[quantal_goldfish]

Flowery verses danced around the room, fallen in hushed whispers and intrigue. Words and wine exchanged over his head, borne by red flushed faces for the careless, and dainty nods by the prudent. Tonight's congregation was a gathering of poets, with each a cup of tea spilling praises - and he drunk in it, sinking in the reverence of his audience, tipped his head high as they fawned and waited for the dance to claim his foot.

They will have to wait long; Suho was in a mood. Just that morning, his instructor beat his legs and forbade him to eat because he tripped and messed up a part of the first routine. And then he'd been made to practice all the way until evening, with only a sweet bun at noon to tide him through. Exhaustion pulled against the tight line of his shoulders and eroded common sense, defiance starting to peek through his carefully welded mask of discipline. A mild headache hummed at the back of his head, stirring as the noise grated irritation against his ears. The seed of disdain flourished. His eyebrow twitched.

Years were long, and impressions only grew fonder as they stewed. Suho had grown used to the taste of riches behind his teeth and powder in his lungs, rouge on his tongue and ink in his gut - he'd realised a few beatings past that no matter how hard he frowned at his audience, he could not wash that taste from his mouth. The Emperor, with gold rotting in his stomach, threw many parties to while away time bought by the citizen's peace. And as the years passed, Suho learned about the parties. Suho learned that they were black holes eating the excessively indulgent of their money. Suho learned that those dumb enough to attend were shallow of mind and shallow of heart, most of them, at least, like these poets who sang praises of their Emperor because he spilled copper coins on their doorsteps.

(Oh, he knew. Because the poet Shin back in his village was killed when he wrote about pain under the emperor's hand, and the poet Yang in the next town over had his hands cut off for threatening to write one himself.)

In the King's court, he was a pretty face and the prize gem of the horde; but here, in the centre stage, he was King and they were . "Why isn't it starting yet?" One asked, eyelids heavy with intoxication. Suho bade his time, shifting on bruised feet, twiddling his thumbs. It hadn't started yet, because he had yet to level his gaze with the confused zither lady, who couldn't play until he was ready - and he would refuse to level it for as long as the Emperor could stew in his anger, for as long as the string refused to break.

A man came into the room. The Emperor must have summoned him; just nary moments ago, at the periphery of his sight, Suho saw His Majesty whisper something to an attendant, before the latter rushed out of the room in a hurry. Curious, Suho lifted his head, and met the stare of the newcomer. "General Do," the Emperor had said. This man was not of imposing build. Even under his armour, the frame of his physique was slight, and he was possessed of a pair of big, watery eyes, a button nose, and thick lips that pouted funnily. It was a youthful face; he could be no older than 20. But in the undertone of that juveniscence Suho could pick out a grounded steadfastness, like a strong river pushing the banks of hilltop soil. The dancer raised his brows a little, and turned his gaze once again to the floor, appeased.

What a shame it would be if this man were to be as frivolous as the others.

Though he should relent, Suho thought. After all, the Emperor did, in his haplessness, send a man out to bring this innocent General here, so that the wait could be passed as a wait not imposed by Suho's but on part of the absence of someone here. Any longer would be rude, excessively so, perhaps a charge of deliberate insubordination. General Do wasn't a criminal here, at least not to his knowledge; that man should not be kept waiting, thus. In addition - it wasn't as though his time came without a price. All the time he ate into the poets and the Emperor's leisure, he would return tenfold, fifteen fold if he waited any longer.

So he looked to the lady with the zither, and took flight as the room fell to silence.

-

The crack of his back against the dungeon floor rung so loud in the still night that he thought the moon would fall from the sky.

His breathe escaped in harsh jabs into the cold air, the Emperor's likeness towering over him. During the showcase of three routines, he had fallen once, when the headache got too much and hunger ate at his senses. His legs, usually hidden from view, were now a patchwork quilt of bruises, blossoming like ink on wet bamboo paper. There were red prints on his cheeks, where His Majesty had grabbed him, and a puncture above his brow, where a stone on the ground had broken his skin.

The Emperor crouched. Suho immediately flinched away, but He was faster, locking his jaw in the grip of His big hand again. Soft as always, the dancer noted, a hand that did not know manual labour.

"You have the gall to defy me," the Emperor seethed. "Thrice, in one moon phase." Suho hissed; he was rewarded with a tight slap. "Do you understand how much you upset our guests? Do you understand what humiliation you put me through? Know your place. How dare you make us wait, then produce work of such sloppy quality. The court does not require of mediocrity. You, of all people, should be closely intimate with that." He shoved the boy against the ground and released his hold then, but Suho stared up at him, eyes glittering in anger.

"Then dispose of me," Suho said, and spat in the Emperor's face.

That simple act wrung an immense reaction. At once, the Emperor yelled in outrage and jumped back, in tandem with the boy as he scooted back against the wall. There was a flurry of movement as He stormed about the room, wiping his face furiously with his sleeve. If he weren't cowering in fear, Suho would have laughed. Looking around the room, the Emperor stooped low, picking up a thick stick that had fallen onto the floor. And then, as He advanced towards the dancer, panting like a Rhinoceros, Suho held his arms up above his head, praying fervently to whichever deity still bothered to listen to him.

Just then, a knock clanged loudly on the metal door. "Your Majesty," a deep voice rumbled through.

The Emperor paused. "Speak."

"The physician would like an audience with you, sir. Regarding... regarding the Sejabin's health. It is of utmost concern to you. He asks that you see him immediately, sir."

The Emperor sighed, and threw the stick down harshly. The Sejabin was pregnant with child, but had been sickly lately. Just very recently, she'd slipped into coma, her pulse no more than a faint throb under her skin. The baby was not even kicking anymore; it used to be so energetic, and she took great delight in letting every one of the concubines, the young ones especially, touch her tummy. He threw one sideways glance towards the cowering Suho, before letting out a displeasured grunt and making for the door.

"Take tea to the Sejabin's chambers," He ordered as the door slammed shut behind him. "I will see him now." And then, He turned to face the dungeon cell, almost like contemplating an after-thought. "Call General Do. And make sure, the next time I see this boy, that every shrapnel of fight left in his body has been thoroughly beaten out."