a/n: edited 5 February 16:45

*

Corinthians 12:9

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you,

for my power is made perfect in weakness.”

Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses,

so that the power of Christ may rest upon me.

*

There’s a small chapel at the back of the servants quarter almost nobody knows about. It’s poorly furnished and really, it doesn’t quite live up to its name of ‘chapel’, merely a small sculpture of the Messiah looking over at those who do come in, and two wooden benches that Jongin presumes had been found in the attic and dumped there when they had not found any other use. Nevertheless, Jongin often finds himself in the chapel, and not just on Sunday morning. It’s a great place to smoke.

It’s on one of the Wednesday mornings Jongin finds himself there, leaning against the wall where light is struggling to get through the small dusty window next to him, when all of a sudden the door opens with a creak. Believing it must be someone coming to fetch him he buds out the cigarette instantly, straightens his back and rests his hands on his chest. His head he bends down as if in prayer and it’s because of this he doesn’t realize it isn’t Kyungsoo, or perhaps even Zitao, that has come in. Instead, it’s Joonmyun, a thick book perched underneath his arm.

‘’Jongin?’’ He exclaims, surprise in his voice.

‘’Oh. Good morning, Joonmyun.’’ Jongin answers, copying the small bow the other gives him. The sentiment is echoed back at him, and the other boy walks to the front of one of the benches, kneeling down. The book he opens in front of him and Jongin recognises it as the Holy Bible, the one that Joonmyun is always reading in at night, when him and the other hall boys play cards or sing happy tunes to the sound of the piano. His hands are clasped together, eyes closed, and it appears as if he’s about to embark on his prayer, before he straightens his back and turns around to look at Jongin.

‘’Aren’t you – aren’t you going to pray?’’ he asks, obviously a bit flustered.

‘’Um. I’m not really… I only came here to smoke, frankly.’’ Jongin answers with a sheepish smile and a shrug. Joonmyun’s eyes widen at his remark.

‘’Are you not a Christian?’’ he gasps, horrified. Jongin’s arms immediately shoot up in protest.

‘’No, of course! Plainly, I am. My dear mother, God rest her soul, she took care we prayed every day. I believe in God, indeed. Only I don’t pray as much – not since I came to the house. There’s so much hustle and bustle, I find it quite hard to keep myself focused.’’

Joonmyun’s expression softens at this and he pats the space next to him on the floor in an invitation.

‘’Surely, you must have something to pray for.’’ He says, convinced. Jongin hesitates for a moment, thinks about the silver that is waiting to be polished, thinks of Luhan and his strict words earlier that week, but decides that if anyone objects to him sneaking off for a couple of minutes, he now has a witness and an alibi. He lets himself sink down onto his knees next to the other, their black trousers slightly soiled by the dust that has been accumulating for some time now.

He looks up at the face of Christ and rakes his brain for a prayer. Nothing comes to mind.

‘’Well?’’ Joonmyun says expectantly, ‘’has the Lord spoken to you yet?’’

‘’I – I am afraid he has not.’’ Jongin admits, and there’s a nervous chuckle which Joonmyun answers with a bright smile.

‘’What do you pray for?’’ He asks then, genuinely curious, and perhaps out of line, but he is not the kind to get flustered for asking questions. It had been considered one of his poor qualities, back at the house. Joonmyun seems a bit taken aback, mouth opening and then closing again, but there’s a determined look on his face and he answers him in the end.

‘’It differs. On most days, I pray for a good harvest, and for God to bless us with rain.’’

‘’Rain? A good harvest? Why is that?’’ Jongin asks, surprised. It is an odd thing to pray for, he thinks, for such a young boy. He himself would never have thought to pray for rain of all things, that much is certain.

‘’My father owns a farm.’’ Joonmyun explains and Jongin mutters a soft ‘ah’.

‘’If your father is a peasant, why are you in service?’’ He asks, and now he is sure he has overstepped the boundaries, yet the smile on Joonmyun’s face does not wither. His teeth are awfully white, Jongin notices, and straight, too. There had been a boy with teeth like that back at the house. He had rammed them out of his mouth in a particularly feisty fight.

‘’He had wanted a better life for me. Besides, I have an older brother.’’

‘’I see. How quaint.’’ 

There’s one more smile then before Joonmyun decides to close the conversation, returning to his bible, flipping the pages until he finds whatever scripture it was that he had been looking for, and clasps his hands together again. Jongin watches him close his eyes and awkwardly does the same, fumbles with his arms and legs, too long for the position they’re in, and tries to pray as well.

The only image that comes to him when he prays is that of Joonmyun and his pearl white teeth, his body hidden between fields of green, sitting cross-legged with the Bible in his lap and a wide smile on his face.

*

When Jongin turns twenty, he gets a half day off.

When Sehun turns twenty, he gets an empire and a half.

The land stretches itself out for miles – over mountains and deserts, over deep seas and vast lakes, forest of green and red and yellow where the trees tower over the animals like Gods in the sky, places where people live bundled up together, where they fight and argue and rip each other apart, to places where nobody lives at all. The rich, the poor; they are all destined for a life underneath Sehun’s power. Joonmyeon and him, they are there when it happens, for they are promoted instantly.

‘’With the delightful news that we have acquired this morning, I can announce to you that your duties in this house will now be that of footmen.’’ Mister Lee had stated one morning after they had served breakfast, and that was that. Their names were transformed into the more suitable Suho and Kai, and they were given a room that belonged to the both of them only - a luxury for footmen, a luxury Jongin much appreciated.

And so they, along with about twenty other male servants, are shipped off to the Royal Court for the official ceremony. They do not get to share the space of the higher officials or the grand names that sit in the gold-lined chairs in the centre of the room but alas; it is quite the experience. There is excitement in their veins and pride swelling in their chests, which they push out boastfully so as to present to the entire world their new uniform. The pale grey stripes are long gone, and just for today, they have been replaced by red and black silk, white gloves held formally behind their backs. Even compared to the richness that is the King’s ensemble – it is not inadequate, Jongin finds. He tells this to Joonmyeon, who only replies that he looks handsome.

‘’Like a footman should.’’ He says, loudly, so everyone in the common room can hear and take note of the modesty a footman should always posses. Jongin only sends a wink to one of the housemaids, who nearly faint into a puddle of giggles and white aprons.

Sehun marries princess Yoona – the most sublime creature Jongin has ever laid eyes upon – as he had been destined to since before birth, and a ruby-set crown is placed upon his head while he reads words from a constitution Jongin doesn’t understand, and he reads them in that grave tone Jongin remembers from the day when he had been so young and so shocked. The King has always been a man of lithe posture but his size makes him appear almost childlike in the grand throne of gold and steel. Something in his demeanour, the nervous grasp he has on the document, innocent and almost insecure, makes Jongin wonders whether the King himself understands.

Whether he does or not is trivial. After the last words leave his lips and his legs lift himself up from his gold-laced throne under heavy applause, he is King Sehun. All of the nation’s troubles and successes, all of the history and the cities, they are all in the palm of his hand, moving in whichever direction he will suit to take. And Jongin – Jongin’s name is Kai.

*

There are things expected of a King, of course. For a good two months the King and Queen share their bedchamber, before they are finally separated again. The whispers cross the corridors faster than the electricity Jongin still struggles with. It is all the servants downstairs can talk about – until mister Lee orders them not to. Some of the younger boys and most of the women have trouble understanding what it means, those having been born on a farm excluded, but the end result is clear to all of them. They are now working in the Royal Palace, home of the King and Queen of this country, with an heir soon to be underneath their power. This, naturally, brings responsibilities.

The palace remains the same: the large French windows stay in place, as do the marble floors and pillars, the gold ceilings and the Italian paintings, but it all becomes more crowded, more vivacious; more alive. Below and above stairs the floors are graced with new faces, the ones on the first and second floor decidedly fairer than most that sit down with Jongin at luncheon. For a week, there’s a bustle of movement in the palace, chairs and tables and art and ivory being carried everywhere by the male servants – Jongin included – until the palace oozes virtue from every mirror’s silver lining, to the piano’s ivory keys, to the aurulent floors, to the golden ceiling – until the queen’s glistening pearls. All this endeavour is made to allow for the stream of guests that starts coming in from that moment on, having come from countries across the border and countries much farther away, heads of state that have travelled weeks to congratulate the newfound King and his Queen, keeping the couple busy and the servants even busier.

Jongin revels in being a footman. No more emptying the slob buckets, no more brushing the dirty shoes of footmen in dark rooms, and goodbye to white shirts dirtied by black soot and brown dirt; Jongin works upstairs now. His black shoes have already been polished for him when he walks the steps up to the dining room, the drawing room, the library, sometimes even the King’s chamber if he is particularly lucky. With his shoulders pushed back and his chin tipped up he holds out silver plates or cups of white China, their value amounting to more than Jongin’s entire life could ever add up to.

It is not that hard, being a good servant. Jongin would like to think himself quite a decent one. He knows how to perform the dance; to step back and hide in the shadows when he is supposed to, making for a fair piece of furniture instead, then to be there with a helping hand, to catch a coat or two slipping off white shoulders that have never seen the sun, to have tea ready in hot steaming bowls, to be charming and polite but never personal, to be there but only when they need him to be. To be a servant means not to be a person, but someone’s thoughts and desires – always floating in the air but never quite coming into existence: the sweets you so wished for ready on a plate put in