they lead into specific rooms in their houses. They had these doors to save themselves the trouble of walking from one domain to another, but after their fading Seokjin sealed them off.  

As time passed, the three doors look dimmer, flickering and fading with the last remnants of their energy. The vines that once curled and stretched across Namjoon’s door had long withered, brittle remains crumbling to dust at the slightest touch. He had tried---many times---to bring them back. To coax life into the tendrils, to breathe warmth into the wood. But spring had no keeper now, and he was not Namjoon. 

Hoseok’s door hums with an energy that has dulled but not yet disappeared. The echoes of his laughter still linger, soft and fragmented, like whispers slipping between the cracks in the wood. They chase the shadows down the hall, fading in and out as though playing a game of hide and seek. Seokjin doesn’t try to call them back and he doesn’t try to hold onto them. He knows better. 

Yoongi’s door had frosted over so terribly that the door beneath can’t be seen. When Seokjin presses a palm against it, a bitter chill seeps into his skin. It’s the kind of cold that burns, that freezes things brittle. 

He suspects that they would only worsen. Hoseok’s door had already begun to darken. The magic in them is fading, though not completely gone, Seokjin has some hope for them, at least.  

Every now and then, Seokjin stands outside them in the hall, when his duty of care comes to a pause, and he simply listens. The silence is suffocating. Eons have passed, and still, some foolish part of him hopes. Hopes that he might hear the rustle of new leaves, the quiet bloom of flowers pressing up from the cracks. 

Hopes that the door might open, and Namjoon will be standing there, smiling like he never left. Hoseok would leave his door open, and Seokjin would complain about the hot air he’s letting in. Yoongi would slink in, quiet like a mouse, talking to him about winter flowers he found growing in his snow. 

It’s a painful, pitiful thing to do, and he tries not to dwell on those thoughts for too long.  

Instead, he turns away, allowing his fingers to trail along the wood for just a moment longer. Then he walks back down the hall, the weight of their absence pressing down on him with every step. 

He stands at the top of staircase, watching the first rays of the sun peek into his domain. The dawn chases away twilight, painting the sky in an array of orange and lilac. The light spills through the windows, catching on the gilded embroidery of his robes, setting the threads aglow like embers woven into fabric. A new day is beginning, and with it, the turning of the seasons rests in his hands. 

The days are short, and Seokjin has much to tend to. He makes his way from the upper level of his home, the polished wood cool beneath his feet, down the winding stairs. As he steps into the foyer, he whistles lowly---a quiet call, something habitual, something the walls of this place have learned to listen for. 

“Dusk,” he calls, glancing around. There’s a small chitter, followed by the soft sound of scuttling feet, and then a fox comes trotting in from the direction of his kitchens, her copper fur dusted with flour. Seokjin lifts a brow. 

“Did you get into the milk again?” 

Dusk trails around him, brushing against his shins, her tail flicking playfully as she chirps in response. The faint scent of cream lingering in her fur gives her away.  

Seokjin exhales a slow sigh, but the corner of his mouth betrays him, curving just slightly. “Come now.” He crouches, offering a hand, and Dusk presses her nose against his palm before bounding ahead. 

The day awaits. 

Seokjin’s days have become routine. When the old aches dull enough to allow rest, he takes it, but when morning comes, so does duty. He rises with the sun and makes his rounds, visiting his brothers’ domains---watching over them, ensuring they have not yet fallen to ruin. He weaves as little magic as possible, just enough to keep them from collapsing in on themselves. There is a balance, and he must keep it. 

Hoseok’s warmth and Yoongi’s cold must remain in harmony, never one overtaking the other. The barriers between them require constant reinforcement, careful adjustments to prevent encroachment. But it is Namjoon’s domain that demands the most from him. 

Autumn brings change---death and decay. Spring harbors life, and life only. The two forces were never meant to be at odds, yet without Namjoon’s steady presence, the balance falters. For hundreds of years now, Seokjin has struggled to keep the domain in order. 

Its tiring work.  

When Namjoon was here, Seokjin could walk freely through his lands; his brother’s magic naturally countering his own. But now, death keeps a garden that refuses to grow. Seokjin does not have the aptitude for it. He has his own gardens, where he grows things that pertains to his season. Namjoon’s glades are vastly different. 

So, he spends most of his days watching over Namjoon’s domain, trying and failing to bring life and keep it there. 

Seokjin kneels in the soft, loamy earth, his fingertips brushing the pale edges of a tulip whose petals curl inward, brittle and faded. Even the grass lacks its usual vibrancy, the green muted, as though life itself has dulled in his brother’s absence. He pushes a slow breath through his nose, steadying himself. A whisper of power trickles down through his fingertips, sinking into the soil, coaxing strength into fragile roots, weaving life back into wilting veins. The flowers lift their heads, standing taller, brighter---but only just. 

He must be careful. Too much, and the balance will tip. His own power, rooted in endings and decay, clashes with Namjoon’s inescapable renewal. Death cannot cradle rebirth. If Seokjin lets himself slip, even for a moment, the flowers will blacken at the edges, the trees will rot from the inside out, and the fragile equilibrium will collapse entirely. 

His gaze flicks toward one of the apple trees lining the gentle slope. Its blossoms have been sparse this year, the fruit even more so. A handful of green bulbs cling stubbornly to the branches---small, stunted, as if afraid to ripen. A few pears have fared slightly better, their golden skin soft and faintly speckled, but even they have fallen far from the abundance Namjoon’s presence had once promised. He can see the sickness at their cores, the rot that builds slow and steady from the inside despite his efforts. 

It Isn’t enough. It will never be enough. Not without Namjoon. 

Seokjin rises, brushing soil from his palms. The weight of it all presses at his chest, but he ignores it. There is work to be done, duties to tend to, even if he fails countless of times. He’s kept them for this long, and he’ll continue to do so.  

Then he feels it. 

A shift---small, but unmistakable, ripples through the air of Namjoon’s domain. 

His hand clenches at his side as he turns, his sharp gaze scanning the grove. It doesn’t take long to find the source. 

You. 

A figure crumpled among the wildflowers. A human figure. 

Seokjin stills. 

For a moment, he thinks it must be some trick, some illusion. But as he steps closer, the slow rise and fall of your chest betrays you. His lips press into a tight line as he crouches beside you, eyes narrowing in silent scrutiny. 

How? How have you entered his world? How have you slipped into the divine---into Namjoon’s domain of all places? The thought rankles, anger unchecked bristles beneath his skin. You are human. Fragile. Fleeting. And utterly unwelcome. 

His fingers ghost over your shoulder, searching for any trace of divinity, any lingering echo of a god’s touch. But there is nothing. Just the warmth of mortal life. 

And then he sees it. 

A mark, etched just below your collarbone. The mark alone is something ancient, the edges of it looks irritated as though branded into your flesh. A whisper of old rituals, of forgotten temples and offerings meant to appease gods long abandoned by the people who once built them. 

Seokjin straightens sharply, his jaw tightening as realization sets in. 

You’ve been sent here. Offered, like a lamb to the slaughter. 

His chest tightens, resentment rising like a tide. They dare---those humans dare to try and appease him with this, after all they have done? His fists curl at his sides. 

No. He will not have this. 

Power flares at his fingertips as he lifts his hand, magic coiling sharp and certain. He will send you back, cast you out of the divine realms and back into the mortal world where you belong. 

But the instant his power reaches for you, it recoils. Confused, he blinks and then tries again, but it’s like pressing his hand against a wall he couldn’t see.  

The mark. 

Seokjin’s eyes darken, resentment twisting into something colder. He can’t send you back. You are bound now, a tether he hasn’t asked for, a burden he refuses to bear. 

He could just leave you here.  

And he considers it, watching your furrowed brow and the steady breaths you take. There’s a metallic scent, wafting up from your person, and Seokjin finds a deep cut across your palm. 

Dusk comes skipping through the wildflowers, her red fur standing out against the dull green weeds. Chuffing, she sniffs curiously at your clothes and then sits beside you. Seokjin stares at the fox, and she stares back with a look he could only describe as expectance.  

“What?” He bites and Dawn makes a low sound, ears pinning back before she dips her head, nosing at your bloody palm. She huffs, looking back up at him, and Seokjin rolls his eyes to the sky.  

He stares at the soft blue, listens to the wind as it walks through the field. The sigh he lets out is long suffering, and he feels Dusk’s teeth tug at the end of his robe, “You’re insufferable.”  

Maybe he’s weak.  

He crouches, studies your face with disdain before he picks you up. Dusk makes a happy sound, making a full circle around his legs before she darts off, leading the way. Seokjin grumbles as he follows.  

He walks through the glade, a stray butterfly flutters haphazardly about your head, Seokjin blows at it with a puff of air. You’ve tainted enough of this domain with your mortal self; he doesn’t need the butterflies spreading it around.  

You smell strange. Underneath the scent of blood, there’s a sweet sort of smell with an underlying bitterness. Like burnt herbs. It makes Seokjin wrinkle his nose.  

Something like this has never happened before. Seokjin and his brothers weren’t for offerings of this kind. They were more pertained to the old gods of war. Yet, you’ve been sent here and bounded to the realm, made sacrifice for something those witless worms caused themselves. 

Your voice trails upwards in a broken mutter, quiet, but it nearly startles Seokjin, and he falters in his step to look down at you. Your grimace of pain tells a lot more than he could see, and his eyes flit down to your hand that’s tucked against your lap with the way he’s holding you. Blood has dried and pooled again, staining your clothes and he frowns, trying to scan himself to see if he’d gotten it anywhere else. He turns slightly; eyes trained to the floor where your blood had dripped onto the leaves and grass blades. He rolls his eyes.  

Dusk lets out a chirping whine from far ahead, sitting on a large rock. Seokjin meanders on.  

He keeps his eyes on you as he passes through the veil that separates Namjoon’s domain from his own. The shift in temperature is something he’s used to, but goosebumps litter your skin, and you squirm like some undulating worm and Seokjin almost drops you.  

He nudges the door of his home open with his foot and goes down a hall right of the kitchens. The room here was almost never used, and now that it’s just him it has no use at all. There isn’t much to it; a bed wide enough to fit three people – at least, he doesn’t have to worry about you rolling off it---tucked against the wall. The wood and glass window near the foot of the bed goes up the wall in a little arch, shows an odd ray of light. In his domain, it’s quite dreary, whatever light there is, is almost always covered by cloud, stuck in the point where autumn is at its peak. Namjoon’s domain is on the edge of his, and the clear sky and warm sun intrudes.  

He wonders if he should open the window when his nose tingled at the musty smell. It smells earthy and damp, not at all pleasant…not that it matters.  

He lays you atop the plain linen sheets, and glances at the oak wardrobe. There’re other, fresher cottons in there for him to wonder at later, if your blood gets anywhere else. For now, he looks you over and finds no other injury. He shuffles a lone chair over next to the bed and then properly checks his robes for any sign of blood. He hums to himself when he finds none.  

He walks out of the room and down the hall into the kitchen. Filling a bronze basin with warm water, Seokjin mutters to himself as he rummages around for bandages and cloth. Glass vials and bottles clink together as he shifts them about. They’re filled with different dried herbs and tree bark he’s foraged in his lonesome, some of them there far too long and should definitely be thrown out.  

Finding what he was looking for, he carries the basin and cloth back to where he left you. You’re still in the same spot he laid you, and that should be a reason for concern. The spell that sent you here is ancient, as is the spell that bonded you, he has no clue what that could’ve done. You could be dying for all he knows. And that’s another problem entirely.  

He sets the basin down, sits in the chair with a long, drawn-out sigh and draws your hand closer. Seokjin is no healer, so he does what he can. He wipes away at the blood that’s coagulated and the bit that’s dried into the creases of your palm, this of course causes it to sprout more blood. The cut is quite deep.  

He had stopped keeping up with the goings-on of the mortal realm, even if their prayers reach him every now and then. He knows that the times are quite different now than they were when he and his brothers were revered.  

The mortals had their advancements and had grown as a people in recent centuries. This was an outlandish practice, to have it happen was even stranger. He was certain that people had stopped doing sacrifices to gods a long time ago. At least, where he was focused.  

He wonders If you’ve much sense about you. Back when he and his brothers were young gods, and the gods of war were younger still, sacrifice was commonplace. They were ritualistic and frankly barbaric; he still thinks there was no need for such.  

Most sacrifices were unwillingly willing; children grown into customs and forced to lay down their lives to old, hungering deities. 

Perhaps, you were one of them. 

Though, this is something that’s never happened before. Sacrifices involved a lot more than a simple cut on the hand and what ancient spell they’d casted to send you here. No one would willingly let themselves be spirited away. 

There was a mix of two spells; transportation and binding. He wonders what the moon phases are at this time. There’s one period when the veil between this realm and the earthly one is at its weakest, he supposes something like this could happen. The mortals must’ve waited a very long time; that doesn’t happen very often, a couple hundred years between them at least.   

Something in Seokjin’s chest tightens at the thought. A mixture of contempt that after all these centuries, these mortals, stuck in their ways would still attempt to reach him, and to go so far. Resentment. They have taken everything from him, and now he clings to the edges of his own existence because he has no other choice. 

He was left alone in the aftermath, forced to continue this loathsome existence. Watched as his brothers died one by one, and by curse he remains. He’d prayed for years that the divinities above his order let him fade too that the mortals forget him too. It would’ve been margins better to have followed his kin into the ether. The mortals, faced with his wrath held on too tightly.  

This desperate attempt to be seen by him does nothing but make him sneer. His lips curls against his teeth and he stares at the blood pooling again in your palm, he looks up at your pinched face and wonders what he’s done to deserve this on top of it all. Your fingers twitch, and Seokjin dips the blood-soaked cloth into the basin and goes again. He presses the cloth against your palm tightly, not caring much for the sharpness of your inhale then, the sweat on your brow or the grimace.  

It takes a while for the bleeding to stop, and Seokjin had sense to bandage your hand tightly. He wraps the bandage around your hand and has a harrowing thought of looking through his cupboards to see if he had any comfrey or lavender. He owes you nothing... nothing at all.  

Once he was done, he gathers the bloody bundle of cloth and basin. The water sloshing around is now tinged pink and assaults his nose with its metallic scent. It makes his stomach turn. 

Dusk is laying just outside the door, head resting on a paw, and she looks up at him when he passes by.  

These blasted mortals have caused him nothing but strife. As he dumps the water down his kitchen drain, his temples pulse with a telling pain. He’s sure it'll only get worse later whenever you feel to rise yourself. The thought of having to begin explaining something you wouldn’t understand is already giving him a headache.  

He looks through his cupboards of herbs. 

You feel warm. And cold. But mostly warm.  

… You’re actually not sure what you’re feeling at all. 

The surface you lay on feels soft, almost too soft, like you’re going to sink into it if you move the wrong way. Your palm is burning. It smells damp, and there’s a sharp earthy smell that makes you feel like something’s stuck in your throat.  

You feel sluggish as you peel your eyes open, the action taking too much energy and effort to do. Once again, you're staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. You stare at it, brows furrowed for a moment, and then, the furrow gets deeper as you study it. It’s not the ceiling from The Winding Oak, not the dark canopy of trees you remember last.  

…You blink hard.  

Sitting up causes the world to tilt in a way that makes your stomach turn over. You clamp a hand over your mouth, holding your breath as you will the nausea to taper down. You feel particularly green, head swimming like you drank a liquor store. You’re confused, panic beginning to bleed through the cracks as the sounds of the world pours into your ears unfiltered. Which is nearly no sound at all.  

It's quiet.  

The kind of quiet that makes your ears ring.  

Lifting your other hand you find a tightly wrapped bandage, staring at it makes the sting underneath come alive, and drags up the missing fragments of your memory.  

The town. Mae and Dottie. The forest that seemed to pop out of nowhere. The townsfolk were dressed strangely, saying strange things, they took your hair and sliced open your palm. And…nothing.  

Scooting towards the foot of the bed, you struggle to wiggle off it. It’s large and feels too soft, your palm sinks into it as you press down to move forward. Swallowing a wad of spit, you turn your head to look out the window. There’s a dark tree just beyond it, red-brown leaves trembling in a wind, a couple floating down towards the earth. Beyond that tree, you squint, blinking hard. Nothing but lush green as far as you can see, as if just beyond the tree is a different place entirely.  

You’re even more confused, staring as your brain tries to catch up to your eyes without stuttering.  

The floor is cold when you get your feet on it. Your shoes are missing. You take a breath, swallowing the bile rising up your throat, and then another as you look around. The room seems bare, much like the one back at the inn, when it feels like you’re not going to throw up, you stand.  

You can feel your heartbeat in your palm, and looking down at it, blood has soaked through the carefully wrapped bandage. You wince, letting your hand fall limply at your side. Trying to stay quiet, you inch towards the heavy looking wardrobe, wrapping the fingers of your uninjured hand around one of the handles, it opens easily.  

Unfortunately, there is no weapon or even something you can use as one. Just folded up, thick looking materials.  

Maybe you’re having a mental break or ended up in the backrooms.  

You eye the door; the dark wood is opened just a hair; very little light comes through the crack. Thinking better, you turn towards the window, but the latch is too high even if you stood on the bed and tiptoed. So, climbing out through there would be hard.  

So, you walk quietly over to the door, and slowly, carefully push it open wide enough for you to slip through. The hall you find yourself in is empty looking down right and there’s nowhere to go the other way.  

The air is fresher out here; you breathe steadily as you press your back to the wall. A rumble of thunder outside makes you jump; it sounds low and angry like some caged beast. The hairs along your arms and the back of your neck raises, and you try to calm down.  

Following the hall, you come to a serpentine curl in the wall that leads to an area much brighter than where you are. Directly across from you is a door that’s opened wide enough for you to see hanging pots through the gap.  

A kitchen.  

Peeking around the corner, you dart across to the door and slip into the kitchen and pull the door closed behind you.  

The door clicks softly, and for a moment, you just breathe. 

The room you’ve stepped into smells of thyme and old smoke, earth and something faintly sweet…like apples left too long on a windowsill. It’s warmer here, but not by fire. 

The kitchen is large, but not extravagant. Wood everywhere; dark-stained beams crossing the ceiling overhead, smooth countertops worn soft at the edges. A wide table stands at the center, legs thick and sturdy, a faint nick here, a scratch there, as if someone’s spent years slicing bread or gutting game right atop it. 

Pots and pans dangle from hooks over the workspace, some copper, some iron, blackened by age and open flame. You spot a few ladles and long-handled spoons with carved handles, and something in you stirs; a deep, unsettling feeling at how strange all of this is. No hum of a fridge. No glint of steel appliances. No blinking lights or outlets. Just lived-in quiet. 

You’re not sure if any of this is even real. You’ve not forgotten whatever the heck was going on outside that window.  

You creep silently around the kitchen. A row of shelves lines the far wall, and they’re packed. Jars --- dozens of them --- in mismatched shapes and sizes. Some filled with amber liquids, others with shriveled herbs or twisted roots. There’s a whole jar of something pale and round that might be teeth. Another holds long, papery pods you don’t recognize. Each is labeled in a script you can’t read. Long curling lines etched in deep brown ink. 

A dried bundle of lavender hangs near the window, half obscured by the gauzy curtain fluttering in a breeze you hadn’t noticed before. There’s a small basin tucked under that window, and a ceramic bowl beside it, filled with round, unfamiliar fruit the color of dusk. 

There’s another door and inching it open to peek inside confirms dark pantry. 

Your eyes sweep the room again, this time searching for something, anything, that could be used as a weapon. 

You move toward a tall cupboard in the corner. It creaks softly as you open it, the hinges stiff. Inside: more tools, most culinary, none of them looking reassuring. But your hand pauses on a knife, its blade is thick and slightly curved, the handle smooth with years of use. It’s not a weapon in the traditional sense, but it’ll do. You don’t know where you are. You don’t know who brought you here. It’ll give you a fighting chance at least. 

And your palm still aches, wrapped and red. The ache makes you think of childhood summers getting cuts and bruises playing in places you shouldn’t have been.  

As easily as the hinges allow, you close the cupboard.  

“I’m fairly certain it’s rude to rummage around someone’s kitchen.”  

The knife slips from your hand, landing on the ground with a clatter before it glides under the dining table with a scrape of the blade. 

You freeze. 

The voice is low and dry, curling like smoke under a door, and it sends a jolt up your spine. 

Slowly, heart pounding in your mouth, you turn toward the sound. 

There’s a man in the doorway. 

Tall, broad-shouldered and lean. For a second you think he might be a statue, what with the way he stands there. Carved from something old and sun-warmed, left to gather dust in a field of wheat.  

He’s dressed in layered robes, fabric draped like flowing water, deep wine red, amber, the bruised gold of dusk. They hang from him like the memory of summer clinging to early autumn, heavy and brushing the floor without a sound. You don’t see a single seam. Only swaths of color, woven with tiny glints of thread that flicker when he shifts. There’s no metal, no jewelry, no crown. And yet he holds himself like something more than royal. Something set apart. 

His eyes scan you from head to toe, dart between you and the knife under the table for a moment. His nose, softly rounded at the tip, bunches at the elegant bridge as his brows draw inward with a sneer. He makes a sound, something that sounds like a garble of syllables you’ve never heard before.  

Your brain scrambles to make sense of it, while he stands there looking at you with such…disdain. Like you’re wet food at the bottom of a sink. Still grappling with the why’s and the how’s, and the fact that there seems to be something…ethereal about this man.  

He says something again, another garble of foreign sounds and you suddenly feel insulted by his tone alone.  

“You’re bleeding.” He says, and then, clicks his tongue against his teeth, “it’s very hard to get blood out of cobblestone.” 

“I---sorry?” You look down at your hand, and sure enough, your blood has tip-tapped away onto his floors. “Oh…I’m…”  

“Hush.” He waves his hand and takes three steps into the room. You move around the table, trying to keep distance between you both. He begins to rummage through the cupboard of jarred things, muttering to himself.  

You eye the knife on the floor and the doorway. The later seems much closer, so you inch towards it, eyes on the back of the man’s head.  

He turns then, a jar of something in his hand. He raises an unimpressed brow, “Don’t you think you’ve made enough of a mess already? Stay put.” 

Okay. Rude.  

You read somewhere that in hostage situations it’s best to comply to your captor’s demands. So, you stay put, back pressed against a countertop.  

The man sets the jar down, frowning at the floor before stepping over the stains. He makes no sound as he walks over to the window and grabs the bronze basin and fills a smaller one with water.  

“Come here.” He says, setting the bowls down on the table with a soft thud. He opens the jar and pulls a little root out of it and puts the jar back on the shelf with the others. He briefly turns, grabbing what looked to be a spool of some sort of fabric and a mortar and pestle made of stone. 

“I don’t think I should.” You say, feet rooted to the floor. “Tell me who you are first.”  

The man looks up at you without raising his head, something shines in his eyes. You feel like he’s shot your soul with that look, and you swallow uncomfortably the longer he holds your gaze. He drops the root into the mortar and starts grinding it. He looks away and you feel like you could breathe again.  

“If I wanted to harm you, I would’ve left you out in the meadow.” He says, then he dips his fingers into the small basin with water and let the drops slide off them into the pestle. “Come here. I don’t have all day.” 

You take a breath and make the three steps forward, still keeping the table between you both. He says nothing and extends his hand for yours. Despite the contempt in his dark eyes, he takes your hand gently. He unwraps the blood soiled fabric with a look you could only describe as blatant disgust, pulling on one end with his pointer and thumb, he sets it to the side.  

Then, he drags the larger basin over and under your hand. The cut stings, a shock of pain running up your arm as he uncurls your fingers. He doesn’t look at you, and there’s a rustle of fabric when he turns slightly, reaching behind him. A soft sound of wood on wood, and he turns back with a bundle of nearly folded beige cloth.  

He takes one from the top of the pile and dips it into the small basin of water. He cleans along your fingers first, wiping away the blood that had trailed there. The silence is beginning to unnerve you, and you feel restless standing there. The closer he gets to the wound, the gentler he wipes the blood away. Doesn’t stop you from flinching back when he presses the clothes directly under it, though.  

As you instinctively pull back, he swiftly grasps your wrist and pulls you forward again.  

“Be still.” He says, raising his head. “I will be as gentle as I can, but it must be cleaned.”  

“Can you just…tell me what’s going on?” You ask, watching as he dips the cloth he’s using into the water. It turns pink as he squeezes the blood out of it, and you look at a spot just above his head when he goes at your wound again.  

He sighs through his nose, as though your question troubled him greatly. Or like you’re and unruly child asking too many questions. You’re not quite sure.  

It takes a minute to realize he wasn’t going to answer that. So, you try something else.  

“…Okay.” You try not to pull your hand away when he presses down on the wound. You squeeze your eyes shut and take a breath, “How about telling me who you are, then?” 

“There isn’t a word in your tongue for my name. You wouldn’t know it if I told it to you.” He mutters and sets the bloodied cloth into the water. You glance down at your hand and feel faint. The cut goes clean across the middle of your palm, and the open air makes it sting. It looks deep at the very center, where the worst of the throbbing pain is coming from.  

Honestly, it looks like it’ll need stitches.  

“You may call me Seokjin.” He says, pulling the mortar over, there’s quite a bit of paste inside. He looks at you, thoughtful for a brief moment, “This is comfrey root. It will sting.”  

Appreciative for the warning, you simply nod. He moves his hand to your wrist and holds firmly, and with his other hand, he scoops a bit of the paste up. The stuff clings to his fingers like soft clay; off-white with a faint yellow hue. It smells faintly of earth and something medicinal. 

“If you must know.” He says, dryly, almost bored. Like he’d rather be doing a million different things, “You appeared in my brother’s domain yesterday.”  

Before his words can fully register, he spreads the paste over your wound.  

A sharp hiss slips through your teeth as the sting bites deep. He tightens his grip, not harshly, but enough to still you, and continues. The paste is cool against your skin, tingling as it dulls the ache.  

He covers the wound completely, and then, wraps your hand again with some soft fabric he pulled off the spool. He ties the fabric at the back of your hand and turns swiftly without another word.  

“Wait I don’t understand…” 

“I didn’t expect you to.” He says flippantly, quiet again as he clears the table and put everything back where they’re meant to be. “You are in the divine realms.”  

“I’m dead?!” You screech, stumbling back, “I can’t…my parents…” 

“You’re not dead, foolish girl.” Seokjin rolls his eyes, “You wouldn’t end up here had you died.” 

“Then what?!” Panic crawls up your throat like a feral cat, squeezing at it comes and you struggle to take a breath. “What is going on here? What is this place?” 

Seokjin studies you, that same disdain from earlier lighting his eyes, it dims when he narrows them. “If you were foolish enough to willingly offer yourself as sacrifice, then you should have enough sense to know whom you speak to and where you are.” 

You blink at him. Once. Twice. 

“…Willingly?” you echo, voice cracking between the syllables. “I don’t---!” You take a full step back, heat rising behind your eyes. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on! I didn’t offer myself for anything! I was waiting for a mechanic! My truck broke down outside some weird town, and---and they drugged me!” Your voice pitches up, desperate. “That woman, Mae, she gave me something! And I woke up in a forest!” 

He’s already turning away, stacking things, utterly unmoved. He grabs the basin of water and pours it out in the sink. He shuffles around his jars and pulls out a small one to scoop the rest of the root paste into, and seals it with a cork stopper.  

“You have to do something,” you press, chasing after his apathy with growing panic. “My parents…they’ll go crazy looking for me. You don’t understand, I need to get out of here.” 

Seokjin sighs through his nose, brows furrowed. “If I had the means to do so, you wouldn’t be here.” 

“What does that mean? You can’t send me back?” You grip your hair, and Seokjin continues to stare at you with resigned indifference. You feel miniscule, like you mean nothing and everything is throwing its weight on your shoulders.  

“You aren’t very bright, are you?” Seokjin tilts his head, and the dim daylight makes his hair look darker, He mutters something again in his strange language, and it feels like another insult.  

You tears spill over your cheeks and Seokjin sighs again. And frankly, it doesn’t make you feel much better. You take a breath and then sob and bring your uninjured hand to wipe at your face.  

“I don’t want you here as much as you do.” Seokjin says, scowling as though your tears offend him. “I’ve spent centuries alone and would rather keep it that way.”  

You’re barely listening to him, but briefly in the back of your mind, the words register. With his attitude, you wouldn’t want to be here with him anyway. The thought is fleeting with panic gripping at your chest. Your lungs feel as though there isn’t enough air in the room, unable to fully expand.  

Seokjin rounds the table, reaching you in three steps and raises his hand. There’s the slightest pressure of his fingers against your temple and then nothing.  

When you wake, you’re back in the room from before. Your head swims, feeling as though you’ve been on a very fast merry-go-round and stepped off. Staring up at the ceiling makes you feel sick, and your hands tremble when you try to sit up.  

What did he do?  

The panic you felt earlier is less, but no less present, under your skin like needles. And you give up on trying to sit, instead, you lay there and close your eyes, trying to will your head to stop spinning.  

A knock at the door pulls you from the dizzy half-sleep you’d drifted into. 

Seokjin steps inside without waiting for an answer, a shallow wooden bowl balanced in one hand. Steam curls up from it, carrying a scent that’s faintly herbal and comforting, though unfamiliar. 

“You slept long enough,” he says, matter of fact, setting the bowl on a small table near the bed. 

Your gaze follows it, but you make no move to rise. 

He straightens and looks at you properly this time, dark eyes sharp, unreadable. “Eat.” he orders, as though that might settle the matter. 

You make a small, stubborn sound at the back of your throat and look away. 

He watches you for a heartbeat, lips pressed into a thin line. Then, without another word, he turns and leaves the room. The door swings softly shut behind him. 

You stare at the bowl for a long while before your stomach growls; traitorous. Still, you don’t touch it. 

Some time passes, the light outside fading into the gold of late afternoon, then the deep purple of early dusk. Eventually, the door opens again and Seokjin returns. 

He glances at the untouched bowl and exhales slowly, as if he’d been expecting nothing else. 

“Have it your way,” he mutters, shaking his head as though your defiance is a great disappointment. 

He takes the bowl up with one hand and turns toward the door. “Come,” he says. “You’ll want to wash. Or perhaps you’d like to wallow in that filth forever…your choice.” 

You hesitate, fingers knotting into the blankets. The ache in your palm pulses. Your head doesn’t feel as bad as it did when you woke, and you feel like you could trust your feet should you stand.  

“Where?” you manage, voice rough. 

“There is a bath.” he replies without turning.  

There’s nothing kind in his tone, but there’s also something pragmatic in the way he’s already moving into the hall as though expecting you to follow. 

You do, because what other choice do you have? 

The halls are winding, dim. Warm light flickers along rough-hewn walls, but it doesn’t make the place feel any less strange. Every step you take, more questions rise up. 

“How long will I be here?” you venture. 

Seokjin doesn’t slow his stride. “As long as fate keeps you,” he says. “Or until I’m free of you.” 

That answer settles like a stone in your gut. 

“You mean you can’t find a way to send me back?” 

“Most mortals believe that things are fated,” he replies, voice flat. “There is nothing I can do against that.” 

Your brow furrows. “That doesn’t make sense. Who decided that? How did I even end up here? The last thing I remember was Mae and those people at the inn…” 

He sighs, long-suffering and sharp, and the sound carries down the hallway. “You ask far too many questions.” 

Your mouth twitches with fear and frustration. “That’s what happens when someone wakes up in a strange place with a stranger,” you shoot back, quick and breathless. 

“As I’ve said, you appeared in my brother’s domain yesterday; old magic.” he says. “More than that, I cannot tell you.” 

“You can’t or you won’t?” 

That earns you a glance, a glint in his dark gaze that’s halfway between irritation and something like bitter amusement. “Eat. Wash. Rest,” he says, voice low. “And do try to hold your tongue. That is all that’s required of you.” 

You hug your arms around yourself as you trail him into what looks like a bathhouse. Quiet and dark save for the warm lantern light glinting off a deep stone tub. 

Your hands tremble as you step inside. Maybe tomorrow you’ll have the strength to fight him properly, to demand more answers. Or at least have strength to run away from here.  

But tonight? Tonight, you’re exhausted, your palm aches, and you feel far, far too small in this endless house. 

“Don’t get that wound wet.” He says and then turns on his heel.  

And as Seokjin’s footsteps retreat down the hall, you let the door close and lean back against it. The sound of his fading voice and his colder indifference making your chest feel tight. 

You turn, glancing around the room. The tub is already filled, steam rising off the surface, smelling herbal. You’re so tired of that stupid herbal scent. It’s like it’s in the damn walls. Your eyes burn as tears spring up unbidden, and you wipe under your nose with your hand. Squeezing your eyes shut, you take a breath. Crying won’t solve anything. If you cry, you’d panic again.  

Your hands fumble at your waistband as you peel yourself out of your shorts, the coarse fabric dragging against chilled skin. The tank top and your undergarments are next, pulled over your head in one jerky motion. You stand there for a moment, naked and trembling in the warm, herb-scented hush of the room. 

The bath chamber Is modest but carefully made. Smooth wooden planks stretch across the floor like aged amber, the dark grain swirling like water under your feet. Shelves of pale cedar flank the walls, stacked neatly with rolled linen towels, glass stoppered bottles filled with what you think are fragrant oils, and odd lumps of green soap that glimmer faintly in the lantern light. Thick woven rugs in rusty reds and burnt golds lie like islands on the floor, plush and a little worn at the edges. 

The tub itself is carved into the floor, round and deep, its interior gleaming like polished stone. Pale steam unfurls in slow, sinuous waves that catch the light, and tiny dried petals float on the surface; muted orange and brown, releasing a faint spice into the air as they spin lazily. Beside the tub is a battered wooden stool with a single clay bowl perched on top, its contents a coarse powder that smells of cedar and crushed seeds. 

You draw closer and hesitate, lifting your injured hand instinctively. Blood has seeped through the wrapping again, the bandage damp and reddened, and you can still feel the sharp sting at its center. Careful not to jostle it too much, you unwind the soiled cloth, the fabric sticking briefly to your palm before peeling away. The cut looks angry, but at least the bleeding’s slowed. 

The bathwater laps at the carved edge as you slip one leg in, then the other. The heat is startling at first, a pleasant shock up your calves, then it soaks into your bones with a depth that steals your breath. You sink in slowly, mindful of your hand as you rest it along the smooth rim and let your tired body melt into the water. 

The silence is deep in here. Only the occasional drip of water from a wooden spout breaks it, and the scent of steeping herbs settles into your hair. You close your eyes. The tension unspools from your shoulders bit by bit, and for the first time since you awoke in this strange realm, you allow yourself to simply exist. You scrub at your skin with your uninjured hand. 

You almost fall asleep, lulled by the warmth until a door creaks somewhere outside.  

You freeze; breath held tight in your chest as quiet steps cross the floor outside. A shadow passes across the narrow gap at the bottom of the door, and then it swings open. 

Seokjin. 

Your mouth opens, alarm prickling your spine as you sink deeper into the water on instinct, but he doesn’t look your way. Eyes fixed firmly on the low wooden bench; he simply places a folded pile of clothing there and a cotton towel before turning without a word. 

That’s it. 

The door swings shut as softly as it had opened, and you’re left with the lingering impression of his back --- broad and impassive --- as though this were simply a ritual as unremarkable as closing the windows at dusk. 

Your heart hammers. 

You wait a long moment before moving, uncertain whether he’ll return. Then you rise carefully, water streaming from your skin, and retrieve the clothes. It’s a tunic, you think, cut long enough to brush your knees, the fabric light but woven close. 

The deep green is threaded with rust at the hems, curling in patterns that mimic climbing vines, the embroidery catching faintly in the dim light. A leather tie gathers at the waist, though it sits a little too loose on your frame, meant for broader shoulders and taller stature. You’re grateful that the pants has a drawstring, you’d have to go around without it otherwise. You do however have to roll the legs so that you wouldn’t walk on them.  

Beside it lies a mantle of soft wool, grey-brown as river stone, clasped at the throat with a small bronze pin. When you draw it about your shoulders, warmth settles close, carrying the faint weight of someone else’s presence, old yet comforting. 

By the time you leave the bath, dressed and hair damp, the halls are quiet again. Seokjin is no where to be found and you’re left to fumble your way back to your room on your own. You feel like a kid wearing her mother’s clothes with the way the clothes swallow your form.  

Seokjin appears in the doorframe of your room sometime later with another bowl of soup. 

You hardly look up. 

He watches you for a breath too long. 

“You ought to eat,” he says, setting the bowl down. 

Your eyes burn with exhaustion. “I’m not hungry.” 

A sigh. “Starve yourself, then.” he replies, voice as dry as tinder. There’s an undercurrent of irritation despite it. “It’s hardly my concern.” 

And then he’s gone again, like a ghost.  

Outside, dark clouds roll across whatever passes for a sky in this place, rain starting as a light tap against the windows before swelling into a steady drumming. Thunder growls in the distance. 

Your hands are trembling as you lie back on the too-soft bed, listening to the rain and wondering how long you’ll be trapped in this strange house with this strange man who regards you like a trespasser. 

The soup goes cold yet again, and by then you’ve sat up, thinking too hard and crying again. Seokjin had come back not ten minutes after bringing the soup and lit a few candles in groves embedded into the wall and left. You stare at the flickering flames with disdain.  

You hug your knees to your chest, eyes burning and dry from all the tears you’ve cried already. But your body still finds a way to make more, and a dry, broken sob leaves you.  

You hate it here. You’re tired, scared. Your parents must be out of their minds looking for you. They probably think you’re dead. You don’t know if they’ll ever find your dad’s truck or find that town; they’ll never know peace.  

The thought only makes you cry harder.  

The sound of the door hitting the wall makes you jump. The hinges give a pathetic whine as the door swings back only to be stopped by Seokjin’s raised palm. He takes up a lot of space in the doorway, shoulders impossibly wide. The flickering candlelight sends shadows dancing across his face; you can barely see the deep burgundy of his robes.  

There’s a soft swish, fabric brushing against the stone floor as he moves into the light. The robe clings and flows in places, embroidered with copper thread that catches the flame’s glow---like burning leaves trembling in a dying forest. Hints of muted gold and earthy brown glimmer at the edges, layered over deeper greens that shift like moss beneath fallen trees. He looks like autumn incarnate; faded splendor, regal and tragic all at once. Something out of a storybook, or a dream. 

You’d rather wake up. 

“Would you stop that insistent wailing?! You’re disturbing my peace!”  

His words slide across your skin like a melting ice cube: cold, sharp. And as quickly as the goosebumps rise, they’re soothed by the rush of heat that chases behind.  

Anger crawls its way up from your toes, “If I wasn’t stuck here, I wouldn’t be crying!” You unfold, pressing your back against the wall. Angry as you are, the shadow Seokjin casts against the floor, large, imposing, scares you into a corner. “I don’t want to disturb your fucking peace! I want to go home!”  

“Do you think your blubbering would get you there faster? I have enough to deal with without that racket!” Seokjin yells, and there’s static in the air as thunder rumbles outside. “If you want to cry do so silently, wretched girl. I cannot think!”  

It occurs to you that this is the most emotion you’ve seen from this man the entire day. Though, he sure picked a time to show it.  

You make a frustrated sound at the back of your throat, hands curling into the soft cotton sheets beneath you. “It’s no wonder you’re alone here! No one would want to stay here with you being such an asshole!”  

Seokjin descends upon you faster than you could blink. There’s a creak from the headboard as he’s suddenly in front of you, weight supported by a hand. His other hand squeezes your cheeks, hard enough that you can feel your teeth painfully pressed against them.  

His eyes are gold.  

“One more word out of you, varmint, and I won’t be as hospitable. I will cast you out to sleep in the rain. Mind your tongue, or we’ll see how you fair without it. Be quiet.”  

Your heart Is hammering so loudly you’re certain he could hear it. You swallow the lump in your throat and let out a pitiful, “I’m sorry.” 

He stares at you a moment more, the anger in his eyes like lava, and then he releases you and backs away like he’s been burnt. The door slams behind him.  

You curl up into a ball and cry silently. 

Eventually, the rain lulls you to sleep.  

It doesn’t feel as though you’ve slept very long before morning comes. And you’re awakened by the sound of a whistle.  

There’s a weight on your legs that takes a moment to register, and you raise your head to find a great red fox curled into a ball atop your shins. You startle, legs shifting and jostling the creature. It opens an eye slowly, sleepy and amber, it stares at you before it opens its maw of sharp teeth with a yawn.  

There’s another whistle and its ears twitch to the sound but doesn’t seem too bothered. It stretches, the fur of its bushy tail puffing up before it nonchalantly hops off your legs and onto the floor without a sound.  

“Dusk.” Seokjin’s voice travels from wherever he’s at, a little muffled, and the fox chirps, nosing at the crack in the door. Then it stops and sits, turning to stare at you.  

You slip off the bed, walking cautiously to the door before pulling it open. The fox slips out and goes down the hallway.  

“Do you think I’ve all day to wait for you, vixen?” Seokjin’s voice trails off, getting softer the further he goes before it’s quiet.  

You press your palm against your stomach, the emptiness of it turned sharp and uncomfortable. You go down the hall, following the serpentine curl but go past the kitchen.  

Past it is a wide, open space, a foyer that feels more like the heart of some forgotten sanctuary than part of a home. The ceilings soar high overhead, held aloft by dark wooden beams carved with curling motifs; shapes you can’t quite make out in the half-light. Wall sconces with copper bowls of flame cast a steady, amber glow that gleams against polished stone floors. 

Your bare feet sound too loud against the tiles as you cross into the center, and you realize the entire floor is set with intricate patterns; copper and deep green inlaid into obsidian like fallen leaves frozen under glass. Pillars rise here and there along the walls, their surfaces wrapped in intricate vine work, winding up into shadows that cling to the vaulted ceiling. 

A grand wooden door anchors one end of the room; its face etched with unfamiliar symbols. Heavy drapes hang in a few spots, rich green-brown fabric that pools on the floor like moss. Beyond the curtained windows, rain hisses against the glass, a rhythmic, distant sound. 

And just off to the side, a broad hearth glimmers with embers, casting faint warmth that doesn’t quite reach you where you stand. The entire space hums with a quiet energy, an old, measured power that feels centuries deep. 

Seokjin was nowhere to be found.  

You’re glad for it, after last night, you’re certain he doesn’t want to see you either. Thinking about everything makes your head swim, which, doesn’t do well paired with the dizziness your hunger caused.  

You probably should’ve eaten something. Seokjin had brought you soup twice yesterday, but you very well can’t just trust him giving you something. Last time you did that you wound up here.  

You turn, wondering how big this place is. To your left, there’s a staircase that leads up, spotted with dim light from the windows that sink into the wall on the landing above.  

You go up them, feet made soundless by the worn carpet below. You keep your hands to yourself, watching the designs on the walls; bronze vines crawling up the length of them lazily. When you get to the top of the staircase, the hall goes both ways left and right of you.  

You step towards the window and peer out of it. The glass is fogged by rain; droplets sliding down through the condensation and disappear into the wooden pane. Beyond the window is a thick forest, trees of all sizes sway in the downpour, their nearly skeletal branches trembling as the rain knock the leaves off them.  

It seems to stretch on for miles, and in the distance, tall mountain peaks covered in snow. If you tilt your head just right, and perhaps press your nose against the glass pane, you could see the odd brightness of the lush green running perpendicular to the forest. Domain…Seokjin had said. It's like two different places sown into a tapestry, and the only thing that separates them is thick thread. 

You glance down the hall to your left and find nothing but doors and moss green rug. It’s the same on your right, except that the hallway continues on, curving to the left at the end.  

You take a step forward, and it feels like there’s static running through the air.  

“Your curiosity knows no bounds, it seems.” Seokjin’s voice trails up behind you. Startled, you turn and find him at the foot of the staircase. His robes are darker today, a stormy grey and deep earth browns. He doesn’t look particularly upset, but there’s a warning you can feel in his gaze even from so far apart. “I’ll forgive you this just once, but you aren’t permitted to go down that hall.”  

You make your way back down the stairs and feel like it would be better to shrink into yourself than face him.  

His eyes are brown.  

“I didn’t know.” You mutter, staring at the end of his robes that brush the carpet as he turns away from you.  

“I am aware.” He says, tersely, his upper body turns only slightly towards you, “there will be no other instance. You do not wish to cross me.” Then, a sound---something like a hiss of words, soft and sharp at once. You recognize it from yesterday, a string of syllables that don’t belong to any language you know. 

“What does that mean?” you ask quietly. “You said something… strange.” 

“I assumed everything I’ve said to you thus far has been strange,” he replies. There’s something like amusement in his eyes, though he doesn’t smile. 

“Nemira meun,” he says, tone flat. “It means little mouse. You remind me of one.” 

You stare at him, confused for a second but then decide not to question it. Your stomach gurgles loudly just then, and Seokjin raises a brow.  

“Are you done being stubborn?” He asks simply, walking toward the hall that leads to the kitchen. Dusk, the fox, trails ahead, nails clicking against the floor.  

You follow him, reminded by his words how faint you feel. Your hands tremble slightly at your sides. He pushes the door to the kitchen open, and then suddenly, he speaks sternly.  

“Dusk. Out.” He bends at his waist on the other side of the table and then lifts with his arms around the fox. She wiggles against him, licking at her snout and lets out a screech. As Seokjin rounds the table and walks towards the door, Dusk changes tactics and starts licking at his chin instead. 

“Miserable creature.” Seokjin turns his head away from her lapping tongue, “you were fed this morning, greedy girl. Go on, away with you.” He drops her rather unceremoniously outside and shuts the door while she whines indignantly.  

“She gets into the milk if I’m not careful. I don’t know why she likes the stuff.” Seokjin explains and then seems to catch himself. He looks as though he hadn’t intended to say much of anything to you at all. He narrows his eyes at you like you’d tricked him into speaking, and you stare back.  

Dusk scratches at the door.  

Seokjin blinks twice and then look away. He walks around the table, to the left of the room and flicks at a latch on the wall with a finger. When the latch flips, there’s a near inaudible pop before a rectangular portion of the wall seems to unhinge. It drops open slowly, like the maw of a great beast, but there are no teeth inside.  

You can’t see much but a dark space beyond, before Seokjin moves away. From above the rectangular hole in the wall, Seokjin picks one of the hanging pots, it’s a small thing, stout and wide; something you’d make broth for one in. Then he turns and makes a few steps to plop it on the table with a metal clunk.  

You keep your eyes on the space on the wall, watching a soft glow build from inside. It’s a pale orange light that seems to come from deep inside it. It climbs up the walls in vein-like cracks, bleeding upwards until the glow fills the space. 

Seokjin moves around silently, but it doesn’t bother you much anymore. Frankly, you’re too hungry to care what he says or doesn’t. You can only hope he doesn’t poison you.  

You don’t think he would, though. Hopefully. Although, he doesn’t seem too keen on you intruding on his space; ‘disturbing his peace’, as he’d so kindly said last night.  

Seokjin says nothing as he retrieves a few things from the pantry: a wax-wrapped parcel that smells faintly of thyme and something earthy, and a small jar filled with cloudy amber liquid---broth, you realize, as he unstoppers it and pours it into the pot. The scent wafts quickly into the room, warm and savory, with a faint touch of garlic and something woodsy that makes your stomach curl in on itself with want. 

The hearth glows more brightly now, that strange rectangular space pulsing with soft, unseen flame. There’s no wood, no crackling, but the warmth rising from it feels strangely natural. You suppose it would be, in a place like this. 

Seokjin works with quiet precision; chopping root vegetables, by the looks of it. Something orange like carrots, something pale and dense like parsnips. A few herbs as well, plucked from a bundle hanging upside-down over the pantry door. You sit silent, listening to the soft thunks of the blade hitting the cutting board and watch as he scoops the neatly cut vegetables and drop them into the pot. Then he picks it up, setting it into the little oven’s mouth and it’s a lot deeper than you expected because he leans forward a bit and when he pulls his hands away, the pot has disappeared.  

He doesn’t speak, but you can feel him watching you from the corner of his eye. He moves back to the table and unwraps the parcel. It seems to be some sort of meat, looking fresh as though it was caught and preserved just this morning. You wonder at how that could be.  

Like he’s read your mind, Seokjin glances at you. He takes a knife to the slab of red meat, the blade slides through the flesh with ease. “There is a rune over the door.”  

You nod at his words as though they made much sense to you. Eyes darting to the pantry to squint at the frame above the entry. You don’t see anything. He slices about four thick pieces and then cuts those slices into wonky squares, setting them aside in a little bowl. He takes a moment to wash his hands carefully, cleaning up the table and disappearing into the pantry before he comes out again and shuts the door behind him.  

There’s the sound of flowing water and he turns and slides a cup across the table towards you, “Drink.” 

It’s only water and you drink slowly.  

When the kitchen smelled of seasoned broth; thyme, marjoram and bay leaf, Seokjin unlatches the little door again and dumps the meat chunks in.  

“How does that work?” you ask, not really curious, but more trying to fill the silence in the room. Seokjin doesn't spare you a glance, taking the little bowl over to the sink to wash.  

“Runes, mouse.” He replies.  

A little while later, he sets an earthenware bowl in front of you, the contents still bubbles as it settles from the shift. The broth is a warm gold, made thick from the root vegetables that swim within it, the meat soft and a deep brown. It smells amazing and your tummy rumbles.  

“Finish the water first.” Seokjin says and you do so obediently, drinking the water down in a couple gulps. On a saucer, he puts a slice of brown bread and some pieces of dried fruit.  

“Thank you.” You say softly, taking the silver spoon he hands you.  

“No need.” Seokjin replies, surprisingly gentle, setting about cleaning the pot he’d used. Just as you feel the softness of his tone sink into your small smile, he opens his mouth again, “I’d rather you not die. I’d have to bury you somewhere and that’s quite tedious.”  

Biting your tongue you decide not to answer that and waste your precious energy on what would be a fight with him if you say what you want to say right now.  

You blow on the spoonful of broth, sipping at the warm liquid. The flavours burst on your tongue, and despite the heat of it, you start eating in earnest.  

Seokjin mutters something in his strange language but he isn’t looking at you, he’s still standing at the sink, holding the gauzy curtain open and staring out the window.  

“At least the rain has stopped.” He says and then turns, “I will return. I’ll be gone for a while but I’ll leave Dusk in your company.” He glances down at your almost empty bowl and the crumbs of bread left. “There is bread and smoked meats in the pantry. Do try to keep your curiosities to a minimum, mouse. I will clean your wound again when I return.”  

With that, he rounds the table and is out the door. You finish your broth and bread, and nibble on the dried fruit that tastes like apricot and dates and hum softly to yourself.  

Once you were done, you gather the wares and carry it over to the sink. The pipe looks rustic and spouted water as you set the bowl and saucer in the sink. With no soap, you rinse them as thoroughly as you can before setting them aside to dry.  

You had to roll the sleeves of your robes up and away from your hands, and you continue to fuss with them as you walk to the door. Pulling the door open, you stop just shy of running into Dusk, who’d laid curled up before the door.  

There was no trace of her outburst from earlier, and she peeks an eye open, head raising off her paw to look at you. You simply stare down at her, not sure how to react. She seemed friendly enough, but regardless, she’s a fox. Foxes are like cats, right? Like, the cats of the canine species. Maybe if you blinked slowly she’d think twice about biting you.  

She chuffs, a puff of air through her shiny black nose before she uncurls and stretches.  

The movement is languid, almost like she’s showing off. Her russet coat catches the light; warm, burnished red fading into cream along her throat and belly, with black socks up her legs like she’d dipped her paws in ink. She arches her back, yawning with pointed teeth on full display, then flicks her white-tipped tail once as she steps leisurely across your path.  

You take a quick step back, giving her room as she walks down the hall towards the bath area. When she was about five steps away, she pauses and looks over her shoulder and back at you. Her amber gaze seem to glow and seems far too intelligent for a simple fox. She’s waiting for you to follow.  

You leave the kitchen behind, following Dusk as she trots on ahead.  

You follow her quietly for a while, her nails clicking against the cold stone floor the only sound besides your rustling clothes. You wrap your arms around yourself, folding your hands into the sleeves of your robes warmed by your body heat.  

You wonder how long you’ve been here, days? Surely not weeks. You can only imagine what your parents are going through right now. You’re not sure of the passage of time, there are no clocks or anything of the sort to tell you. You don’t even remember what day of the week it was when you’d ended up here.  

Dusk goes past the door you remember to be the bathroom, and down a narrower corridor you’re pretty certain wasn’t there the night before. Just how big is this place? It seems like it can go on forever no matter how deep you go, and then, it’s like your brain can only process half of what you see at a time. You’ve come to the conclusion that this house, Seokjin, and even Dusk was confusing. You think a scientist would have a grander time stuck in this place.  

Someone with a notebook and no fear of things that don’t make sense. Someone who wouldn’t flinch when a fox turns a corner and waits like she knows your thoughts are drifting. 

Because that’s what she does. Dusk pauses again, just ahead, one paw already lifted as if she was mid-step but stopped, waiting. 

You catch up slowly, watching her. 

Her ears flick once. Then she looks back at you. 

It’s that look again. That impossible, wrong look. The one that feels too aware, too sentient. Her eyes glow low gold in the dimness, like dying sunlight caught in amber. You swear she narrows them just slightly like she’s thinking.  

And it unsettles you. 

You look away first. 

She turns again, satisfied, and keeps walking. 

You try not to let it bother you. After all, she’s just a fox, isn’t she? A clever one, maybe even enchanted. But still an animal. Probably. 

The corridor opens at last into a wider hallway. You smell parchment before you see it. Something dry, papery, and old. You pass under an archway and stop.  

A door yawns open to your left, tall and dark. Beyond it: shadows, shelves, a hundred thousand thin lines of spine and script and age. 

A library. 

You step in slowly, your breath caught somewhere in your throat. 

Books line the walls in every direction, stretching high enough to make you dizzy. Ladders lean against shelves, and more shelves spiral up toward a dome ceiling painted with stars you’ve never seen in your life. A massive window spills pale light across the floor, dust dancing in it like gold-threaded snow.  

“…How?” is the only word you can mutter, dust tickling your throat a minute later. You must be in a castle or something. Rooms just pop up. You turn to look back through the archway and Dusk is gone.  

Maybe she decided that you’d be better off in here than wandering about listlessly and getting yourself into trouble. The thought doesn’t bring you comfort, instead it further uproots your unease about everything.  

There’s large oak table near the center of the room, covered with little stacks of books, scattered rolls of parchment and ink bottles. An unlit fireplace sinks into the wall on your far right, and you walk towards the table quietly.  

The tabletop is covered in a thin layer of dust, a singular chair toppled over on the other side of the table and partially under it. Like someone had gotten up too fast and didn’t stop to right it.  

One of the pages of parchment is spotted with dark ink, a string of words you don’t understand stops halfway down the page. The words are written prettily, but in a hasty looping scrawl. The ones folded under it seems to be diagrams of plants, herbs and roots that grow in different climates, all noted in the same hurried handwriting along the sides of them.  

You peek at the books, but they’re also written in that strange language and most of them are blank. Bored, you neaten everything; rearranging the books, stacking the ones that are empty together and the ones that have words written into them. You tidy the parchment, all the ones with diagrams and the ones that look like scholarly and the ones that are just words. The ink bottles are placed into little lines of twos. 

The table is a lot less cluttered now, and you go around and pick up the chair and tuck it under. Over at the fireplace is a large square rug of deep brown and leaf green, swirling gold go around the edges of it.  

You look up again, slower this time, eyes adjusting to the quiet grandeur around you. 

The further back your gaze travels, the more the space seems to unfold. It’s not just rows of books---it’s alcoves carved into walls, reading nooks with velvet cushions half-sunken from use, curious little lanterns hung from thin chains swaying slightly despite the still air. There’s a staircase curling like a ribbon into the upper levels, its railing forged from what looks like blackened ivy wrought in iron. 

Along the walls of the upper level, there are windows, long, narrow ones with colored glass panes. The light filtering through them paints the spines of the books in gentle hues: rose, honey, moss and dusk-blue. Some shelves are tucked into the walls at strange angles, half-tilted like the books themselves are too tired to stand straight. The further you explore with your eyes, the more impossible the geometry becomes, like the space folds over itself quietly when you’re not looking. 

You drift toward one of the shelves with books written in the same swirling language, touching the spine of one hesitantly. The texture is soft, almost leathery, with strange notches pressed into it like braille. 

You frown. “There’s gotta be something I can read in here…” 

After spending a good amount of time trying to read the spines of the books on the lower level---most of them in that same strange, looping script---you give up with a quiet sigh and glance upwards. The second level of the library winds around the room like a balcony, shelves curving into the walls, ladders nestled into every few columns. 

You climb the winding staircase carefully, your hand trailing the smooth banister, steps hushed under your bare feet. 

Up here, the air feels quieter somehow.  

You step out onto a dark wood landing, where the shelves are tighter and more packed. The smell of old paper and something slightly metallic fills your nose. Ahead is a soft seating area; low couches of moss green velvet, the cushions plump and pressed with age. A side table holds a delicate, empty tea set, and there’s a small oil lamp beside it, though it clearly hadn’t been lit in a long time. 

You pass glass-fronted shelves next, taller than you, lined with heavy tomes that give off the same feeling as things behind velvet ropes at a museum. Some have locks. Some glint faintly with symbols you don’t recognize. You don’t dare touch them. 

Wandering past, you turn a narrow corner and almost miss it. 

A small shelf, tucked into a recess between two beams. Like it was meant to go unnoticed. 

You lean in, squinting at the titles. 

And for the first time since you entered this sprawling, shifting place, your eyes fall upon something familiar.  

English. 

They’re different sizes, with titles in English, Latin, French and even a few written in languages you recognize but can’t read. A weathered copy of The Secret Garden sits beside something that looks like an old herbal grimoire. You spot a familiar name: Jules Verne. And then another: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. 

You draw one of the books off the shelf carefully, the cover worn but the spine intact. A collection of fables, by the looks of it. The next book is a volume on constellations. Another is handwritten, in neat blocky letters…not printed. A journal, maybe. 

You sink into the little velvet couch nearby, curling your legs beneath you, and open the fables book across your lap. The ink is faded, the pages yellowing. The first Fable is The Man and the Lion. 

You didn’t know when you fell asleep, your fingers lay limp under the small printed text, halfway through The Wolf and the Crane. You jerk awake for no reason in particular, wiping at the corner of your partially opened mouth and looking around in a slight daze.  

Frowning you look down at the book in your lap and you mark your page and hug it to your chest as you stand to stretch. Your palm tingles a little as you do, and as you go back down the curling staircase you sniff at the bandage. You can only smell the comfrey root paste, which you suppose is a good thing.  

When you get to the bottom, you’re startled to find Seokjin looming in the doorway. You almost drop the book your holding, freezing like a deer on a highway.  

He's holding a tray in his hands, a cup of something that steams and a plate with bread slices is all that you could see.  

“Sorry.” You say, automatically, standing now awkwardly.  

Seokjin’s brows furrow and he steps into the room, striding over to the table where he pauses. He stares at it for a while, long enough for you to wonder if you’d did something wrong by cleaning it up. He says nothing about it and sets the tray down on the cleared space. His broad shoulders rise with a deep breath and then he glances back at you, “Come eat. You’ve been in here for hours.”  

You do as instructed, pulling back the chair to sit. You realize now that there’s more dried fruit and slices of cheese to pair with the bread, and the tea smells like berries. There’s a small bowl of water as well.  

Seokjin turns away from you when you thank him, wandering off to a shelf. You watch him out of the corner of your eye, the way he seemed to trail his fingers along the spines with some sort of reverence. He pauses a couple of times and simply stares at a spot. You focus on eating.  

When you’re done, and you’re sipping at the tea, Seokjin comes back and rummages around his robes. He pulls out the little vial with the comfrey paste, a cloth and the roll of bandage fabric, “Your hand, mouse.”  

You present your hand to him, and he carefully removes the bandage and cleans the wound. It still looks bad, but not as bad as it had the day before. It looks raw and pink now, and a film had developed over the deeper part at the center of your palm.  

His fingers are cold, and he dabs gently at the wound until the ache settles to a dull throb. Like before, he covers it completely with the comfrey paste. Then, he goes about wrapping your hand with the clean bandage fabric.  

“Can I ask you something?” You ask, breaking the silence.  

Seokjin sighs through his nose, “if you must.”  

“Where did this library come from? Is it yours?”  

Seokjin’s hand pauses briefly, his brows draw together and relax so quickly you almost miss it.  

“No.” he says, tone clipped, and he says nothing more as he ties the ends of the bandage at the back of your hand and then he takes the tray and leaves.  

The days here are odd, and they go by quickly, and Seokjin is no more receptive to your presence now than he was a couple of days ago. When the morning comes, he calls for Dusk and he disappears for a couple hours, and then he returns and makes you food and disappears again.  

You keep pestering him when you have the chance to, asking him when you’d be able to be sent back, and his answers are pretty much the same as he’s told you before. Utterly vague and unhelpful. You don’t know how long you’ve been missing from home, how your parents are fairing. Sometimes you lay in your room and stare at the ceiling wondering if you’ve just been hit over the head and you’re in a coma in some hospital, and all of this is simply a dream. 

But each day you wake up, it becomes more and more apparent that you’ll be here for a while. A good long while. You’d sometimes cry yourself to sleep, missing your life before this, your parents, your friends. Sometimes you’d cry because that’s all you can do being stuck here. 

You spend most of your time poking around the place, got lost on more than one occasion trying to find your way back to the library without Dusk’s lead. There are more rooms in this place than you think possible, winding corridors and doors that lead to nowhere. You even found a piano in one room. 

Seokjin doesn’t talk much, and you think he sometimes forgets that you’re there. Sometimes he stares at you with an irritated draw to his brow like you’re a stain on a white dress, and sometimes he looks at you like he doesn’t know where you’d appeared from.  

Other times, you sit in the library and read all the books you could understand. It kept you occupied and keeps your mind from thinking too much. You’re incredibly homesick, but there’s nothing you can do for it. Time seems to go by quickly, but slowly all together; you have no way to measure the days. 

One day you grew stir-crazy, unable to stand the walls of his strange house any longer and you asked him to go out.  

He was in the kitchen, sitting at the table with bundles and bundles of roots and plants. Glass jars and vials spread around the table, parchment folded neatly into tags as he meticulously punched holes into them to run twine through. Dusk, who typically wasn’t allowed in the kitchen, was sprawled contentedly in a spot of rare sunlight that bathed the ground from the window.  

He looks up at you with a brow arched, like a father waiting for his child to convince him to let them go to a party. He pursed his lips, dipping a quill in ink before writing neatly on the tags the names of roots.  

“Am I supposed to say no?” He asks, using a knife to snip some tough looking root into smaller pieces before packing them into a jar. “You’re free to go out if you wish, you are not a prisoner here.”  

Excited, you thank him, but he simply goes back to his work, muttering that you take Dusk with you. When you got to the door, he calls your name and you’re startled because you hadn’t known he knew it at all.  

He levels you with a look, “My borders are clear, do not go beyond them. Stay within my domain. If you wander and should be lost I will not spend my day searching for you.”  

Sometimes you’re confused on where he stands. Perhaps he has a strange duty of care? Or perhaps he sees you as a child he’s forced to look after. Like when your parents would have you babysit your young cousins as a child and made you miss out on doing things you wanted.  

Since that night he quite literally threatened to maim you, you haven’t seen him angry or even particularly upset. You still don’t know who or what he is or why he’s here alone.  

Now you’re standing outside and the weather today is fair, but the sun was once again hidden by cloud. Though overcast, it’s not raining. It rains a lot here, you’ve noticed, but you’re somewhat glad for it. The air is crisp and fresh, and you’re finally breathing it after who knows how long, but you’re unable to fully enjoy it.  

You know that the house is strange, but standing outside makes it more difficult to comprehend. On the inside, there’s a staircase that leads upwards from a foyer, where Seokjin had told you not to wander, but…there’s no indication of a second level. Rather, the house looks like a large countryside cabin, with no space to fit the library or all those rooms you saw. Unless it goes underground. Which is impossible since the library has windows and you’ve never went down. Of course that doesn’t explain anything at all if the whole upper floor is missing.  

You feel a headache blooming at your temples and decide not to bust your brain thinking about any of it.  

You look around, try not to think too hard at the way the dampness of Seokjin’s domain is abruptly cut off and lush green starts like a spring garden. Though, behind you and to your right, is a forest, the one you saw through the window upstairs. It looks dense, nothing but trees in various stages of autumn. Like just at the beginning of October when the leaves darken and turn but still cling to their branches, some of them are nearly bare. It stretches endlessly as far as you can see.  

The cabin sits in the center, you believe, like the round edge of a puzzle piece. There’s a clear line between this place and spring next to it.  

Dusk looks as bored as a fox can manage, her white-tipped tail flicking as she trots along the wooden fence of a garden. You follow her, more curious than cautious, and stop when you see the rows within: curling pumpkin vines heavy with orange bulbs, brambles jeweled with blackberries, and thin branches bowed under the weight of blueberries just beginning to shrivel in the cool air.  

You don’t step inside. Something tells you that would be a trespass. Instead lean against the post, taking a deep breath of the smell of near overripe fruit and damp earth.  

The door opens. You turn, startled. Seokjin steps out, two wicker baskets hooked against one hip, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. He stops when he sees you, unreadable, dark eyes fixed in that unnerving way that always makes you wonder if he’s measuring your soul against some ancient ledger. 

“Why are you simply standing there?” His voice cuts through the silence like frost. 

“I just wanted some fresh air…” you murmur. 

He regards you for a beat too long, as though debating whether that was an offense worth naming. Then, with a soft scoff, he shifts the basket into his hands. “Very well. Since you’ve nothing better to do, come help me.” 

The words fall like command, not invitation, yet he turns toward the garden gate without looking to see if you’ll follow. You do, and he does not stop you. 

He presses one of the basket into your hands, brusque, and gestures at the berry bushes. “Pick what’s ripe. Not the green ones, not the shriveled ones. Do you at least know the difference?” 

You nod quickly, relieved when he doesn’t pursue it further. While you move carefully among the brambles, he strides into the rows with practiced ease, bending to lift the sagging bellies of pumpkins, knocking on their rinds as though they might answer him. The sound of his hands moving through leaves, tearing away weeds, settling fruit in neat piles, is strangely calming. 

You glance up once to find him watching you---not critically, not even harshly, but with a look you can’t quite name. When he notices your stare, he clears his throat, straightens, and busies himself with the soil. 

The silence is companionable, almost. The garden hums with the rhythm of autumn itself: endings ripening into sustenance, the last sweetness before the frost. 

And for the first time, you feel less like an intruder, and more like someone being folded into the edges of his solitude.  

After a long while of picking berries, your fingers stained dark purple from their juices, you look over your shoulder at Seokjin who’d moved away from the pumpkins to pulling root vegetables from the ground.  

“Seokjin.” You call, and he doesn’t glance your way, but replies none the less.  

“What is it?”  

You continue picking the berries, “Are your domain and that one the only two?” 

He looks at you then, something like amusement in his eyes, “There are four in total. Winter and Summer are on the other side of the realm.” He informs, and then, chuckles like he thought of a joke, “if I tried explaining it to you, you’d most likely end up confused.”  

“I’m not stupid.” You say hotly, and Seokjin waves a dirt stained hand.  

“I never said that you were.” He says, “It is simply a fact. You cannot bring your mind to comprehend the vastness of this house.” He points a thumb over his shoulder, “You wouldn’t be able to comprehend the dimensions of this place.”  

He pauses a moment, dark eyes catching the soft autumn light as he surveys the orderly rows of his garden. Carrots, parsnips, beets, and radishes peek through the soil. Small pumpkins, their skins mottled orange and green, cluster near the fence. The air hums quietly with life, the rustle of leaves, the distant call of a bird. 

He turns, brushing dirt from a turnip before setting it into his basket, “Winter is that way. As you may have seen from the window.” He points beyond, in the direction you’d seen the winter capped mountains from upstairs. “But it is also that way.” He points to his right, where Spring begins, “Though, for you, if you go that way, it would take you days to reach it. But if you go through Spring, it would only take you a couple of hours to cross the entire two domains to get there.”  

You stare at him blankly and he stares back, and then he sighs. He gets up from his spot and walk through the rows to you. Dusk flits past, tail flicking with quiet curiosity, sniffing at the tops of the carrots before retreating to a sun-warmed stone. 

He crouches, and with one long finger he draws a circle. “Pay attention, mouse.”  

He divides the circle into four. “We are here.” He points at the bottom left of the circle, “But we are also here.” He draws a line from his section to the one above it. “Spring is here, but it is also here.” He does the same for the other side. “Everything is layered, but directly across from each other. Think of it as four separate worlds, divided by a border. Some borders are closer than others. My domain is directly against Spring. As Spring is directly against Summer and Summer is to Winter. Getting to winter from my domain would take you a day either which way you walk. Through Summer you can simply walk through the divide.”  

Halfway through his explanation you feel like your brain can run out your ears, and he nods as though he’d expected your blank stare. And then he goes back to his work, “Best not dwell on it, Nemira meun.”  

You hum, and go back to your berry picking until your basket is full. “Seokjin…” 

“Yes?” He’s back to knocking on pumpkins and shaking his head, dragging out the word like he’d expected you to call him again.  

You poke around the basket of berries, plucking the fattest one to toss into your mouth. “Who… are you? You never said.” 

He eyes you for a moment, and then casually, “I am a God.” He stands, lifting his basket of provisions as though he hadn’t just declared something world-breaking. “I have many titles. Keeper of the Harvest. Warden of the Waning Days. But to you, I am simply Seokjin.” 

Your mouth goes dry around the berry you’ve just eaten. “So…you’re the god of autumn?” 

“Autumn is part of me,” he says smoothly, with a faint shrug. “As much as your breath is part of you.” 

“Then…the other seasons have gods as well?” 

He doesn’t look at you. He just adjusts the basket on his arm, the line of his shoulders taut in a way that makes your question feel like you’d crossed an invisible barrier.  

“Then why are you here alone?” you press, softer this time. 

Seokjin says nothing. He only strides toward the cabin, boots crunching against the soil, leaving your words to hang in the air like a chill. 

“Come, I’ll show you what to do with those berries.” 

Its a few mornings later when you’re sitting in the kitchen and Seokjin has lingered a lot longer than he would normally.  

Usually he would leave as the sun rises to do whatever it is he does around here, and then come back. He’s made you breakfast first, and stared at you intently for a long while before clearing his throat and making use of his hands to clear the table. 

“You can accompany me today.” He murmurs, not looking at you, before you can perk up he raises a hand, “Don’t get excited. I’m only allowing so you wouldn’t search for other ways to satiate your boredom.”  

You think you’ve been pretty well behaved since your first transgression. You’d like to believe Seokjin is much softer than he lets on, and again you wonder why he’s here alone. You’ve seen this certain joy about him when he’s doing anything for you, in a way that makes you wonder if he’s used to taking care of others. He never says it, and most of the time he’s just grumpy and snappy or quiet enough that you could hear a pin drop.  

With his care the cut on your palm no longer needs a bandage, it’s closed and scabbed over but he still checks it every day. It would definitely scar, but there’s nothing you can do about that you suppose.  

Seokjin had left you to eat, and you’d scarfed down your breakfast of warm bread and blackberry jam while he went upstairs, and then you waited for him in the foyer.  

He seems surprised when he comes back, a heavy looking coat in his hands and boots in the other. He raises a brow at your excited expression, and you can bet you look like a child on Christmas morning.  

“Finished already?” He hums, presenting the cloak to you. The coat is in fact, heavy, a deep brown and glittering silver, the inside lined with fur. “I told you not to get excited.” 

You can’t help it though, “I’m just happy to go outside.” 

Seokjin studies you silently, “You mortals and your simple joys.” He tuts, shaking his head, and then he whistles for Dusk. She trots from the direction of your room, and brushes her tail against your legs as she passes by.  

Maybe he should try having nothing to do but stare at walls and read books all day.  

Seokjin huffs watching, “Doesn’t greet me when I’m the one that feeds her. How ungrateful.” There’s no contempt in his words, just a glimmer of amusement, “Come now. Don’t put the cloak on yet.”  

Once outside Seokjin leads you towards the veil that separates his domain and Spring, passing through after Dusk. It ripples and glimmers when he does and you stand on the edge of it, cautiously putting a hand through first. Despite being told you’d appeared over there first, you’re weary.  

Seokjin pauses in his stride and turns to look at you, “Mouse.” He chuckles, “the veil would not harm you.”  

Once you pass through the veil, the weight of Seokjin’s autumnal domain falls behind you like a curtain. In its place, a gentle warmth presses against your skin, soft and alive, like the first breath of a morning after a long winter. The scent of grass, damp earth, and blossoms rises in gentle waves, sweet without being cloying. Bees hum lazily among flowers that bloom in impossible colors, their petals catching the light and refracting it like shards of glass. 

The ground beneath your feet is soft and springy, dotted with shoots and tiny blooms that sway in the mild breeze. Trees stretch overhead, their pale green leaves filtering sunlight into dancing patterns across the path. You catch the faint babble of a brook nearby, the water tracing a winding path through the grass, glimmering like silver in the sun. Beyond is a forest similar to Seokjin’s, wrapped around the space like a blanket of green. 

Dusk trots ahead, her white-tipped tail flicking as she weaves through the foliage, pausing only to sniff at the air before darting forward again. You follow cautiously, aware that every step feels slightly unreal; the colors sharper, the air sweeter, the world itself brimming with life in a way that makes your chest ache with wonder. 

You follow Dusk through the lush greenery, the cloak heavy but comforting on your shoulders. Seokjin walks beside you, silent for the moment, letting your footsteps be the only sound besides the distant hum of insects and the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. 

“This place… it’s incredible,” you murmur, almost to yourself, craning your neck to drink in the vibrant greens and yellows, the soft sunlight spilling through the canopy above. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” 

Seokjin doesn’t respond immediately, but the corner of his mouth twitches downwards. “Mortals,” he says finally, voice low and clipped, “tend to notice the obvious. You walk, you see, you marvel. Rarely do you look for what lies beneath.” 

You glance around, puzzled. “Beneath?” 

He gestures with a hand, sweeping across the undergrowth. “Shadows, decay, the spaces between what is meant to thrive. Not everything is as perfect as it seems, mouse. Some things…” He pauses, watching a cluster of flowers that seem half-wilted despite the light, “…don’t get the care they should.” 

You notice it then: patches where the grass is thinner, blooms struggling, leaves tinged brown at the edges. Somehow, even in Spring, not every corner is full of life. You bite back a question, sensing that whatever the truth is, he wouldn’t answer kindly. 

Dusk trots ahead, ears flicking, tail high. You follow her, watching Seokjin’s eyes flick occasionally toward the fox, a rare softness in his otherwise implacable expression. He seems troubled. 

“You’ll need to keep up, mouse,” he adds after a few steps, almost teasing. “I do not slow for those easily distracted by flowers and light.” 

“I can keep up,” you say quickly, stepping a little straighter. 

He hums something noncommittal, turning his gaze forward again. You let your eyes wander over the landscape, marveling at the sunlight striking the trees, the scent of the earth, the gentle trickle of water from a hidden stream. Yet, the occasional brown leaf or struggling bloom prickles at your awareness, a quiet reminder that even here, life is uneven, and that this world, no matter how beautiful, isn’t entirely forgiving. 

The edge of Spring comes into view long before you actually reach it. The air thickens, warmer now, the scent of wet soil fading and giving way to the heavy sweetness of ripening wildflowers and sun-baked grass. You notice that the vibrancy of Spring dims slightly at this border; some patches of green curling at the edges, a few blossoms drooping, as if reluctant to give way. 

Seokjin halts just before the veil, his cloak brushing lightly against the tall grass. Dusk stops at his feet, ears flicking at the sudden quiet. You notice a shimmer in the air, like sunlight hitting water, stretched thin across the horizon. 

“This is Summer’s veil,” Seokjin says, voice low, almost a murmur, but you hear him clearly. “Cross carefully, and stay in the shade.” 

You step forward, and the air changes instantly. It’s heavier, warmer, buzzing with life. The grasses sway taller, the flowers cluster in tighter, almost dizzying patterns, and the streams glitter with sharp, bright sunlight. Summer. 

Dusk bounds ahead, disappearing into the lush growth, tail flicking to beckon you forward. You follow, and realize that the Summer here is alive in a completely different way than Spring---lush, full, almost too much, yet under the surface, hints of dryness and heat curl along the edges. 

Seokjin walks beside you, silent, hands clasped behind his back and unbothered by the heat. He doesn’t offer guidance beyond the occasional sharp glance, but the way he moves, steady and deliberate, makes it clear he knows every nuance of this land, every patch that thrives and every patch that struggles. 

As you move further into Summer, the air grows thick, heavy, almost hard to breathe. The warmth presses down on your shoulders, the sun above sharp and unrelenting, glaring off the golden grasses and the leaves of gnarled, spreading trees. Each step feels slower than the last, your legs sticky with the heat, your skin prickling as sweat begins to bead along your temples. You stick to the shade of trees and follow behind Seokjin, despite the oppressive warmth you still look around. 

The flowers and vines are abundant, but the colors aren’t soft---they’re dazzling, almost aggressive, yellows and oranges that sting your eyes as much as they delight them. The ground beneath your feet radiates heat, forcing you to adjust your stride. Even the streams that glitter through this land shimmer like liquid gold. 

Dusk moves ahead with the same playful grace, but you notice she pauses often, settling into patches of shade beneath trees or crouching low in the underbrush, as if even she feels the sun’s weight. 

Every so often, Seokjin would cast a sidelong glance at you, assessing your progress through the heat, though he says nothing. The cloak he’d given to you feels heavier in your arms where you have it tucked against you.  

You find yourself wishing for a breeze, any relief, but the air seems to shimmer with its own stubborn heat. Even the birds and insects seem to move slower here, their sounds sharp and hollow against the heavy air. 

The oppressive warmth makes you aware of your breathing, of your heartbeat, of every inch of your exposed skin. And yet, despite it, there’s an undeniable richness to Summer.  

You’re not sure how long you’ve both been walking for, and you’re about ready to ask for a break when Seokjin points out the veil. He stops you just as you’re about to go through it, “Put the coat on.” 

Surprisingly he helps you slip your arms into it, and he lifts the hood up over your head, the hem of it brushes the ground, perfectly closed around you when he closes the clasp at the front.  

“There are pockets, keep your hands in them.” Seokjin warns, and you nod, sliding your hands along the outside of the coat until your hands slip into the pockets. They’re rather deep, but you suppose they’re designed that way so that the sleeves can get in without a gap exposing your skin.  

The veil between Summer and Winter shimmers like glass, and as you step through, the heat is replaced with a sharp, biting cold that makes you gasp. The world feels suddenly unforgiving; every exhale hangs in the air, frost forming briefly before fading. Your coat wraps snugly around you, heavy and warm, shielding you from the harsh air, but even so, the cold nips at your cheeks and nose. 

Dusk moves ahead, and you notice her coat shift almost instantly---from her russet brown to pristine white, the tip of her tail now black. The transformation is so seamless it feels like magic, yet somehow natural, like this fox belongs to each season she passes through. It doesn’t stop you from staring with your mouth open, though.  

Seokjin’s voice cuts through the crisp air, low and firm: “Stay close. Do not wander.” 

You obey, walking behind him, the crunch of snow underfoot loud in the silence. From where you stand, the Winter domain stretches endlessly in frozen expanse, but in the distance, atop a snow-draped hill, you spot a house. It looks quaint against the vast whiteness, smoke curling from a chimney, a solitary beacon in the icy landscape. You want to ask, but something in Seokjin’s demeanor tells you better not to. You don’t think he’s in a particularly good mood today. 

He moves with purpose, examining the snow, kneeling here and there to pull roots and frost-hardy plants from the frozen ground. You watch him in silence, marveling at the way he works, the precision and patience of his movements. Your fingers tuck deeper into the fur of the coat, afraid of the snow biting through, and you stay quiet, mesmerized by the sharp beauty of the domain. 

The wind whistles faintly through the skeletal branches of the frost-laden trees, carrying the faint scent of pine and frozen earth. Every so often, you glance at Seokjin, noting the way the snow clings to his dark robes and hair, how his breath clouds in the air before fading. 

You stay close as instructed, letting the cold wash over you, wrapped in warmth and observation, a silent witness to the Winter domain and the god who tends it with unwavering focus. 

Dusk rolls around in the snow, digging around in it before darting off; not a care in the world. 

You trudge through the snow behind Seokjin, each step crunching against the frozen ground. The cold bites at your fingers despite the cloak, and you tuck them tighter into its fur-lined sleeves. Every so often, your eyes drift to the house perched atop the distant hill. It’s small, perfectly still, smoke curling from its chimney as if someone should be home, but the stillness whispers that it is not.  

Seokjin moves ahead with unnerving silence, his long strides purposeful, each hand brushing over the snow or kneeling to inspect the frost-hardened earth. You notice the tension in his shoulders, the faint tightening around his jaw. Something unspoken lingers in the air, like the weight of old memories or distant grief. 

Better not to disturb him, you decide, keeping your gaze lowered or fixed on the distant house, letting the quiet hum of the Winter domain fill the space between you. The wind whistles faintly through skeletal trees, bending under the weight of ice, and your breath hitches in tiny clouds before fading away. 

Now and then, you glance sideways. Seokjin is still, kneeling to gather roots that brave the frost, and even from behind, you feel the careful control in his movements, the precision of someone used to managing what others might not survive. You wrap the coat tighter, feeling the warmth against the biting cold, and silently let him lead, a quiet observer in the vast, frozen expanse. 

Minutes pass---or maybe hours---and the only sounds are the wind, the snow beneath your boots, and the faint scrape of Seokjin’s hands in the frozen earth. Dusk padding alongside him, her white coat blending with the snow, the black tip of her tail swishing gracefully, every movement deliberate and alert. 

You don’t ask questions. Words feel unnecessary here, and the way Seokjin carries himself---the tension coiled under his calm exterior---warns you that silence is the safest companion. You stay close, feeling the strange mix of awe and unease, watching him, watching the domain, and the empty house on the hill that waits for no-one.  

Seokjin had brought with him a silk bag, where he put everything he found useful and it wasn’t long before you were making your way back to Spring, where he lingers. 

He doesn’t say much, but you follow him around as he forages. He frowns at a green apple tree and it’s sparse fruit and places his hand on the bark. After a moment he lets out a sigh, his head dropping forward.  

He crouches, palms hovering above the roots of the tree. You’re not sure what he’s doing, but the branches of the tree shudder and an apple pops off and only narrowly avoids your head.  

“What’re you doing?” you ask tentatively.  

“The tree is sick. Like most in this domain.” He mumbles, “I am trying to heal it.”  

The leaves of the tree glow a soft green, but it’s not long before it dims. Seokjin lets out a string of words in his language that you’re pretty sure is a curse.  

He looks down at his hands, rubbing his thumbs against his fingers. Without a word he stands and moves to another tree and does the same as before. He seems a little frantic.  

“What’s wrong?”  

“Nothing.” He snaps, and you’re genuinely surprised by his tone; you recoil.  

You blink at him, confused about why he’s suddenly irritated. “Hey, don’t take it out on me. I haven’t done anything to you.” 

He whirls around to face you, eyes dark, “Haven’t you?” he snaps, “You breathe, you speak, you exist in this place, mortal.” He spits the word like it’s a curse, filled with acid and hate. You feel like the word can brand itself into your skin and stay there as testament of what you are. “All your kind does is take and destroy, with no regard for others. And now you stand here, demanding gentleness from me when your very presence is a wound.” 

Your lips part, throat tight, but you try to stay calm in the face of his ire. “I didn’t ask for this, I didn’t ask to be here. Stop lumping me in with whatever ghosts you’re fighting.” 

“Do you think you are any different? You are not. Mortals---all of you---you live, you hunger, you claw at whatever meager scraps you’re offered.” He sneers, taking a step towards you so menacingly that you take a step back, “You demand worlds beyond what you’re given, and you murder for less. Then you vanish. That’s all you do. And I am left here with the rot.” 

This isn’t about you. You’re watching a bottle with too much pressure built up inside explode. You don’t know what he’s been through, but you can guess why he’s here alone. Why he had reacted so viciously when you’d brought it up in your anger your second night here. Why the emotion swirling in his eyes is layered with sadness and anger and a hatred that burns your skin.  

But that isn’t fair, is it? Who is he to say such things?  

“You can’t just say that.” You snap back, frustration creasing your brow, “Not everyone is like that! There are good people. Innocent people.”  

Seokjin laughs, the first real laugh you’ve heard from him in your time here. Cynical and hollow. He’s looking through you. “I have seen the cruelty of man, child. I’ve seen many beginnings and many ends. Innocent is not in your nature. Even a child can pillage and kill for their benefit.”  

From his pupils, gold bleeds into his irises and you know he’s beyond arguing with. You bite down on the inside of your cheek, trying to summon something---anything---that might reach him. But his eyes are already burning, too far gone, his voice poisoned with venom that isn’t yours to cure. There’s nothing left for you to say. 

So you turn on your heel. You don’t look back, not even when your throat feels tight and your chest aches like he’d ripped something open inside you. Let him stew in his anger alone. 

The veil parts around you as you cross into Seokjin’s domain again. The air changes abruptly, the mild warmth of Spring replaced by the damp chill of autumn, and the sudden shift makes you shiver. Rain begins almost at once, fine and steady, cold droplets beading in your hair and along the coat he’d given you.  

You keep your head down, footsteps quick through the grass until the cabin comes into view. Inside, the quiet greets you like an accusation. You peel off your boots at the threshold and push them aside, the sound of the rain on the roof echoing in the stillness. You mutter angrily to yourself. What right does he have?! 

Your room waits for you---down the hall past the kitchens, safe and familiar. That’s where you mean to go. That’s where your body turns, feet carrying you toward the corridor you know. 

But halfway there, your steps falter.  

The pull starts soft, almost like a stray thought, then swells into something heavier, insistent. Your gaze lifts unbidden toward the staircase. 

The main staircase, the one that curves upward into the forbidden places Seokjin had warned you of more than once. Do not wander. There will be no other instance. You do not wish to cross me. 

And yet, your body turns. Your feet find the first step. 

You try to think better of it, try to remind yourself of his words, of the molten fury you’d just seen in him. But the thought is muffled, distant, like a voice calling from underwater. Something stronger tugs at you, irresistible.  

One step. Another. The hush of rain outside fades as you climb, replaced by the quickening thud of your heart. You feel like you’re watching yourself move through a pin hole view and there’s nothing you can do to stop yourself. 

At the top, the hallway stretches on both sides of you, you turn to your right and walk past the plain wooden doors. You stop at the left curve. You shouldn’t be here, your mind yells, but you go down the hall anyway. Plain doors line the wall at first, ordinary and unremarkable. But farther down, three doors stand apart; unique, and thrumming faintly with a magic you can almost feel in your teeth. 

The first is white-frosted, a sheen of ice crawling up its frame, the chill that seeps off it sends gooseflesh racing up your arms. The second is tangled in withered vines, brittle and dry. And the last is dark, plain, and silent. 

You don’t think. You simply move, hand rising, reaching for the handle of the vine-wreathed door. 

Your fingertips are just brushing the withered vines curling around the old door when his hand clamps around your wrist. The grip is unyielding, startlingly hot, and you whirl to find Seokjin there---eyes lit molten gold, blazing like a furnace. 

“I told you not to come here,” he growls, dragging you back with such force that you stumble into his chest. The heat of him radiates even through the fabric between you, but his anger is colder than ice. 

You open your mouth to protest, to explain, but he cuts you off with a low snarl. “This hall is forbidden. Those stairs are forbidden. Do you think I speak idly?” His voice cracks like thunder, reverberating through the corridor, each word vibrating against the walls until you swear the very stone trembles. 

The golden light in his eyes burns brighter, and something shudders overhead---a rumble that belongs not just to him but to the sky itself. 

“I---” you try, but the words falter under the sheer weight of his fury. He pulls you behind him back the way you came, until you’re standing under the pale light coming through the windows of the landing.  

“You disobey,” he spits, “and still you look at me as though you are owed tenderness.” His hand shoves at your shoulder, and the motion is so sudden, so sharp, that you stagger backward. The edge of the staircase bites at your heel, the dizzying drop yawning behind you. For a heartbeat, your stomach pitches into freefall. Only the banister catches you, splinters digging into your palm as you clutch it for balance. 

Your heart thunders in your throat. He has nearly sent you tumbling. 

For an instant, something flickers in his expression---hesitation, a flash of regret---but it drowns beneath the gold in his eyes, beneath the storm building in his chest. He turns away, dismissing you, as though you are not worth his restraint. 

Your breath comes sharp and uneven. You don’t wait for more. You flee. Barely taking the time to shove your feet into your boots at the door. 

The storm breaks the moment you pass through the threshold. Rain pelts you so heavily it stings, needling your scalp, plastering your hair flat to your skull and soaking through your clothes until they hang heavy and cold against your skin. Mud sucks at your boots, pulling at each step, and the wind claws at your face until your cheeks are raw. 

Still, you press forward. Away from him. Anywhere but there. You can barely see through the downpour, and crossing the veil offers no reprieve; it’s storming here too. Stray branches soar through the air on violent wind, trees swaying in the tempest. 

You don’t even realize when you cross deeper into Spring’s domain. The air smells different---wet loam, fresh grass, the sharp green tang of life churned by the rain. Here, the canopy catches some of the downpour, turning the relentless sheets of water into sudden drizzles, like sighs of relief between gasps. But each break in the trees brings the storm crashing back, drumming against your shoulders with bruising weight. 

That is when you see it. 

A doe stands at the forest’s edge, pale as snow, white against the shadow-drenched greens. Her eyes gleam too bright, fixed wholly on you. The rain pours through her, around her---she is untouched, impossibly still while everything else trembles and thrashes. 

You blink, and she is gone. 

Then she is there again, further off, waiting. Watching. 

Your boots squelch in the mud as you follow, stumbling over gnarled roots slick with moss. Branches claw at your sleeves, wet leaves slap against your face. The forest thickens around you, each step pulling you further from the safety of paths you might have known, but the doe is always there---slipping in and out of sight, coaxing you deeper. 

The air grows dense, charged, humming in your bones as though lightning prowls unseen overhead. Your breaths come ragged, misting in the wet air, every inhale tasting of iron and ozone. 

Then the clearing opens. 

At its heart pulses a thing that does not belong in any ordinary forest. A mass of tangled roots, crystalline veins, and raw light, throbbing with unsteady rhythm. It glows and flickers, as though a great heart is trying---and failing---to beat. Each pulse sends tremors into the ground, into the rain, into you. Thrum. Thrum. Thrum. The sound isn’t sound at all but vibration, resonating in the hollow of your chest until your ribs ache. 

You know you shouldn’t. But your body moves without consent. Your hand rises, trembling, drawn closer as if the air itself pulls you toward it. 

The instant your palm meets its surface, agony lances through you. A crack of white light sears your vision, a violent hiss of magic biting into your flesh. The shock hurls you backward, and you land hard in the mud, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs. Rain spatters your face, mixing with the tears you hadn’t realized were there. 

Your hand burns. Inside your skin, beneath your bones, as though something has branded itself into you. 

The clearing stills. The forest holds its breath. The white doe is gone. Only the heart remains, pulsing in broken rhythm. 

Seokjin lets the storm have him. 

It answers with everything he has put into it---wind that tears the last yellow from the trees, rain that hammers the roof like fists, lightning splitting the sky in slow, terrible ribbons. He paces the halls like a thing made to move, boots finding worn grooves in the floor by muscle memory, fingers flexed until the knuckles blanch. The aftertaste of his words lingers---a coppery bite under his tongue that sharpens his anger. He meant to frighten, to push, to make the boundaries hold. Not to empty the house of your presence. 

He throws open a window. Rain lashes at him, a cold sheet of persistence. The storm thins into drizzle; the world quiets. He does not credit the calming of the weather---he knows the opposite: storms bend to the edges of his temper, and they will not die until he wills them quiet. 

He goes down the stairs, towards the foyer where the gap in the front door of his home let the rain blow in. It soaks the floor in little pools and your boots are gone. He clicks his tongue against his teeth, and Dusk comes over, tail flicking and awaiting instruction. “Find her.”  

The vixen slips through the crack in the door, then, Seokjin follows. He does not bother with veil---there is a path only he walks, a thin place between his domain and Spring that bends for him alone. The air presses against him, thick with rot threaded through the sweetness of leaves, sour where green should be pure. Trees lean listless; bark feels soft under his palms. He knows the forest mourns. 

Small disturbances guide him---broken twigs, your footprints, smeared mud on mossy stone---and Dusk’s spoor runs true between them. Deeper, through the wild undergrowth, until the clearing opens. 

You lie there. Rain plastered hair across your face, mud streaking your clothes, chest rising and falling, stubbornly alive. His pulse kicks in response. He kneels, lifting you carefully, aware of every ache in your body and every trembling breath. 

Why are you here? Of all places.  

He looks up at the Heart of Spring. Its weaker than it’s ever been, pulsing in uneven bursts, raw magic crackling between the gnarled roots that encases it. The power flares in an arch from its center, and into the earth below it.  

From the corner of his eye, a white light, brighter than anything, materialises. Its swirls and undulate before it forms itself into a doe. 

White as snow, perfect and impossible, the rain clinging to it like a crown of drops. It’s eyes lock onto his. He knows what it is, it’s eyes hold a galaxy within them, wide and gentle; a messenger of the divinities far beyond him.  

The clearing shifts. You feel it too, though unconscious, limp in his arms. 

“Balance demands a vessel.” the doe says, and the sound comes as thought pressed into his skull. Not one voice, but many layered, male and female and young and old, like wind through many leaves. 

Seokjin’s hands tighten around you. “She is mortal,” he snaps. “She could’ve died. She does not belong here.” 

“Precisely.” the doe replies, dipping it’s head, great eyes blinking at him. 

He lifts his gaze, searching, challenging. “She is mortal.” He repeats firmly, “Why lure her to this place?” 

“You guard with fury,” the doe continues. “You lash at the world and call it justice. You keep solitude like a blade. But you keep, too---whether you will or not. There is heat in your watchfulness. It is not only wrath.” 

Seokjin grits his teeth. “I did not bring her here.” 

“You also did not send her from the field. She is not here by chance or fretful mortals, though they had their part to play. The thread that pulls is older than your anger. She came because the realm called and a voice answered.” 

He laughs, short and bitter, the sound gets swallowed by the trees. “The realm? And what does it know of mortal bone? What right---” He stops. The doe’s gaze does not waver. 

“You would have seen her fall and turned your face,” the doe says, and where it stomps a delicate hoof, grass spring upward. “You would have cursed the people who sent her, and you would have wept alone in a dark hall. Instead, your hand is under her ribs now. You are watching. That is care. Deny it as you will; the world sees differently.” 

The many voices fold again, and softer: “She is a mend. She is fragile because what must grow must first be alive and not stone.” 

Seokjin’s fists find earth and roots bite his palms. Anger rises, an old fire stoking itself in his chest, but beneath it, there is something sharp, almost unbearable: the awareness of your muddy body in his arms. Your breath even. The stubborn, impossible life that refuses to break. He hates the weight of the thought he cannot voice, his heart kicks painfully against his ribs. 

He takes a slow, calming breath. 

“You speak in circles.” he says tersely, trying to rein his anger in before it gets out of hand again. “If the realm wishes balance, it can find another way than dragging a mortal into peril and then pronouncing the verdict. Tell me plainly---what do you want of her?” 

The doe tilts it’s head. “To be the hinge,” it says. “To stand where weight breaks the beam. To bear what cannot be borne. She is warm and she will cool; flesh splits when too much leans upon it. You are the keeper of endings---watch then as what is living fractures beneath the world’s demand. The balance will ask; bone will answer.” Seokjin’s jaw tightens. The words fall like stones. He cannot refute them, cannot deny the truth he will not name. 

“Why her?” he asks, voice low. The rain starts up again. 

He wants to strike, to demand answers, to wrest control, but instead he adjusts you in his arms, careful, and shields you from the rain with the slope of his cloak. The tenderness feels alien and wrong, yet it persists. 

The doe is silent, and Seokjin presses desperately, “Will she live?” 

The doe watches, unblinking, fur glowing faintly under the canopy. “The heart will beat or it will not,” it says, almost unbothered. “You will find the measure as you go.” 

Then, just as suddenly as it arrived, the doe slips between the trees, white disappearing to memory. Its voice lingers only in thought: See past your fury, Seokjin. 

He looks down at you in his arms, so fragility mortal in a place that holds no candle for you. He brushes aside your wet hair, and calls your name. You’re most definitely alive, but you do not wake.  

He carries you back through Spring’s twisted, dripping paths, and through the veil. You should not have been carried this far in such a state, but the storm leaves him no choice. By the time he pushes through the cabin door, your weight is a furnace in his arms, your head lolling against his shoulder, rainwater dripping from your hair. Mud clings to your hem, staining his robes as he lays you down. He does not care. 

The sight of you stops him cold. Mud streaks your cheek, rain pools in the hollow of your throat, and your skin---gods, your skin---burns as though fire has taken root beneath it. His hand hovers, fingers flexing, before he forces himself to act. 

He fetches water first. A cloth. His motions are neat, restrained, jaw tight as he wrings out the cool linen and presses it to your brow, your wrists, your collarbone. When he dares peel the sodden outer layers from your body, he does it with reverence, with the same care he might handle a sacred text. He never looks longer than necessary. He never lets his hands linger. He wraps you in fresh linen, as if dignity itself could anchor you here. 

And yet his chest tightens with memory. He has done this before. Too many times before. He sat beside his brothers as fevers consumed them, cooled their brows, mixed every tincture he could craft. He read every line of Namjoon’s library until his vision blurred, begging the words to give him something they do not hold. His brothers slipped into ether anyway. He was not enough. 

Now here you are---another fevered body beneath his hands, another life he cannot save with his divinity. He reaches instinctively, trying to sense the root of your illness, and finds nothing. As though the gods themselves have smudged the lines of your body so he cannot find them. His breath catches, and for a moment he almost withdraws. 

But he does not. He grinds herbs with shaking fingers, steeps them in water, adds honey to blunt the bitterness. He makes a draught meant for strength and endurance---though some part of him knows, even as he lifts your head and presses the cup to your lips, that it might not touch what ails you. His voice is low and coaxing, when he tells you to swallow. 

When he sets the cup aside, he does not move. He sits at your bedside, damp hair falling into his eyes, watching the rise and fall of your chest as though, by watching hard enough, he can hold you here. His hand hovers under your ribs, not pressing, only waiting---just as it did with his brothers, long ago. 

And beneath it all: the fear. The terrible, familiar fear that he is losing you. That you, too, will vanish into the ether, and that he will remain. Alone. 

You’re floating in an expanse of darkness, weightless and crushing all at once. Your limbs ache, each movement a thunder of pain, every breath a labor. Your head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, thick and unyielding. Your tongue feels as heavy as lead; even trying to whisper is futile. Your chest rises and falls unevenly, each inhale scraping raw at your ribs, and a persistent chill crawls under your skin, as if the storm itself has followed you here. Nausea coils low in your stomach, twisting, a slow, relentless pulse of discomfort. 

When your eyes finally open, not without great effort, you’re greeted by the familiar ceiling of your room. Rain taps a soft, muffled rhythm against the windows, distant and muted, like the sound is filtered through gauze. Something cold and damp presses insistently against your fingers---Dusk. You feel her fur, soaked from the storm, and the faint scent of wet earth clings to you. 

You notice you’re closer to the edge of the bed than usual. Slowly, sensation returns to your limbs. Your forehead feels cool, your throat bitter, a taste that makes you groan softly. Dusk snuffles at your hand, nudging it, before padding toward the door. Her fur drags against your fingers as she leaves, and not long after, Seokjin appears. 

He looks relieved, though you cannot fully read the emotion in his face. A small glass rests in his hand, and a sinking dread coils in your stomach. Dusk hops onto the bed, settling nearby along the wall. 

“You’re awake,” Seokjin says, approaching to support your head. Your skull feels leaden even under his touch. When he tilts the glass to your lips, you instinctively turn away. “Come now, mouse. You must drink, please.” 

The pleading in his voice makes you relent. The liquid is bitter, herbal and sharp, barely dulled by honey. You swallow it quickly, your stomach clenching in protest. 

He replaces the cloth on your forehead with a cooler one, carefully adjusting it. When he leaves and returns, it’s with a bowl of thin broth and a cup of water. He helps you sit upright, propping pillows behind your back, spooning the broth carefully. Each mouthful is bland, but necessary, and you drink it like it’s life itself. 

Even as you eat, a hollow sensation gnaws at you. Something feels off---your body is not right. Behind your eyes, a dull ache throbs, and the memory of the storm, his anger, the doe, and the pulsing heart in Spring’s domain presses against your mind like a weight you cannot shake. 

He feeds you until you can drink no more.  

You sip the water he offers; it soothes your throat. “Wh---what happened?” you manage. His gaze falters as he sets the cup down, and you feel the dread in your chest deepen. 

“I’ve done something I shouldn’t, haven’t I?” you whisper, words trembling. 

Seokjin exhales through his nose, staring out the window at the great tree beyond. “Yes. But it was no fault of yours.” 

“Am I… dying?” 

His eyes meet yours, brimming with a sorrow that wraps around your chest, constricting. He nods softly. “Yes.” 

Your heart spikes painfully, pounding in your ears. You take a shallow breath to quell the sudden dizziness. Tears sting the corners of your eyes. “Can’t… can’t you fix it?” 

“I’ve tried,” he murmurs, pressing your hand gently in his. He seems guilty. “I do not know what ails you.” 

The room is quiet except for the rain and your shallow breathing. This is the truth laid bare: the fragile thread of your life, slipping beyond both of your control. And all you can do is feel it, accept it, and cling to the warmth of his hand. 

It wasn't long until you were asleep again, fitful and dreamless, you rested.  

It’s two days after that you properly wake; no longer in and out of delirium at the hands of a fever the refused to break. The ache in your limbs is lighter, but persistent, a reminder that something within you is failing. You feel it, the creeping weakness, the hollowness at the edges of your vision, and you know---though you cannot name what it is---that it will only grow. You do not tell him, and he does not ask. He doesn’t need to; he can see it anyway, the way your shoulders sag, the way your fingers curl as if holding onto yourself. 

Seokjin moves beside you silently, his presence a solid anchor against the storm still thrumming in your chest from the past days. He extends a hand, and you take it, letting him help you to your feet. Every step toward the bathroom feels heavier than it should, but his grip is steady, reassuring, patient. You feel the warmth of him through the fabric, a tether that steadies your faltering balance. 

The bathwater is warm, the steam curling softly around your skin. Seokjin helps you settle, his hands careful, respectful, only guiding you enough that you can ease yourself in without strain. He keeps a towel draped over your shoulders as he reaches for the basin. He pours water over your hair, the scent of rain and herbs lingering faintly in your clothes from earlier, washing it down the drain. The cool droplets trace along your nape and down your back, and you shiver, letting yourself relax into the rhythm of his care. 

He hums softly, a song in his language you don’t understand, the melody low and warm, threading around the steam and the quiet trickle of water. His voice is a balm and you close your eyes for a moment, letting it carry some of the tension from your chest. 

When he’s done, he drapes a towel over you and steps back, giving you space. You change on your own, the fabric of fresh clothing cool against your damp skin, the small act of independence a tiny reclamation of yourself. Seokjin waits outside, only the faint rustle of the door and your shuffling moving the air between you. You catch the sense of his watchful eyes, calm, unwavering, and though your body aches, the tension eases slightly in the comfort of his restraint. 

Once you’re ready, he helps you back to your room. You sink into the chair until he’s done striping the sheets and then move over letting the pillows cradle your exhausted form. The new linens smell faintly of lavender that tickles your nose, Seokjin folds the dirty ones you’d sweated your fever into and places them into a basket near the wardrobe. You watch him, the movements precise, deliberate, as though every action matters, and perhaps it does. 

He checks your temperature, his hands warm against your skin. Still too warm, though not dangerously so, he’d said, and you let out a small sigh of relief. He studies you a moment longer, the quiet lines of worry around his eyes softened by the faintest trace of relief. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks finally, his voice low and careful, not pressing too much. His gaze meets yours, steady and unflinching. You can feel the weight of his attention, the unspoken promise that he will be here, that he will not let go, even if the world seems to be slipping away from you. 

You swallow, taste the faint bitterness of lingering herbs at the back of your tongue, and meet his eyes. “Better… a little,” you whisper. “Thanks, Seokjin.” 

He nods, the faintest curve of a smile ghosting his lips. “Good. We’ll take it slowly. One step at a time, mouse.” 

The days blur together, fever-hazed and slow. You spend more time between sheets than anywhere else, your strength leaking out of you drop by drop. The rhythm of your world narrows: the taste of bitter herbs laced with honey, the press of a cool cloth against your forehead, the sound of rain or wind at the window. Always, Seokjin is there. 

You notice it first when you wake one morning and hear silence outside. No rustle of his robe through the hall, no distant hum of power sweeping through the land. He used to be gone for hours, tending to what the realms, the weight of his dominion etched into his very posture. Now, he steps out only briefly—sometimes not at all. You catch him watching you instead, perched in a chair by the at your bedside, as if the tilt of your breath matters more than the turning of the seasons. 

Dusk never leaves you, either. The little fox curls at your side, head pillowed against your thigh on the worst days when you can barely sit up. Her warm weight is an anchor, the gentle rise and fall of her body a comfort against the unsteadiness of your own. Sometimes she noses your hand until your fingers curl into her fur, grounding you when the sickness drags you under. 

Seokjin notices. He’ll pause mid-step when your hand drifts into Dusk’s pelt, his expression unreadable, though you catch the faintest softening at the corner of his mouth before he turns away. 

And there are other moments, too. 

He hums while rinsing the herbs from your hair, a melody so low you feel it more than you hear it. You lean into the touch of his fingers against your scalp, eyes closed, and something quiet blooms inside your chest—an ache that isn’t illness or fever. 

Or when he steadies your elbow on the walk back to your bed, his palm warm, his grip gentle yet firm enough that you cannot fall. Your pulse stumbles, just a little, and you tell yourself it’s only the sickness, not the way your body leans into his without thought. 

Or when he leaves a bowl of broth half-finished on the table beside you, pretending not to notice you couldn’t manage it, but later, you find the vegetables diced smaller. 

Your fever comes and goes. On some days you’re blessedly cool, able to walk about freely but slowly. On others, your roasting. You’ve come to expect it.  

You move more cautiously, aware of the way your body protests at each step, and he adjusts to you with a patience that surprises you. Each morning he helps you rise, supporting you with steady hands, pressing a cool cloth to your brow before you can ask, adjusting pillows behind you, making sure your limbs don’t bear more weight than they can. 

Meals become quiet rituals. He prepares them carefully, chopping vegetables just so, simmering broths that smell faintly of herbs and honey. You eat slowly, sipping the warm liquid, and he watches, silently noting each shiver, each faltering swallow. When your hand trembles, he steadies it. When your breath catches, he pauses, hand hovering near you, not touching unless you need him to. The small attentions build between you, invisible threads binding you together. 

Sometimes he hums quietly while you sit near him. Low, gentle tones in his language, just enough to fill the silence, to keep the house from feeling empty. You lean against him without thinking, feeling the weight of his presence, and occasionally he will place a hand on your shoulder, linger just a moment longer than necessary, as though testing the line between care and worry, restraint and the need to reach out. 

You share quiet conversations, fragments of your thoughts and feelings drifting across the room like fragile leaves. You tell him how you feel when your chest aches or your head swims. He does not rush to fix you---he cannot---but he listens. He acknowledges every word with a nod, a hand hovering just near yours, a glance that softens his otherwise stern expression. 

You notice the little things he does: smoothing the blanket around you when you fall asleep in the chair, refilling your cup without being asked, leaving small jars of honey or bread within reach. He does not speak of your illness, does not name the creeping fear that accompanies it, but every gesture tells you he notices, that he is aware, that he is here. 

He sleeps every three days, always in the uncomfortable looking chair. You’d watch him, the minute flutter of his eyelashes and the furrow in his brow that never seems to go away. He assured you that he’s fine sleeping there and when you argued the quality of his rest instead, he told you he didn’t require much sleep.  

You begin to see him in a new way---not only as the storm and fire you first met, but as someone capable of quiet devotion. He allows you to rest your head against his shoulder as he hums, let your hand brush against his sleeve when the world feels too heavy. There are moments of laughter too, small and soft, when Dusk trips over a blanket or a breeze rattles a window. These are fleeting, but they linger in your chest, small islands of light in the shadow of your weakening body. 

Some nights, he reads aloud to you from the books he keeps close, his voice low and steady, filling the space with words that anchor you in the world. Other nights, you simply sit together, shoulders touching, feeling the rhythm of each other’s breath, the small comfort of not being alone. 

A month pass like this, slow and tender. You know the truth---your body is failing---but it becomes easier to exist in his care, easier to surrender to the hands that lift you, the presence that shields you, the quiet that waits patiently beside you. He does not speak of the end, and you do not ask, yet the understanding hums between you, unspoken, a delicate thread weaving trust from fear, grief, and care. 

You’ve made your peace, accepting that this is your end. Eventually, you would close your eyes and they wouldn’t open.  

Today, the air outside is crisp, a gentle chill that nips at your cheeks, though the heavy cloak draped over your shoulders keeps most of it at bay. Seokjin insisted on the hood, tugging it into place himself before letting you step past the threshold.  

He stays close as you walk, his hand brushing lightly at your elbow each time the uneven ground threatens to catch you. Dusk trots ahead, tail flicking like a banner through the pale light of his domain. 

“It’s colder than I thought,” you murmur, pulling the cloak tighter. 

“I did warn you,” Seokjin replies, his tone dry but not unkind. “If you shiver even once, I’ll take you straight back inside.” 

You tilt your head toward him, half-hidden in the hood. “You’d drag me back over a shiver?” 

“Of course.” His lips twitch, but he keeps his gaze fixed ahead. “One must uphold their threats, or what use are they?” 

That draws a laugh from you, light and unguarded, and he glances down at the sound. There’s something in his expression---something softened and eased---like he’s caught off guard by the sight of your smile, as though it’s rare and precious. 

Dusk bounds back toward you then, nearly tripping you in her enthusiasm. Seokjin steadies you with one hand at your back, firm and warm through the cloak, and for a moment his hand lingers just a breath longer than it should before he withdraws. 

You both stop near a cluster of frost-tipped grass, the tips glinting silver in the waning light. Seokjin helps lower you down to sit, his hands holding steady to your forearms, and then makes sure that your cloak is tucked securely around you. Then, he sits next to you with a soft sigh, tilting his face to the pale sky overhead.  

“Jin…” you call softly, and he doesn’t protest the shortness of his name, “Thank you.”  

He watches you silently for a moment, brows furrowed and you feel like you’ve ruined the mood. You look down at the browning tuffs of grass sticking from the dirt, reaching out to slide a finger against a blade.  

“I just thought I’d say it before I don’t get the chance to…”  

“There is no need to thank me.” He murmurs, and he takes your hand away from the grass. His hand is warm; it’s a small comfort you relish. His hand is also much bigger, and you measure your palm against his.  

You look up to find him staring at you. You’re sure you look a sight. The dark circles under your eyes have worsened in the past couple of days, and your complexion isn’t doing much better.  

“Do I look terrible?” you whisper, leaning closer like you’re telling a secret, but Seokjin shakes his head.  

“Quite the opposite.” He offers a smile, and you don’t call his bluff. He tucks some of your hair that escaped the covering of your hood back where it’s meant to be, his warm fingers longer on the curve of your jaw. “How about we head back in now?”  

Seokjin slows his steps so you can keep up, and you’re grateful for it, your hand curled into the crook of his elbow. The corridors twist and weave, shadowed but warm with the faint glow of sconces, and Dusk trots ahead, her paws clicking softly against the stone floor, ears flicking at every echo. You follow, each step cushioned by the rhythm of his stride, the weight of his presence anchoring you, fragile as you feel. 

“Where are we going?” you ask, voice small against the quiet. 

“Do you not know the concept of a surprise?” Seokjin purses his lips, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “You’ll see when we get there.” 

You grumble under your breath, but the corners of your mouth lift anyway. There’s a strange comfort in the fact that he’s here with you. Maybe it’s because you’re dying, and he’s the only thing you can cling to---but it still matters. You’d been walking for a while from your room, feet shuffling alongside Seokjin’s sure steps. 

Finally, he stops at a door carved with star maps so intricate it feels as if the constellations themselves were frozen in wood. Seokjin pushes it open and gestures for you to go in first. 

The room Is breathtaking. Moonlight filters through the domed ceiling, catching motes of dust like tiny stars suspended in the air. Telescopes lean against railings, parchment scrolls scatter across tables, and along the walls, more constellations shimmer in delicate gold inlays. The scent of old paper, dust, and wax fills your nose. 

“I know these stars,” you whisper, pointing up at the constellation of Aquarius, your voice catching slightly. 

“Yes.” Seokjin’s smile is gentle, almost tentative. “My brother, Hoseok, favoured them over our own.” 

You blink at him, surprised. Confused, too. This is the first time he’s mentioned anyone else. His body seems relaxed, but the weight in his eyes betrays centuries of memory, of loss. 

“I had three brothers,” he says softly, fingers plucking at a stray parchment, tracing faint lines as though touching memory itself. “Each of them lords of a season. As time went on, the humans forgot, and they died. Faded into the ether. I remain because the mortals cling too tightly. It is why I am here alone.” 

The words settle over you like cold rain. You feel the enormity of his grief, centuries of it pressed into the space between you. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, tears pricking your eyes. You step closer, gently reaching for him. He shakes his head, a shadow of something like regret passing over his face. 

“It isn’t your fault. I am sorry I treated you so poorly, mouse.” 

You wrap your arms around his middle, and he freezes for a heartbeat, a surprised sound escaping him. Then, very slowly, deliberately, he wraps his arms around you in return. His cheek presses to your hair, the pressure firm but careful, and his hand pats your back a little awkwardly, as though unsure how much is too much. 

“Well… I’m here. You’re not alone,” you murmur, even as your head spins slightly, faint with the remnants of fever. “For as long as fate keeps me, or until you’re free of me.” 

He chuckles softly, the vibrations rolling from his chest into yours, a warmth that steadies you. A wetness drips from the ceiling above, landing on your hair, and he tightens his hold instinctively, as if shielding you from the rain itself. The world outside might be storming, the domain might be unraveling in ways you can’t yet perceive, but in this room, with him holding you like this, there’s a pause---a fragile, fleeting peace. 

You press closer, feeling the steady rhythm of him, the solid, fleshy thump of his heart under his ribs. You don’t know why you’re surprised to hear it. In a sense, he’s just as human as you are; he feels all the same. He feels so much at all times and you’re only beginning to understand.  

There are days where he watches you with so much sadness, like he’s already sunk halfway into the void your absence would cause. He doesn’t speak it, doesn’t reach for you, but it’s there---in the way his gaze lingers, heavy with things he will not give name to. He carries grief like marrow in his bones, and yet with you… with you, he allows it to soften. 

And you feel it too, in the small ways: how your chest tightens when he hums low in his own tongue while tending to you, how your fingers itch to brush his hair back when it falls loose, how you find yourself waiting for his laugh, rare as it is, like the first bird after winter. You tell yourself it’s comfort, a necessary tether in this strange place, but comfort does not ache like this. Comfort does not make your pulse stumble when his hand steadies your elbow, when his shoulder brushes yours. 

The dizziness that sweeps through your head swells, even as you’re sanding still you can feel the room swaying.  

“I feel dizzy…” you mutter, leaning against him heavily, and without question he guides you back to your room. You lament not being able to fully appreciate the Observatory, Seokjin said he’d take you back when you feel a little better.  

You feel the world tilt beneath your feet as you find the solid reassurance of the mattress. Your limbs are heavy, leaden, though your mind is alive in a way that makes your body ache even more. Every muscle hums with exhaustion; every breath feels borrowed. 

He settles you into bed, tucking the thick blanket around your shoulders and then lays his palm against your forehead, “Your fever is returning.” He says, frowning.  

“I’m… sleepy,” you murmur, voice thick and fragile, “but… water…” 

Seokjin nods, taking your hand in his, he brushes his lips against your knuckles; you barely feel it. He whispers he’d be back before he rises and leaves the room for the moment. The air feels colder without him so close, the shadows stretching longer. 

You close your eyes, taking a breath that gets stuck somewhere in your throat. You wonder what’s taking Seokjin so long and try to hold onto the thought. Instead, it slips from your grasp, dissolving into nothing, and a heaviness presses down from your chest. The sensation is at once terrifying and peaceful, like floating into a void that waits to swallow you whole. 

Images drift through your mind, fragments of a life you will never finish. Your parents’ faces, your childhood home, warm smiles you’ll never see again. Friends you never had the chance to say goodbye to. Laughter, arguments, memories lost in the blur of what could have been. You try to speak, to call a name, to beg a moment longer---but the words crumble in your throat.  

You hope that your parents would be able to move forward with the loss of you, it’s a selfish thing to ask, it’s been nearly two months since your disappearance. With any hope they would’ve buried you already.  

Seokjin… 

You think you would’ve liked to stay. However long you would’ve been allowed. You were happy here. The past weeks had been the most peaceful you’ve had in your days, and you were glad that he was here with you despite your start. Maybe something could’ve grown from it. The thought almost makes you laugh, really, you’re practically a kid to him. He’s seen thousands of sunsets and would see thousands more when you’re gone.  

You had nothing to lose, and perhaps you should’ve said that you would’ve at least liked to see fifty of those sunsets, too. A tear from your eye and into your ear but you can’t lift you’re hand to wipe at it, you barely feel it anyway. You’re glad he at least has Dusk.  

Your body relaxes In ways it hasn’t in months, muscles melting, limbs folding into the mattress as though the bed itself wants to carry you away. You feel the heat of your own life dimming, the steady pulse in your veins slowing, fading… 

And yet there is a strange, almost tender awareness: you leave softly, almost like a sigh into the ether. Your last conscious thought is a fleeting hope that Seokjin would not be consumed by his grief and anger. It’s a foolish hope. He’d lost so much already, but you hold tight to it.  

Then… nothing. 

Seokjin returns to your room, the small glass of water clutched in his hand, expecting to see you propped against the pillows, eyes fluttering open to meet him. The door swings wide, and his chest tightens immediately.  

You lie there, but the rise and fall of your chest is gone. The warmth, the fragile pulse that always reassures him---you are still, utterly still. 

The cup slips from his fingers, splashing uselessly onto the floor. Panic roars through him, a fire he cannot quench. He crawls into the bed, lifting you into his arms with trembling hands, cradling you as though sheer force could pull the life back. Your head rests against his shoulder, hair damp and clinging, your body weightless yet unbearably heavy. 

“No… no, please…” His voice breaks, ragged and raw. He presses his lips to your forehead, to the faint warmth that lingers, though it is fading, and he cannot hold onto it. His tears drip freely onto your hair, mixing with the damp strands that curl against his palm. 

“Please,” he chokes, voice cracking further, “please… return to me. I am here… I am right here… I will protect you---please, just stay…” 

He lifts his gaze to the ceiling, to the silent heavens above, the divinities he has known for centuries, and he shouts, voice echoing against the walls: “Send her back! I beg you! Do not take her from me! She is not yours!” 

Silence answers. 

He lowers his head again, pressing his cheek against yours, feeling the last traces of warmth fade beneath his fingers. His body shakes uncontrollably, hands clutching you as if letting go would mean losing you forever. The storm outside hammers against the windows, but it is nothing compared to the tempest in his chest. 

“She cannot---she cannot leave me,” he whispers, almost to himself, choking on the grief that swells like an ocean in his chest. “Not like this… not now… please, just a moment more…” 

Every heartbeat he thought he could count, every breath he imagined he could share with you, is gone. Your pulse has stilled, your presence slipping into nothing, and he feels the full weight of it---your absence crushing and absolute. 

Seokjin rocks you gently, his tears falling freely onto your hair and shoulders, his sobs ragged. “I beg you… whoever watches over the world, whoever rules the ether… return her to me. Please, hear me! She is here---she is all I have! Do not take her!” 

His hands tremble as he presses them against your chest, willing warmth to return, willing life to cling to you. But there is nothing. Only silence. Only emptiness. Only the echo of what was, and the hollow ache that now fills the room entirely. 

He buries his face In your hair, crying until he cannot breathe, until the storm outside becomes nothing compared to the tempest within him. He cannot save you. He cannot fix this. He is left with only the unbearable knowledge that you are gone, that the last warmth he felt in your body is now lost, and that the world will never again feel whole while he holds the memory of you in his arms. 

“She is all I have! Do not take her from me! I will give anything, please!” Seokjin’s voice cracks, raw with grief, reverberating against the walls. His hands clutch your shoulders, your arms, desperate to anchor you, to pull you back into the world. 

For a heartbeat, you are there---warm, heavy in his arms, a stubborn weight that grounds him. And then the warmth fades first, a subtle cold creeping into his fingers. Your body begins to blur, edges softening as if the light itself is being drawn from you. He feels it before he sees it---your presence, the stubborn pulse, the life he’s clung to, slipping away like smoke through his hands. 

“No… no, stay! Please!” he sobs, as the weight of you leaves his arms, clinging to the echo of your warmth. 

And just like that, you are gone. His arms close around empty air. The bed beneath him is still, the warmth vanished, and the echo of your being drifts into the silence. Only the faint scent of rain and your hair remains, teasing him with a memory, a cruel shadow of what was. 

Seokjin rocks forward slightly, clutching at the sheets, tears streaking down his face, every sob a mirror of the void inside him. The storm outside continues its rhythm. 

He stays like that, holding nothing but the air where you should have been, even as his cries dissolve into silence, leaving only the emptiness of a room---and a heart---that cannot be repaired. 

Silence presses in on him, suffocating and complete. The storm outside rages, a mirror of his own grief. 

The walls shudder; the floor beneath him groans and bends, unseen forces twisting and breaking the very air. Lightning strikes, thunder shattering, the cabin itself convulsing like a dying thing. Seokjin’s vision swims, and yet he does not acknowledge the world unraveling around him. He is drowning in loss, grief so raw it eclipses everything else. He thinks, if this is how I die, I would gladly go… if only I could see my brothers, see her again… 

Stars outside his windows warp, constellations bending in impossible angles. The great tree beyond the cabin shudders violently, its roots thrumming against the soil like a heartbeat in reverse. Seokjin’s divine senses flare, and he sees the fractures in Spring’s domain spreading like cracks in glass, each one a ripple of loss, of imbalance. 

The air shudders, a low moan rolling from the foundations as if the world itself is mourning. Every scent, every sound, every particle of light feels wrong, discordant, hollowed by your absence. 

And Seokjin---God of the Harvest who had held the seasons, who had endured the deaths of his brothers, who had watched you slip into the ether---feels utterly, and terrifyingly powerless. 

The unraveling spreads beyond his house, brushing the edges of Spring’s domain and probably the others as well. Crystalline filaments of light pulse unevenly, roots writhe unnaturally, and a subtle decay creeps into the vibrant green, eating at the life he has known for centuries. The balance he has clutched with unyielding hands is gone, and he is left with the stark truth: he is alone, and the world itself begins to falter because of it. 

Hours---or was it minutes?---pass in the haze of sorrow. When the trembling and chaos finally recede, he finds himself still in the cabin. The structure is scarred, walls cracked, windows splintered, but he is untouched. Unharmed. The enormity of that fact is a fresh stab: why him? Why must he remain to endure this pain every time? His hands shake as he presses them to his face, tears streaking his cheeks, rage and despair warring in his chest. 

Evidently, heartbreak cannot kill him, but, he thinks, this time it might just. 

His chest heaves from a tension that feels like it might shatter him entirely. His breath comes in ragged, uneven gasps, the ache of having lost you pressing on him from every angle. 

A faint light stirs In the corner of the room. Impossible, and yet it grows until the doe stands before him once more. Snow-white, impossible, eyes faint galaxies in the dim, shattered light. Its presence is calm, commanding, and it speaks, a whisper layered into his mind: 

“Why do you weep, Warden?” 

Seokjin does not raise his head. He grits his teeth, voice rough and low. “What do you want? Haven’t you taken enough?” 

The doe tilts its head, as if amused. “We have not taken.” 

Rage and grief bubble up, uncontained. Seokjin does not hesitate. With a gesture, he casts a strike of magic toward the creature. The bolt passes through the doe effortlessly, striking the wall behind it. The wood cracks, rotting almost instantly where it touches, a mark of devastation that passes harmlessly through the messenger. The doe does not flinch. 

“Your counter is with you.” 

And just as silently as it appeared, turns and vanishes into specks of light. 

For a long while he stays there, until Dusk comes to him, nuzzling at his thigh and pushing her head under his palm. He’d forgotten his companion in his grief, and smiles sadly as he scratches behind her ear.  

She nips at his hand and then tugs at his sleeve with her teeth, ears pinned back.  

“What…” he sighs at her insistent tugging and gets to his feet. She sprints out the door and Seokjin follows.  

He stumbles outside, eyes unfocused, only to find frost covering the grass in his lands. Winter creeping where it should not be. The trees of his forest has changed; skeletal and frost bitten, they bow under the weight of blanketed snow. Some of them still turns amber and bronze. He wonders if the barrier of winter had shattered. That should warrant uncontrollable concern, but Seokjin feels nothing.  

Then his gaze drifts toward Spring, that seems a little brighter and vibrant in a way it hasn’t been in decades. The decay he had known---the sickness in the trees, the imbalance---has vanished. Every leaf glows faintly, every root hums with life, and he is utterly, utterly confused. 

Dusk rolls around in the dewy grass, running in circles before darting off into Spring. The air feels different. Though grief squeezes his heart, he follows the vixen. She doesn’t wait for him. She goes rolling around in the bushes, an excited, happy screech leaving her and he watches with some confusion.  

What is there to be so happy about?! Her glee almost makes him sick.  

He checks the trees and the undergrowth, they’re all fine. Its like the disruption of the balance in his brothers’ absence never occurred. Spring is humming with life, and wholly life.  

There’s a ripple in the air, and there’s something familiar in it. 

He stands straight, following Dusk as she runs around and disappears into the glade. A figure stands there, and for a moment, Seokjin almost doesn’t believe it. It wouldn’t be the first time his mind had conjured ghosts for the sake of his grief.  

Sunlight glistens off your hair, setting you aglow with a radiance that feels almost too much for his divine sight. No longer do you wear the ill-fitted tunics and trousers that hung loose on your frail body. Instead, a gown drapes over you in silken folds, dyed in deep forest green and embroidered with threads of gold that catch the light when you shift. A sash of golden-yellow silk ties at your waist, the ends fluttering in the breeze like captured sunlight. Wide sleeves ripple as you lift your hands, staring at your own skin as though it is a miracle, as though you cannot quite believe your body is your own. 

You turn at the sound of Dusk’s delighted chitter, her fur brushing your skirts as she bounds around you. And then your gaze lifts---across the glade, across the divide---and collides with Seokjin’s. 

He freezes. His heart stops. His hands tremble violently at his sides, as though his body can no longer contain the rush of grief, relief, and disbelief crashing through him all at once. For a moment he truly thinks this is another cruel conjuring, another phantom his mind has built to gnaw at him in his loneliness. But then your lips part on a startled breath, and your eyes widen, shimmering with the same impossible glow he sees haloing your form. 

Something cracks inside him. A sob claws its way up his throat before he can stop it. His knees weaken, but he lurches forward anyway, step by unsteady step, gaze locked on you as though even blinking might banish you. Had someone listened? Had some higher power taken pity, heard the broken prayers he had choked into the linens? Had they given you back to him? 

His chest burns, his throat tightens, his whole body shakes with the sheer force of it---this impossible, miraculous sight of you alive. 

He stumbles into the glade, his eyes refusing to leave yours, drinking in every impossible detail of you. 

You breathe his name---soft, trembling, stunned---and his lungs nearly collapse with the sound. It cuts through him like sunlight breaking storm clouds, fragile and brilliant. He sways, as if the ground beneath him can’t be trusted. 

“…you’re glowing,” you whisper, voice edged with wonder, as though he is the miracle here. 

A strangled laugh escapes him, wet with tears. “So are you, silly girl.” The words crack, but they carry more tenderness than anything he has ever spoken. 

For a beat, he simply stands there, shaking, afraid that if he reaches out you’ll scatter into light the way his brothers had. But you are solid, your eyes wet and shimmering, your chest rising and falling with breath. And suddenly it is too much too much to hold in.  

He closes the distance in a rush, hands rising as though pulled by something stronger than will. His palms cradle your face, warm and trembling, thumbs brushing the corners of your mouth as though to prove you’re real, and then his lips find yours. 

The kiss Is not fleeting. It is desperate, reverent, aching---a confession without words, a prayer answered and spoken back into your skin. All the grief he cannot say, the hours he spent begging, the hollow he thought would consume him---all of it pours out of him and into you.  

And though it takes you by surprise, you do not pull away, you return it, fingers dipping into his hair. His tears smear between you, his breath shudders as he holds you closer, tighter, as if the universe itself might try again to rip you away. The kiss deepens, messy and raw, full of every word he cannot bring himself to say aloud. 

When he finally draws back, his forehead rests against yours, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to steady himself. His chest heaves with the force of everything he feels. His voice is a rasp, almost broken: 

“I thought I lost you.” 

“You did…” you say, brows furrowed, “I died. I felt myself die and then I was just…standing here.”  

Seokjin brushes his thumb over the curve of your cheek, lifting his head to kiss your forehead. You pull away a little to look up at him, frowning, “You were crying.”  

“Yes, well…that is to be expected.” He says softly, smiling.  

Your lips part to reply, but before you can, there’s a shift in the glade. 

The air bends. A hush spreads like frost through the grass. The light thickens, silver and unreal. The doe emerges, stepping between veils of shadow and glow, its hooves leaving no mark on the earth. It regards the two of you with eyes too ancient to belong to such a delicate form. 

Seokjin pulls you slightly behind him, but the doe simply stares, until it speaks: 

“One alone cannot bear the weight of turning. One alone cannot carry the circle without fracture. Thus the wheel split, thus it turned uneven. Thus decay threatened root and crown alike.” 

You shiver, clutching at Seokjin’s sleeve, the words carving their way into you without sense. But he understands. He hears the meaning beneath the riddle. 

“Then it was never meant to be mine alone.” he says quietly to himself, not a question. 

The doe lowers its head, fur glinting as though dipped in starlight. 

“Four as two, two as one. Balance is the seam of the world. What was mortal dies; what is bound remains. The seasons bow not to blood but to balance. And now, no tongue nor memory sustains you. You are as stone and root, as sun and tide---eternal without witness, unbroken without prayer.” 

It lifts Its head again, unblinking. “Autumn and Winter find their keeper. Spring and Summer no longer drift unclaimed. The circle is whole.” 

And just as suddenly as it appeared, the light folds back in on itself. The doe dissolves into mist and silence, leaving only the whisper of its presence behind. The glade exhales. 

Seokjin stays still for a long moment, his gaze locked on the place where it had stood. He breathes once, twice, before lowering his eyes back to you. You are staring at him, bewildered and afraid. 

“Jin…” your voice trembles. “What does it mean?” 

He exhales, slow and heavy, and lifts a hand to your cheek, as though trying anchoring you with the gentleness of his touch. His eyes shine, though this time not only with grief. 

“It means,” he says, steady but soft, “you are no longer mortal. You died---your mortal self did---but you were remade. To stand beside me.” He swallows, thumb brushing over your skin like a vow. “You are what I am now. A goddess. The keeper of spring and summer. My equal.” 

His voice drops, reverent, almost awed. “And unlike before…we do not fade when forgotten. No mortal remembrance holds us. We are balance itself. Eternal.” 

“Oh…” you whisper, and Seokjin can tell you need more than a moment to absorb it. You’re probably trying to work out a lot more than just that, having just died and been reborn.  

You gaze around at Spring, “So…this is mine now?”  

“Yes.” Seokjin takes a step back, giving you room to breath even though all he wants to do is hold onto you.  

“Is this how you see?” you ask suddenly, looking at your hands before raising your eyes again. A soft wind blows through the glade, carrying the scent of honeysuckle and fruit trees given new life. 

“What do you see?” Unable to help himself, Seokjin takes a step closer, taking your hands in his. They’re warm, blessedly so, he prefers it to the chill of death that gripped them before.  

He studies you, the way your eyes widen and unfocus, as though you’re peering at something no one else could possibly see. Your lips part, but it takes you a long moment to find your voice. 

“It’s…” Your breath catches, your hand lifting toward the trees. “They’re alive. All of them. The trees, the stones, the roots under the earth. I can feel them, hear their voices.” You break off, shaking your head as if the words refuse to fit. “It’s everything all at once. Too much…” 

He understands, it was overwhelming for him too, when he was left to oversee his brothers’ domains. He can’t imagine what it’s like for you.  

“It will take time to get used to.” He says, caressing your knuckles with his thumb. His eyes filter across you, the mark you’d been branded with upon your arrival was gone.  

You turn your palm over and grasp his hand, something sad filters through your gaze. Seokjin looks at your palm, the scar had remained, and echo of the mortality you left behind. 

“I’ve already made my peace with it, but…my parents.” 

“Do you wish to see them?” He asks softly, tilting his head to catch your gaze. Your eyes sparkle like sunlight on water.  

“Is that possible?”  

“There is a way, yes.” Seokjin looks over your head, squinting into the distance, “Although I’m not entirely certain Winter can be accessed that way.”  

He hums to himself and then turns back to you, “There is another way to it.”  

He leads you back to his domain, and into his house and he frowns at the state of it. “They could’ve been neater about that shift. Look at this mess.”  

It would be something to fuss about later, he waves a hand, leading you across the foyer and up the stairs.  

It feels strange bringing you this way willingly when he’d so adamantly attested against it. And he’s rather embarrassed now about thee way he’d reacted back then, but you don’t seem too bothered. You simply smile at him and squeezes his hand.  

He leads you down the hall towards the doors and stops before them. The doors that belonged to his brothers’, over time had lost their magic, it fills his eyes with tears now to see them alive again. Yoongi’s door was no longer frosted over, instead, it shimmers in the light, as though a million snowflakes had made home there. The vines that grew along Namjoon’s door breathed again, vibrant and green and flowering. Hoseok’s door was no longer dark; golden veins stretched along it’s length. Just as before.  

He feels your palm on his back and he realises he was just standing there, staring. He turns the knob of Winter’s door, and it opens to a stone room. A glass window sends pale light dancing along the walls, and glints off the erecter podium at its center. Atop it sits a stone basin, glowing runes etched along it’s side. 

The room is much cooler than he expected, considering how many years it’s spent frozen through.  

“This belonged to Yoongi.” He says, letting you go in first, you gaze around in wonder even though there was not much to the room. “He would use it too look into the mortal world, but its power faded with him. It seems it’s working now, as I’d hoped.” He closes the door behind him, as you shuffle over to a painting hung on the far wall.  

Seokjin smiles faintly. Its something Yoongi had painted himself; a portrait of them all. The paint had dulled over the years, muted, but show no real wear. It had been missing for a long time, neither of them knew what Yoongi had done with it. It’s been here the entire time.  

For so long, he had raged against the stillness left in their absence, clawing at the empty corners of the seasons as though grief might coax them back. If the higher divinities had the power to weave life from nothing, to shape balance from chaos, why had they left him alone? Why had they not returned what was taken? 

The ache of losing them had once been unbearable, an open fracture that seemed to split him with every step he took. He had carried it like a weight chained to his chest, a constant reminder of all that had been stripped away.  

But as he looked at you now --- at the power curled beneath your skin, at the light bending instinctively to your breath --- he felt the shape of the answer. This was not replacement; it was continuation. What had ended with his brothers had also cleared a space, an aching hollow where something new might take root. You were not a second chance for them. You were the balance born of their absence, as inevitable and necessary as the turning of seasons. 

It did not erase his mourning, but it softened the edges. The higher powers had not denied him; they had shifted the pattern. And though a part of him would always ache for what had been lost, he would not trade this--- you --- for even the faintest echo of it. 

However, his brothers were not gone from him entirely. They will live within the marrow of his being, their essence braided into his own. He will find Namjoon in the patience that steadied his temper, Hoseok in the warmth that sometimes surprised even him, Yoongi in the hush of silence that asked to be respected. 

He no longer sought to reclaim them, nor raged against the fate that had taken them from him. Instead, he had come to understand that he bore them forward with him, not as absence, but as presence of another kind. In his quietest hours, he found comfort in the thought that the divine was not measured in permanence, but in what endures long after form has faded. And in that truth, he had finally made his peace. 

He looks at you and he sees them there, in the power that was bent and shaped now to fit you. The threads of their dominions shimmered faintly around you, not as they once were, but reborn through your hands; softened and transformed. Spring’s patient renewal and Summer’s unyielding warmth --- they lingered in you, refracted through the prism of your being. What was lost had not vanished entirely; it had taken root in different soil. 

You did not wear their mantle as an echo. You carried it as something wholly your own, a living testament that the divine did not end but changed, as all things must. Seokjin’s chest tightened with the strange, steady ache of recognition. In you, he did not see shadows of his brothers, but the proof that their essence remained part of the world, refusing extinction.  

And as he watched you, he understood: this was how balance survived. Not through the permanence of gods, but through the weaving of what was, into what would be. 

He steps behind you, pointing, “This is Yoongi, Namjoon and Hoseok.” He chuckles, fondly. “He had us sit for hours and then simply magiked himself into it in the end. Hobi complained for days.”  

He catches your gaze, and he squeezes your arm gently, “I’ve made my peace, mouse.” 

He leads you over to the basin with a hand at the small of your back. The water ripples without wind, a rainbow of light across your cheek. “All you must do is look into it. It will do the rest.”  

You lean over the basin to peer into it, and Seokjin watches as the water shimmers and swirls. He only hopes it would show you enough to put your mind at ease. Forms take shape, there’s a hitch in your breath when they materialise in the water.  

They sit together at a table, an album between them. You look like them both, Seokjin thinks, as your mother, clutching a tissue, points at something in the album and laughs. There’s sadness in it, but acceptance. Your father grips her hand tightly in his. 

You stare for a long moment, fingers tracing the edges of their forms, quiet. Seokjin allows you this, only letting himself be a witness.  

After a moment more, your voice breaks the silence. “They’re okay…” your voice is barely above a whisper, hands brushing the edge of the basin.  

“Yes, they’ve carried on, as mortals do.” Seokjin replies softly, “This room is always open to you, if you wish.”  

You straighten, wiping a hand under your eyes, Seokjin softens at the sight. “How long has it been?” 

“No more than you’ve been here, mouse.” You take the news rather well, with a deep breath and tears on your waterline. You lean against him and he holds your weight, pressing an apologetic kiss to your temple.  

When finally pulled yourself away he leads you of the room and back into the hallway. You pause to take a breath, gripping tightly to his sleeve.  

“Alright?” he asks softly, and you nod. 

“Yeah, I’m alright.”  

“Perhaps you should rest.” He ventures and at your groan he chuckles. You lean your forehead against his chest and he pats your head. “I’ll take that as a no, then.”  

“I’m tired of resting.” Your voice is a bit muffled.  

You walk with him back down stairs, and he’s glad to find that no part of you was lost in transition. You ask a million questions that he can barely keep up with. Reminiscent, he finds it rather amusing.  

“Mouse.” He says finally, “you ask far too many questions.”  

“And you haven’t answered one of them.” You fire back, and if Seokjin thought you were trouble in your mortality, you’re downright dangerous in your divinity.  

He takes a step forward and you take one back until he has you crowded against the wall. You look up at him and he clicks his tongue against his teeth. “I cannot give without taking, mouse. You know this, yes?”  

You try looking away but Seokjin doesn’t allow it, catching your jaw with his fingers. “Perhaps, if you offered something in turn, I’d be so inclined.”  

At your flustered expression he could only laugh. Leaning down, he kisses the corner of your mouth. Unexpectedly, but not unwelcomed, you chase and he kisses you properly.  

“I will answer all of your questions in time, mouse.” He runs his thumb along your bottom lip, then he pulls away, “But for now, I will teach you how to tend to your domain.” 

There will come a time when the world will falter, when rivers will dry and skies will darken, when the weight of despair presses heavy upon mortal hearts. Seasons may break, as they always have, and kingdoms will rise only to fall back into the soil from which they sprang. 

But the balance shall never be lost. For Change and Rebirth walk hand in hand. One to unmake, the other to restore. One to tear down the old, the other to breathe life anew. Together they will weave the endless cycle, ensuring that from every ending, there blooms a beginning. 

The people will tell of them In hushed voices, in songs by firelight and prayers carried by the wind. Of the god who could shatter the sky, and the one who could mend it with dawn. Of the masters who were not bound by the turning of the seasons, but who turned the seasons themselves. 

And long after temples crumble and the names of lesser gods are forgotten, theirs will endure. For so long as the world yearns to begin again, so long as mortals dream of what lies beyond the ruins, Change and Rebirth will remain. Eternal. Unyielding. Forever keeping the balance. 

Tags: @goldietigers294 @themwordsblog @sephiexlove @cutiedoki @royrites @haru-jiminn

Yes, they are somewhat of sister universes, but the crowd’s perception of you is also distinct from each other.

Possible Explanation 1: as a way for the World to involve you and for people to have a familiar image to ‘invoke’.

Possible Explanation 2: the Magic is different, Genshin’s Elemental while HSR’s more similar to Physics (See: Quantum).

Possible Explanation 3: the way you get to these two AUs started same but something about the warp (travelling) there adapted differently.

Possible Explanation 4: irl 3D to irl 2D goes crazy

Possible Explanation 5: technical abilities vary, better tech = better early access view of you (includes translating your words in communication)

A few special folks could bypass some limits of perceiving you clearly. They could be:

Genshin’s Descenders. Not impossible for aliens from mutual worlds to see each other better. The more places a descender had been, the bigger chance they can be better at seeing you.