#yul.

@grimoircs / yul + rae, lozatla

“sir!” someone yells at him (and yul would be lying if he said he hates the sound of it). 

he turns and the wreckage pangs something in his chest. this is necessary, he reminds himself. for the good of dal ra-- of hyrule. the crackle of fire on wood all around them and the groans of the injured filter through his ears, but he presses on. steps over the body of an old friend, pulling an arrow that once burned bright out of his chest all while refusing to look down. he’s sending a message, he reminds himself once more. that he’s coming. 

“sir!” the voice comes again, more frantic this time, “we found something you need to see.”

he drops the arrow and buttons his vest, uselessly brushing off dirt from the blood splattered, torn fabric. a small flame glows from his fingers as he lights his way through the dark night, following the chatter of voices towards the edge of what once was the small village. when the flame lights up an all too familiar noble caravan, now surrounded by his people with hands at the ready, the rest of the night happens in a blur. at least for yul, who drowns out all the sounds around him, gaze laser focused on a figure so slender with eyes so bright he thinks he might still be asleep. but he isn’t. his feet feel frozen on the ground, stuck in the half-burnt grass and heated dirt while the others work around him. 

he barely hears the yelling, barely remembers leaving with a prisoner in the back of their vehicle, barely knows how they got back to lurelin village a few hours later. 

all he knows now is he’s standing in front of an isolated wooden cabin guarded by two of his own, and dal rae is sitting inside, a door the only barrier between them. he gestures to the plate of food in his hand, and the guards let him in. when their eyes meet, he doesn’t let them waver, freezes in place. he waits for the door to shut behind him before he moves, quick, setting the food down on a small table and sighing out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. he fumbles for the knife in his pocket, desperately reaching for her hands soon after

“what the hell are you doing here?” he asks, or scolds really, in as quiet of an angry whisper he can muster as he works at the rope binding her hands. 

@pasonyul​, midsummer festival, late

the name marisol, when written with the hanja her mother intended for her, speaks to a clarity found in the stillness of a pine forest. laying now on her back against a wide, flat rock, with the rush of water from a winding stream beside her and the pines swaying in a gentle breeze overhead, this makes some sense. it also makes her wonder if her mother had intentions to condemn her to solitude. 

she’s lonely, right now. 

it gapes and aches in her chest. a hundred unfulfilled dreams and the passage of time press down on her sternum like the hand of god, cracking her ribs and splitting her open. fingers curl listless around the bottle of wine she’s taken from the festivities, spirited (pun intended) off the table with a quick sweep of movement because, she’ll be the first to admit, her youth had been marred with various shoplifting incidents. but she is a greedy creature, one that wants and wants, one that needs and needs, and will not be denied. 

when son yul makes his approach she sets aside her skepticism at his ever-present camera in favor of a swig of the wine. eyes narrow on his figure and she uses one elbow to prop herself upright, examining him in the dim light. he’s backlit by the distant festivities, the moon throwing shadows over the planes of his features, and while she would like to say she finds him as annoying as his vlog is, she doesn’t. 

the wine is going to her head, maybe.