---

 

 

Death’s only child was a boy. Unfortunately, being a child of Death meant being related to Death’s brother, Eros. And even then, with the god of Love as his uncle, Jongup knew nothing about love. He wasn’t sure why this should bother him but it did and had been for quite some time.

 

the doom and gloom of happy days – the blind faith, bounded youth and the world, a war-field in disguise, flood these long spoiled lungs…

 

If Jongup was to offer facts about himself in social situations ‘I breathe death like air’ would not be anywhere on his check list. He didn’t want to define himself by who his father was, but it was close to impossible when omens spiralled through his veins as if they were blood, when knuckles on tombstones mistook themselves for his heartbeats.

As much as he respected his father, the task of cleaning up expired souls was a task he did not wish to pursue. So Moon Jongup would likely describe himself as an aspiring poet.

Jongup always reckoned he had a way with words. His classmate, Youngjae, thought otherwise. Himchan, his senior, had taken to side-eyeing Jongup and his pen. Yongguk, on the other hand, found his passion admirable, while Daehyun just didn’t seem to get poetry. Junhong simply thought it was a waste of pad papers.

It did not surprise Moon Jongup when the time came that he should fall in love. It was expected.

No. He had not been waiting for it to happen or anything; between Youngjae having a banshee for a girlfriend and Junhong courting this vampire girl from the ice-cream parlour, Moon Jongup had more than proofs that such tragedy would soon befall upon him (because since when had he been on good terms with Luck?).

And when it happened Jongup pretty much felt all the bones in his body snap under the weight of the revelation. The incredulous thing was not that he was in love but who he was in love with.

 

 

﹅

 

 

Right. He did not even get how uncle Eros and father could be related. Like, what, how was that possible? Uncle was full of mischiefs and mayhems and just, well, overflowing with life. Father on the other hand was forever the embodiment of a peaceful sleep. Like, literally.

So. You know how mortals fall in love ALL the time? Well, Jongup didn’t want to fall from grace like that. This trouble of his wasn’t something that he could easily sweep under his father’s living room rug, okay. And although he was never one to use family status as a shortcut through life, Jongup was STILL the son of Death and–and, COME ON! his uncle being the bloody Cupid HAD to count for something!

 

 

﹅

 

 

It was the school lunch break, and Jongup’s been out of it these past few weeks. It was absolutely certainly resolutely because of climate change. He had read all about it. This mind-blues was definitely an unexplained symptom of the coming apocalypse. The earth was dying wasn’t it? The ENTIRE earth; it had to affect Death’s son somehow.

He wondered if he should text his dad, see how much it was affecting his old man.

“Oh gods, you’re embarrassing us all,” Youngjae groaned, flinging his pencil case across the lunch table hitting Jongup right on the head.

“What?” he said, eyes never leaving the other side of the room.

His steady gaze followed a figure shuffling down the food queue with the rest of the student body. He chewed slowly, picking up his water to wash his lunch down. He didn’t even know what exactly he was eating. Not that it mattered, really.

Okay, so maybe it mattered a little, but as long as it was food–

“You’re such a creep,” Youngjae continued to abuse him with unfound accusation.

The subject of his attention bent sideways, scanning the length of the food queue. Jongup squinted and swore he saw exasperation there.

With that, he snatched Daehyun’s neatly wrapped chicken wrap from the table (“Hey! Hand that back!” shouted Daehyun), bounced onto his feet, and made a beeline to the exit.

The subject, abandoning the queue, strode from the cafeteria within a flash. Jongup followed, movement swift and silent as though he was father himself.

 

 

﹅

 

 

It was sad but funny because Jongup liked people for their patience, yet the girl he fell in love with held nothing of such.

No matter.

Jongup had enough patience for the both of them.

And because he just made that hopeless excuse, it dawned to him that this falling in love crap was not to be taken lightly.

Uncle might just be deathlier a man than father himself.

 

 

﹅

 

 

Death heard his son had taken interest in poetry. It amused him greatly. The last child of the Underworld who did anything remotely curious was a child of Night. A rumour floated about from the deepest level of Hell that Night’s half-mortal child took liking to the art of healing! Of course this was scandalous considering her very place of origin believed in nothing as such.

Wishing his son would visit soon, Death resumed rearranging the bottled souls aligning the seventeenth century shelf. The journey to the Underworld was a long one so they didn’t get to meet often. And after that dispute between Night and that healer-daughter of hers, their Lord had banned any underworld child from entering Hell via shadow-teleporting. And even then, only in between school years as to not interfere with their studies.

Hm.

Was Jongup’s poetry any good? How would that boy even make a living as a poet? Death wasn’t sure what to think. This was the twenty-first century and practically no-living-body he knew mentioned–

Oh.

Hang on.

Wasn’t that healer-child of Night named after some great poet? Or was it a philosopher?

Something that began with an R…

 

 

﹅

 

 

“Rumi.”

A pallor girl with straight black hair and blacker eyes turned her head a little to the side at the call of her name. She, however, did not bother answering as she tended the herbs grown in the school greenhouse.

“Death Boy,” she said in greeting, sprinkling water onto a strange shaping plant.

Jongup sighed. He’d always been Death Boy to her, but he knew this could change, because even Rumi had not always been Rumi to him. She used to be all sorts of things but never just-Rumi, not until this year.

“Take your moping outside, you’re killing my plants,” she said simply.

His heart sank, seeing the plants within his parameter shudder their leaves and flowers in fear. Grudgingly, he turned to go.

“Jongup.”

He wheeled back to her, fighting to keep the hope from showing. She had turned to face him now, arms clasped behind her back, posture straight, her expression ethereally blank.

“Yeah.”

“What makes you happy?”

“Er- what?” he asked, surprised at the sudden question.

“What makes you happy,” she repeated.

A pause as he continued to stare at her. Her eyes glinted genuine curiosity, but there was an emotion hidden so well within her that he couldn’t figure out what it was exactly. He could sense it deep-rooted to her being. Longing? Hope? Amusement? None of the words fitted.

“Words,” he answered her. “Words make me happy.”

She nodded slowly.

“Why?”

“Words resonate the soul.”

“How?”

“The sound of them. The taste of them. There are things herbs and medicine cannot fix,” he said, tearing his gaze away from hers to glaze over the row of plants on the long table right beside him. “There are things that” - he touched a pitiful-looking leaf where its stem had snapped - “only words can heal.”

A take of breath slipped from her. Jongup held back a smile as both of them watched the plant under his finger tissued itself back to health, glowing and much greener.

“How?” she asked, taking measured steps towards him.

He met her halfway, handing Rumi the lunch he’d stolen for her.

“Poetry.”

He smiled.

 

 

﹅

 

 

“Walk with me,” she said, taking his hand one hot syrupy afternoon.

“Okay.”

 

 

﹅

 

 

One morning of a certain Friday the thirteenth, Jongup found the lockers pressed his back and Rumi flushed against his front, slim hand on his chest, another the back of his head, his arms around her shoulders, the small of her back – slipping, slipping – their eyes fluttering shut and hungry mouths tasting.

For the rest of the month, they spent their lunch breaks in detention.

Jongup’s grin was sly, composing poetry with the ink of Rumi’s eyes. He might just have understood why Love and Death were counterparts.

 

 

﹅

 

 

The things words were not able to fix, they fixed themselves.

Her body alone was poetry; her secrets, her lips, her beating heart made up the meaning that delved beyond jargons of any spoken language.

 

 

﹅

 

 

there are nobody to save us. we are already ghosts here, bearing the weight of memories, regrets, lost hopes and dreams. all the heroes have killed themselves, are killing themselves or have already been killed

 

In the darkest corner of the room where nobody would bother catching them, Jongup sat next to Rumi listening to the tales told in their elective course. At the beginning of the school year, he was worried he had some vanity issue for deciding to take up Myths and Legends at all. And if he did, then at least he wasn’t the only one.

Rumi had rolled her eyes at tales concerning her mother and half-siblings, and Jongup might have done the same over his mythical side of the family. Even then, they noticed the dark had scarcely any history. No wonder they were feared by mortals. The living always had an irrational fear of the unknown.

The only reason they had taken up the course was in fact an attempt to raise their GPA. According to Rumi anyway.

He wasn’t sure if it was true, but her whimsy excuse saved Jongup the time to worry about his vanity issues.

A soft hand clasped his cheek, and he turned to stare at the girl beside him.

“We can do better,” Jongup whispered, placing his hand over hers, then turning to kiss her fingertips. It was ridiculous after all, he saw, in this ugly world, nothing to do with myths or darkness, or death, or tragedy.

They would burst, he thought. Something was stirring from deep inside them.

They got to the part where Orpheus made their Lord weep. Rumi raised her eyebrows. Jongup grinned at her. Obviously, neither of them thought the Lord of the Underworld would be enthralled with this part of the story.

“Orpheus was the child of the Sun and a muse,” he said.

Rumi nodded, their clasped hands falling onto his knee. “Which means you, Death Boy, should come up with cleverer plan in case one of us dies prematurely.”

Jongup felt his spine tingle; their palms slid up his thigh. He replied lightly, “Just remember not to look back on the way up.”

Her eyes glossed over, her shoulders shivering as though her body was begging for him to hold her.

“It’ll be difficult, as lovely as you are,” she said.

He laughed, then stopped altogether when she leaned in.

They reached the part of the story where Orpheus broke his promise and looked back. Jongup pulled her onto his lap, snickering when he heard one of the kids present choked. Rumi laced her fingers through Jongup’s hair, challenge shone in her eyes like the sun.

Jongup accepted it and didn’t stop until they were given another month worth of detention. They were out of control, and somewhere along the way, he knew his uncle was to blame.

 

 

﹅

 

 

“Well? What’s going on?” Jongup demanded.

Rumi sighed on the other side of the line. “I have to look over these home-wreckers. Why did I think it was a good idea to supervise these boys?”

Jongup said sarcastically, “Let’s see. Because Asklepios is being held captive, therefore cannot come to aid the blasted trip?”

“I’ll assume they know what they are up against, or this could be potentially problematic.”

The call ended. Jongup pushed his hair out of his eyes. Yongguk sighed from beside him, “Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to send Rumi but they really needed help, and if anyone can handle them, it’s her.”

Jongup twisted the gold band around his wrist, “All the same. I wish they could have let me go too The activity in that area…” he trailed off.

The sun was setting, spreading beautiful orangey gold and pinkish purples across the landscape. He traced the symbols of the gold bracelet with his fingers, a moon and a bone. Night and Death; Rumi had the same bracelet in silver.

 

 

﹅

 

 

Going back to his dormitory, Jongup drifted off with uneasy dreams. Memories of the Judging coupled with the ghosts of Asphodel. He was running trying to reach a girl who kept disappearing into the night, but she was always out of reach. Eventually he found her but as he reached out to touch her his hand fell through–

The other night, dear,
When I lay sleeping
I dreamed I held you in my arms.
When I awoke dear,
I was mistaken
And I hung my head and cried

He sat bolt upright in the bunk. The sunlight filtered through and birds chirped. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his bones. Jongup leapt out of bed. He flung open the door and everyone stopped dead. There were people here who should not be here.

His cousin, a son of uncle Eros, was bleeding from pretty much everywhere and his left arm was bent oddly. Another unfamiliar face, a child of Mischief, was also in the common room, burned and limping. More injured boys were being supported. Jongup walked right up to the angel who served for served as the guard of the trip.

“Where. Is. She.” He grounded out the words.

West Wind stared at him, eyes a thousand miles away. The angel placed a round cold object in Jongup’s hand and started directing people to help the injured to the infirmary.

Jongup couldn’t breathe. He opened his hand and saw Rumi’s silver bracelet. The others that were still surrounding him all suddenly retreated. A circle of decay spread out. The pot plants withered and died and the walls and floors began to crack. Someone, maybe Yongguk, reached out for him and something shattered. Jongup screamed, everyone overcame by the waves of his anguish, hurt, and despair dropped to ground, arms over their heads, begging. Whoever was touching him immediately recoiled.

Jongup stormed away. He sprinted right up to the infirmary ignoring everyone who reached out to him.

Rumi was lying on the bed. No, not Rumi. Rumi’s mortal shell. Rumi’s beautiful, ethereal shell. The girl who had brought Jongup to life was nothing more than dead. His eyes stung and his throat burned. A sob escaped him, and he cried for what felt like forever before he couldn’t cry anymore. Jongup wiped his eyes and leaned down, pressing a kiss to Rumi’s forehead.

“I will bring you back here. To me. I swear on my father.”

 

 

﹅

 

 

the age before death is now a broken film reel – memories, across these hollow sockets, flickering; the bittersweetness of names still linger on rotten tongue, past laughters pelt onto trodden skulls like rain

 

Jongup grabbed the nearest person by the front of the shirt.

“Do not touch her body. Do not look at her body. Do NOT even breathe in the same general direction as her body until I get back.” The terrified girl nodded and Jongup shouldered past her. He ran straight into a shadow and melted, reforming in his room. He changed his clothes, grabbed his things. He went right back into the shadow and popped out at the entrance of the Underworld. He’d meant to appear inside, but of course, that bloody Hades had to shield it for the entire year.

“Ah yes. Moon Jongup,” the Ferryman said in a bored tone. “I expect you are here on an unauthorised quest for your love.”

Jongup glared at him. “Yes. Now please, I don’t know how much time I have.”

“Oh!” the Ferryman laughed. “You don’t want lovely Rumi of Night to receive Judgement before you reach her! Selfish isn’t it?”

“Help me.”

“You have to pay the toll.” the Ferryman’s eyes suddenly burned with a green flame. “As you are reenacting the ill-fated journey of Orpheus, music would be perfect.”

Jongup felt himself start to lose it. “I don’t have music!”

“Pity,” the Ferryman shrugged, “I guess this daughter of Lady Night isn’t worth that much to you after all.”

Jongup wanted to scream. He frantically racked his brain for something, anything. The only thing that came up was an old song written before he was even born. It was so laughably cliche but it was all he had. He decided to risk it. Sending out a quick prayer to whichever god invested in people with bad luck. He was shaky, his voice sounded afraid even, but the clear tenor strengthened slightly as he continued.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy, when skies are grey
You’ll never know dear, how much I love you
Please don’t take my sunshine away.

Rumi always pretended to roll her eyes whenever Jongup sang it to . Child of Night being his sunshine and all that. This time was different. Jongup felt a slight power leaving him.The band on his wrist glowed softly. He wondered if some god had blessed him, if maybe Lady Night wanted Jongup to save her daughter, to succeed where Orpheus had failed. A sniffle made him look up.

The entire waiting room of ghosts was silent. The Ferryman had tears running down his eyeless sockets.

“Right this way,” the Ferryman motioned.

Jongup got on the boat. The river flowed, polluted with the lost hopes and broken dreams of countless eras of humanity. Jongup watched as a ghostly figure of a woman floated by and a spirit on the boat cried, reaching for the vision. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t let Rumi become that floating mirage. The boat bumped into the shore.

 

 

﹅

 

 

The Land of the Dead.

He walked a while until he reached the master’s palace. He was admitted into the throne room shaking with nerves and determination. He couldn’t help the shock and confusion when he saw his father there, standing silently by Hades’ throne.

“Lord Hades,” Jongup said in a clear voice that carried, “I have come to ask you and Lady Persephone to allow me to complete the journey Orpheus undertook and to bring a soul back to the surface.”

Hades leaned forward. “Moon Jongup. As much as I’ve always been fond of you, it is not on light terms that I release those who have made their journey here.”

“I am aware of that.” Jongup said, “That is why I have come with a payment. I am not as skilled as Orpheus but my heart is true.”

Persephone’s eyes gleamed. “Jongup please, sing for us.” Hades began to object but she stopped him. “It’s been so long since we have had music.”

Jongup drew a shaky breath and flushed. The skeleton that ferried souls down the river? Sure. His master and his wife? No problem. But sing in front of father? Awkward. But he conjured up a mental image of Rumi, he couldn’t fail her. Jongup had seen too many deaths to allow hers. He channeled all his sadness and frustration into his voice.

 

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are grey
You’ll never know dear, how much I love you
Please don’t take my sunshine away.

The other night dear, as I lay sleeping
I dreamed I held you in my arms
But when I awoke, dear, I was mistaken
So I hung my head and I cried.

You were my sunshine, my only sunshine
You made me happy, when skies were grey
You’ll never know dear, how much I love you
Because they took my sunshine away

 

Persephone was leaning on Hades’ arm tears flowing. Death was weeping openly. He wiped his eyes and nodded.

The Lord of the Dead placed a hand on Jongup’s shoulder. “I’ll send Rumi to follow you, basic rules don’t look back yada yada. I have faith in you.”

Death stepped forward, saying, “It’s about time you got here, son. All I’ve been hearing is Jongup this and Jongup that and ‘I am not going to be judged I shall wait here until Jongup comes and gets me.’ You’ve got a handful there son, I’m not gonna lie.”

“Tell me about it.”

Hades smiled and so did father. The former said, “Jongup, you may not play the lyre or be able to make rocks cry but you, boy, used your emotions and heart. The key is not one’s ability, the key lies within the effort of the heart. If one cannot put heart into something, what one’s doing is not at all worth it.”

Jongup bowed low. He kept his gaze straight ahead of him as he walked stiffly out. He was terrified of accidentally looking back or catching a glimpse of Rumi. Jongup marched past the Field of Punishment with its screams and terrors, past Asphodel with its nameless ghosts, past the Judging, and onto the now empty ferry.

The Ferryman rowed smoothly toward the light and Jongup closed his eyes. He was so close and couldn’t bear to lose her. The sunlight hitting his face reminded him of her smile. He kept facing straight ahead until the Ferryman clapped him on the shoulder.

“You did good, son. Now return. Here, take the shadow. She’ll be waiting for you.’

Jongup couldn’t breathe. He dove headfirst into the shadow and popped out in the common room. He dumped his sword and crashed through the doors. Someone was waiting for him in the doorway of the infirmary, arms crossed, eyes black and intense. You. Here. Now.

Jongup ran as fast as he could.

 

 

﹅

 

 

He didn’t slow down when he reached her. Jongup had to touch her to make sure she was real. She cupped Jongup’s face in her hands, brushing her fingers over Jongup’s cheekbones. They stood there for a second then he pulled her up.

The kiss was soft and deep. The feelings of loneliness and loss washed away with each desperate gasp for air, for each other. The pain and the terror and the anguish dissipated. All that was left was the two of them. Perfect and whole, the two halves fitted together. The sun seemed to burn brighter in pride and acceptance.

 

 

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…

 

 

i have imagined this moment over and over again and now it’s finally happening and i can’t quite tell which direction is up or down or backwards but i guess they’re all directions so it really doesn’t matter as long as we are going somewhere…

 

“Jongup?” she asked him, hands over his chest, eyes like voids, him in.

His palm slid down her curves, enjoying the sound of her breath hitching, her body at his mercy. He mumbled something incoherent, too lost in the heat of life and energy they were feeding from each other.

The young night pressed closer, cornering her death. Anticipation was uncalculated as was mortality. Jongup almost forgot to breathe.

“What makes you happy?” whispered his hint of night, dominating, captivating.

“You,” death’s shadow replied, his poetry riddled to life.

And it was love. Love was the puppeteer, pulling strings above the grand curtains of life, with Night and Death and mankind forever beneath his mercy.

 

 

 

---

 

 

a/n: revised and edited. hopefully you enjoyed this oneshot. love, epione.