[carry your throne - jon bellion]
[13k]

carry your throne

She is a child when she meets him, when he stumbles in with a crown too large for his head, slipping from his unruly hair, despite his little hand attempting and failing to keep it up.

He’s all bright smiles and curved, crescent eyes, all teeth and deep, deep pouts, enigmatic even as a child. The King and Queen trail in front of him, walking instead of using their pretty carriages for some reason, and he tries to keep up, ignoring his caretaker’s hand as he skips ahead. Her grip on her mother’s hand tightens and her mother smiles down at her and she thinks the boy looks like a lost puppy, but then her mother mouths,

“Prince Baekhyun.”

And all she can think is, “This idiot?”

She doesn’t say it out loud though because her mother says idiot is a bad word.

He nearly trips over his own robes, but he catches himself, reddening slightly as his crown slips from his head, landing on the dirt road with a dull thud. The crowd laughs, like he’s the cutest thing since baby animals, but she’d say otherwise.

She thinks maybe the person who dressed him is the biggest idiot of them all because everything is too big, dragging behind him in a way her own mother would scold her for. But she is too tired to say anything and she just wants to go home, so she tugs at her mother’s hand and says, “I’m hungry.”

“Later.”

She repeats herself, tugging incessantly, but her mother isn’t paying attention, has her eyes pinned on the procession as if it’s the most interesting thing she’s ever seen.

So she doesn’t notice the hush falling among the crowd, doesn’t notice pause in the procession, until her mother glances down at her with large eyes, before she glances back up, over and over again until she’s finally looking up herself, blinking rapidly.

The boy, the little prince, has stopped walking. He’s just staring in their direction, his eyes wide and his smile wider, his dusty crown in his hands.

Tension lays heavy among them, a thick blanket accompanied by murmurs among the crowd.

She watches, in confusion, as the little prince starts walking in her direction and she worries her bottom lip because maybe he can read minds and he’s heard her call him an idiot.

He pauses in front of her and he is barely her height, though that’s not saying much because they are both small. He’s still smiling.

“I’m sorry?” She says and it comes out as a question. She notices that her mother has let go of her hand.

He just holds out his crown and shakes his head, “It’s you.”

She’s confused, but he offers his crown up to her again and it’s a pretty, shiny thing, so she grasps it with both hands and—

And light bursts from the crown, nearly blinding her. She cries out, stepping away, but it’s too late because the light is bright and almost heavenly and there’s a searing pain in her hands that hurts so bad, so so bad, and she cries. She cries and she sees the way the boy’s—the little prince’s—knees buckle. He staggers, drops, yet he keeps his eyes on her. Her hands feel like they’re on fire, like the time she accidentally touched the pot her mother had been cooking with and she’s going down, too, dropping to her hands and knees, her head bent as she stares at her hands through blurry eyes, squinting through the blinding white light emitting from her hands, from his hands.

She’s breathing hard, face wet, and staring at the little prince before her.

Slowly, she meets his eyes.

And he wrinkles his nose at her, before playfully murmuring. “I didn’t know it’d be a girl.”

He says the last word like it’s absolutely hilarious.

She glares at him. He giggles.

~.~.~.~.~

She watches the way he moves, his elaborate robes trailing behind him as he emerges from his quarters, a scroll in his hands and ink staining his pretty fingers. He takes one step at a time, his eyes dark, careful, calculated, before he leans against the entrance to the palace.

She bows, but barely, and when she straightens up, his eyes are following her movements, narrowing slightly, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Your Majesty.” She says, watching the way his fingers tighten around the scroll in his hands.

“My Sword has decided to return to my side against all odds, has she?”

She smiles, gives him a pointed look, and says, “Duty calls, unfortunately.”

His eye twitches, “I could have your head for that.”

“You could.” She drawls out, rolling her eyes.

“I could.” He murmurs, with a brisk nod and a contemplative look. His usual amusement is gone, locked away for Heaven knows how long. “But not today, I’m tired. Come rest.”

Then he pushes himself off the door hinge and swivels on his feet, striding into the palace without another word. She follows in after him, staring at his back, at the tension in his shoulders, the ink splattered along his fingers, and she thinks he’s good at pretending like he’s fine when clearly he is not.

The Prince’s Sword is said to be chosen by heaven itself. Perhaps that explains the moment they met, when he had been a child stumbling through the streets with his parents and his entire court on route towards the special training grounds where they raise boys to become warriors—future Swords of the Prince’s meant to live and die for their Prince. There had been a moment in the procession when he had tripped up on his too-big robes and they had accidentally locked eyes, when she had felt it in her gut, a strange twisting sensation, an inexplicable draw towards the mischievous, grinning prince tripping over his own robes. And then there had been a light, blinding and bright, a sign from heaven itself, they said. He hadn’t even made it to the training grounds, the very same training grounds that she had been subjected to after the initial shock had subsided, because she is a girl—a peasant girl no less, and how the hell was she supposed to protect the Prince when she could barely lift a sword?—with boys who would resent her for the rest of their lives because this had been their chance to prove themselves and all their hard work and she had stolen it from them. Only a couple of these boys would become Swords for his brothers and fulfil the duty they’ve been training for, the others will become soldiers, generals at best. A girl was unheard of—yet what were they to do when heaven had mandated this in front of so many?

So she had left her mother and her quaint little village, because the Prince is to be her number one priority, and entered a palace she had no place in, trained among boys who wouldn’t warm up to her until she proved herself worthy, found herself subjected to scrutiny and rules she couldn’t quite wrap her head around because she was treated as a Royal Lady, a swordsman, and a peasant all at once and it never made sense to her, and had no one but a fickle Prince for company.

Perhaps it should have been a bad time, and it was for a long, long time.

But then she stopped missing her mother so much, and with time, she it would only become easier. But then, she managed to win in a spar against one of the newest prince’s swords and started sitting in the study with the Prince, where he insisted she learn to read.

(She learned other things too, like how the Prince wouldn’t be able to sit still for too long or how he’d feel a certain obligation to his younger siblings—sisters as well as brothers—in the form of the strangest, most obscure gifts that she would have to scavenge for him, how the palace would dote on him no matter how bratty he’d be because he was affectionate and quick tempered, a troublemaker with a big heart and an attention span of a pair of chopsticks and he’d make her do stupid, dangerous things like help him sneak out of the palace for strange little trips. She used to dislike him, in the beginning, and she always thought he disliked her as well, because he seemed to enjoy making her lug watermelons back from their trips out of the palace while he’d prance on ahead or he and his brother, Jongdae, would attempt to ditch her and his brother’s sword, Minseok, in the most dangerous parts of town for the amusement factor, giggling behind his sleeves when she’d turn red and tell him off loudly.

She never quite understood that that was his way of including her, his sense of fun, until later when they were first caught leaving the palace and the King had ordered her punished, when he had stepped in and declared that he would be punished as well then, when there had been a long, long moment where the King and the future King would stare each other down, the tension in the room building and building, until the King had said as you wish and she had shook her head rapidly because it was her heavenly mandate to keep him from getting hurt, yet there they were, being dragged off to the dungeons for punishment. She had specifically remembered the way the Prince had told her to shut up and she had bit down on her lip because, though she has a tendency to argue with the Prince when she’s not supposed to, at that moment he had looked so serious, so much like a Prince, soon-to-be-King, that she had kept quiet. Later, she’d learn that their punishment could have been worse than it was, if the Prince hadn’t insisted on being punished as well, but at the time, even a slap on the wrist and days starved in the dungeons seemed terrible for her. They were barely teenagers and she felt horrible. If the heavens had mandated her to take care of the Prince, then what will they do when she was the reason why he was starving?

“Do you think,” He had said, when they were finally let out of the prison, “That this heavenly mandate of protection is to be a one way deal?”

His face had been pale, his lips void of their usual pink color, and her chest had felt heavy. They were fourteen and, already, she had messed up.

“That’s what I was taught.” She said, without thinking, lips pursed into a scowl.

His lips turned down into a small frown, “Then you were taught wrong.” He had stated it the way he’d state a fact he read in a book, voice filled with confidence that’d usually irritate her. But this time, she had just blinked, watching as he shrugged and took a step ahead of her, “Besides, it was my fault. What kind of future King would I be if I let you take the fall for it all?”

She had stared at his retreating back, at how much taller her had gotten, finally taller than her. Then she shook her head and hurried to catch up to him, making a face at him, “A normal one?”

He had frowned then, his nose curling up with disgust as he side-eyed her, “Is that really how Kings are?”

She had wanted to point out how his father had thrown him in the dungeon for standing up to him, because of politics. That was the first example of many. But she had refrained, biting her lip, and he had looked at her with a strange sort of understanding in his eyes, as if he could see what she was thinking. Maybe he could, they had known each other since they were children and he was more observant than she’d wanted to give him credit for.)

He pauses at the threshold to his room, his pretty fingers resting on the sliding door he’d have to open since the servants were in bed. It’s dark in the hall, aside from the moonlight streaming in through the high windows to their right. There’s a sort of tranquility to the atmosphere, almost warm and comforting, and she’s missed it. She’s been at war for weeks and she’s missed his presence, worried herself sick over whether not he was okay because if he died while she was gone, it’d be her fault.

Even if he had told her to go, ordered her away really, because she was one of their best fighters and he’d rather send her away then one of his brother’s Swords. He’d rather endanger himself than his brothers. She wants to admire that, wanted to smile when he had told her exactly that the night before she had left, but she wasn’t stupid. That wasn’t his reasoning, not at first.

(He had been the one to drag her off to one of the many secluded courtyards in the palace, where they had sat with their knees touching, hidden by trees and medicinal herbs bursting all around them.

The sun was setting, pinks and oranges and blues melting into a rising night sky, and she remembered thinking how beautiful it was, more beautiful than before, and then she had looked at him, at the sadness in his guarded eyes, and thought the sight was just as beautiful as the sky.)

“I am to be married soon.” He says, with his back still turned to her. He’s so much taller than before, still small in his own right, but taller than her, though it must be a ridiculous sight for everyone to see her on the battlefield wielding a sword more than half the length of her entire body.

(They were merely eighteen when the festival had happened and it had been all fun and games, all smiles and beautiful dances until one of the performers had a glinting knife in her hands and the King was bleeding all over the throne and the Queen had screamed and screamed and she had had to pull the Prince back by his arms, watching as the grief imploded within him, trickled down his eyes, twisted his expression the same way it twisted her heart.

They were merely eighteen years old when he had become a King and rumors of a coup, a rebellion of sorts, had become everything but rumors, when she had held him back, sword drawn, and after the initial shock, the crowd had realized that the King was truly gone and dead, when the crowd had bowed to him, one by one, and the silence was almost as deafening as cheers would have been. The Prince—now King—had gently pushed her hands off of him and bowed in return, swiped at his wet face as he took deep, deep breaths and all she could think was heaven help him.

They were merely eighteen when he was riddled with grief and she had held his hand, the sight hidden beneath a flurry of robes and the bodies of advisors, and she had watched the tension melt the slightest bit from his shoulders. She was eighteen when the hand-holding turned into something else, dark eyes and red cheeks and a heavy, heavy tension.

(Sometimes, Minseok would give her a look and she’d tell him to shut up. Jongdae would laugh like he knew what Minseok was thinking and it sounded awfully pointed, as if he was laughing at her. Knowing Jongdae, he was.)

He was nineteen years old when he dragged her to the courtyard, their knees touching, and whispered, “Sometimes, I want to kiss you.”

And she remembered how red she had gotten, how soft his smile had been, how fond he had looked, and she couldn’t help replying, “Is this the grief speaking?” Her tone didn’t sound half as skeptic as she wanted it to.

She had held his hand anyway.

“I don’t know.” He had whispered, his pretty fingers gripping hers for dear life, as if he was afraid she’d disappear if he let up his grip.

The afternoon sun set his eyes alight and she wanted it to stay that way. She could see the way he stared at her, the way his gaze drifted downwards, and she thinks, if he were any normal King, he’d take what he wanted and ask later. But he was waiting, hesitating, and she realized that he wanted her to make the first move. He wanted her to have a choice, in a world, a fate where she had no choices unless they were his. That realization alone was sweet, sweeter than the taste of honey, than the smile playing on his lips. So she leaned forward, her fingers still intertwined with his and pressed a kiss against his lips, short and chaste, her cheeks red because she’s never done this before but she’s in charge of watching over him and his affairs and she’s fairly certain he has.

When she came up for air, she found him smiling at her, that big, dumb, wide grin of his plastered across his face, and she couldn’t help but smile back, her heart racing against her ribs.)

“I’ve heard.” She responds, because she has. Just not from him. Nor from his brothers, not from Jongdae, Sehun, Jongin, or Taehyung. Not even from their Swords. Instead, she had learned of it from the Queen Mother, in a letter—because the Queen may have been a stand-in mother for her for nearly all of her life, but she was not the Queen’s child by blood and they both knew that, they both knew that the Queen would do whatever it takes to protect her children, especially from a lowly peasant-girl-turned-Royal-Guard who would no doubt keep her son from rightly claiming the throne, especially when the Prince had so many other brothers and so many other Queen Mothers vying for a place on the throne for their sons, no matter how close their sons were with each other.

Perhaps, she should have known of this news way before the Queen had ever told her, because why else would he send her away—she was not stupid.

She thinks she shouldn’t say it, but she can’t help it, especially when he doesn’t respond, nodding with his back still turned, “Were you expecting me to return?”

(One stolen kiss turned into two, three, four, until she couldn’t count them on her hands anymore.

There would be days when the stress would create wrinkles between his brows that she wished to smooth out and tired frowns she wanted to kiss away. On those days, he’d wander to the training grounds, watching as she’d train, spinning lithely, her grip on her sword tight. She wouldn’t notice him on those days, too immersed in her training, in beating Minseok, Hoseok, Junmyeon, or Yixing to a pulp to notice his eyes on her, watching her every movement.

At least until it’d be over and Minseok, Hoseok, Junmyeon, or Yixing would give her a pointed look, brows waggling, and she’d whack them upside the head with her wooden practice sword while they cackled loudly before making her way to where he would be sitting, sprawled out on the grass, head propped up, and leaves and grass in his hair. She’d never mention how ethereal he’d look, especially with leaves in his hair. Instead, she’d poke him with her foot and tell him he was a mess. He’d laugh.)

“All my advisors warned that there was a high possibility that you wouldn’t.” He says and his voice is so, so quiet she nearly misses his words, but she has been training her entire life to kill a man as quickly and efficiently as possible and she has very sharp ears.

“Did they now?” She snorts and it’s a rude sound, they both know it. They both also know that she doesn’t care. “And yet, you did it anyway?”

(“Sh—she was taken.” His fingers curled into fists at his sides while Jongdae collapsed to his knees, Taehyung shook his head rapidly over and over and over again his mouth open but no sound coming out, Sehun was crying, and Jongin just stared at them as he continued his report, his voice cracking, “Princess Soojung was taken by the rebellion’s king and—and heaven knows what’s going to—”

Jongin had cut himself off and Yixing had put a gentle hand on his back, rubbing it softly, though there was a haunted look in his eyes. Jongin was in love with her, they all knew this, but worse is they all also knew that—

“She’s as good as dead.” He said and he sounded like he was choking on his own words.

He’s right, but Jongin shook his head with vehement vigor and whispered, “Maybe we can—maybe I can—”

Yixing hushed him and she’s never seen him speak over Jongin or ever cut him off, but Jongin had only gripped onto Yixing and murmured maybe maybe maybe please your majesty please Baek hyung.

And then they were all so utterly quiet, his voice the only sound aside from Sehun’s soft sobs, “We’ll bring her back.”

His voice had echoed in the throne room, bouncing off the walls and falling flat beside them.

And weeks later, she was twenty one years old when he was all anger and hurling emotions, and she stared at the white lilies, knew that he’s just finished the mourning period for his father, only to begin another mourning period. She was there when they sent back Soojung’s head with a horrified messenger, a sight of her pretty face so void of humanity, so scratched up, seared onto the back of her eyelids from that day on, and the astrologist had said Soojung’s soul wouldn’t be able to rest properly now, not when her mortal body was torn apart like this.

“They’re all going to die if I don’t—if I don’t—” She watched from the corner as he kicked over his desk with a loud bang, as papers are strewn all about, ink spilling over wood.

His voice was hoarse from screaming, his face red and his eyes redder, and all she wanted to do was pull him into her arms and hug him.

“Mother says that—they’re…the ing Rebel King is—” He knocked over a vase. It shattered in all directions, the sound deafening, “Soojung didn’t—”

He stepped forward, gasping as he stepped on a shard of the broken vase, and collapsed to his knees. That’s when she surged forward, gripping him tightly as she fell to her knees beside him. His breathing was heavy, ragged, and he buried his head into the crook of her neck. “I’m so scared.” He whispered, his voice cracking, and she could feel the tears against her neck, but all she could do was tighten her grip on him, hold him tightly so she could make him feel safe, at least for a moment, because Heaven knows she hadn’t been doing her job properly for years now, not since his father was assassinated.

“You’re Baekhyun.” She whispered into the dark room, his name echoing all around them, heavenly in its syllables. “You’re fearless and so, so strong, and—and you can still do this. You can still protect them in ways you couldn’t with Soojung or your father.”

He was twenty one years old and too young to carry the world on his shoulders. “I can’t do this alone.” He said, his voice muffled by the crook of her neck.

She kissed his temple, just above his pulse and his back gently, “You don’t have to.”)

“There are rumors.” He reminds her, as if she needs reminding. She’s sat in fields, waiting idly for the battles to come to them, waiting idly by for their plans to unfold, and she had heard it all, whispered behind hands or said right to her damn face because not only is she a woman but she’s also their commanding officer. And nothing, she knows, is worse to deal with than a man’s scorned ego. They whisper King’s more often than her name and she figures it’s something she’ll have to live with.

“And the Queen says it’s a liability to your claim?” She asks, even though she knows the answer because the Queen had wrote to her as much.

(“If the Heavens let you leave, would you?” He had taken an acute interest with the golden cup in his hands, the object of the Rebel King’s desires, aside from the crown on his head and throne beneath him.

She looked up from her book, her head leaning against the palm of her hand, and she had smiled, amused at the way the tips of his ears had turned a deep shade of red. “Even if I wanted to, I know nothing but you, Your Majesty.”

“So you would, if you could.”

He looked at her now, his eyes dark, watchful, almost guarded.

She didn’t need to think about it when she smiled, shook her head, and said, “No. I wouldn’t.”

He grinned back, clearly elated.)

“You have to understand that I have an obligation to my family. To take care of them.” He swivels on his heels and finally looks at her, towering over her despite the distance. He’s always been good at making his presence seem so much larger than it already was, a feat she’s in awe of.

“I never said I didn’t understand.” She tells him, raising a brow, “But it would have been nice if you didn’t send me to war in hopes that I’d never return. I should like to visit my old birth mother before I die, at least.”

“I wasn’t hoping.” He looks so, so pained and so, so normal, not like a King but like the twenty three year old young man that he is. There must be disbelief on her face because he repeats, loudly, almost in the same whining tone Jongdae uses, “I wasn’t!”

“Then why?”

He pauses, his eyes darting over her face, before he leans against his door, exhaustion dripping from his every movement. “I just.” He stares at her and there’s something there, something from before she left, “I thought you’d be gone longer.”

“So you could sort yourself out?” She means to sound blunt, uncaring, but her heart is pumping against her chest in a way that proves to her that she really cares too much. Every time she’s around him, she feels like she cannot breathe. She sees the indecision in his eyes, sees the fondness and she is reminded of how much she’s missed him in the months that she’s been gone.

(His eyes are wicked and she’s flustered, her heart slamming against her ribs. His pretty fingers drag down her side and under her robes, down and down and down until she gasps his name, like a prayer. He pushed her legs up and the sky’s bright with twinkling stars and she thought her legs were the North Star and he’s her entire universe, even as he disappeared between her legs and worshiped her the way their entire nation is supposed to worship him.

“I love you.” She breathed out, she couldn’t help it, and her body had tensed up, lower stomach fluttering. She had seen stars, universes beyond the one above her, and he chuckled, pressed a kiss to her lower stomach before trailing up, up, up, still riding out her high. A kiss under her , a kiss right above her heart, a lingering kiss at the column of , and her heart seized up because he wouldn’t say it ba—a kiss, at the corner of , fingers tracing letters into the inside of her thighs, brushing between her legs like he hasn’t had enough.

“I love you, too.” He whispered and her fingers tangled in his hair as he smiled into their kiss, her heart sighing in relief.)

“So I could learn to stop loving you.” He says and his long dark hair falls into his eyes, messy since it’s not up in his usual bun, and she thinks he looks so utterly breathtaking that it’s heart-stopping; heart wrenching.

But she laughs, almost vindictively, because she is the King’s Sword and nothing else and she is supposed to do what is best for him, what he wants.

(Minseok had told her once, out of the blue, one quiet evening after training, when her limbs were aching, too tired to move, and he was sprawled out on the dirt, uncaring of the dust, “Love has no place in a Sword’s life.”

“Why are you telling me this?” She had looked at him, turning her head from where she lay beside him.

“Because you’re going to have to realize it sooner or later. Besides,” Minseok’s cat-like grin turns into a sad little thing, making it hard to distinguish whether he was speaking from experience or just insight, “Didn’t you know that love has no place in a King’s life either?”)

She never said she wasn’t vindictive so she looks him in the eyes, looks King Baekhyun in the eye, her chin turned up and her eyes ablaze. She says, “And, tell me, how is that going, Your Majesty? Should I have died out there to make it easier for you to forget me?”

(She’s wearing nothing but his crown and he’s grinning against her skin, murmuring, “You’re unforgettable, you know that?”

“How so, Your Majesty?”

“I—think—about—you—all—the—time.” He kissed a different place between each word, left behind marks with purpose as he pressed a pretty hand between her legs, watching her squirm and sigh and smile as she wrapped her legs around his waist. He whispered, “You will be the death of me.”

“That’s exactly the opposite of what I’m—I’m supposed to be doing.” She gasped and he laughed, that beautiful, unashamedly loud sound, as he places a peck just above her naval before slowly, carefully moving downwards.)

His eyes flash for a moment, especially when she laughs and walks away, right past him and to her room right next to his. She can’t help but think her laughter sounds so utterly bitter, even to her own ears.

~.~.~.~.~

She doesn’t cry, not until Jongdae is attacked and Minseok takes a sword through the heart to save him. Not when Jongdae places a hand on either side of Minseok’s face as he takes his breaths, not even when Minseok glances over at her and gives her a meaningful look, one that promises of a haunting if she doesn’t protect Jongdae for him. There’s a lump in , but she doesn’t cry, she’s just in shock, body on autopilot as she drags a kicking, trembling Jongdae behind her, Baekhyun running ahead, focused on just moving until they’re somehow in a safe place she doesn’t remember bringing them to and she’s wringing her hands together, watching Jongdae’s angry tears without necessarily registering them.

At least not until the coup is over, days later, and she’s standing in her room and staring at her funeral clothes with a pounding headache that only gets worse the longer she stares at it. And then he is leaning against the door that leads right into his room. He’s just staring at her and she’s reminded of how he hasn’t spoken to her unless absolutely necessary since she had returned from war months ago. She vaguely remembers that she is in nothing but her underclothes, too preoccupied with how hard it is to breathe, panic and anxiety building in her chest.

“We should go.” He says.

“I can’t.” She can barely get the words out, her fingers trembling at her sides.

And then there are footsteps, one at a time, and she turns on her heels, watches him step towards her. Her heart swells at the concern in his eyes, but he’s married now to the nicest, sweetest woman she’s ever met and she’s a ing mess so she steps back. Each step he takes has her stepping back, back, back, until her back hits the wall.

“I can’t.” She repeats, hoarsely, her eyes welling up with tears.

“You can.” He says it sternly, carefully, and she looks away when he reaches up and presses his thumbs to her cheeks, brushes at the tears spilling down her cheeks so gently that she nearly melts into his touch. She shakes her head, rapidly, but then he leans forward, still caressing her face, and presses a kiss to her forehead, his lips moving against the skin there as he says, “You know you’ll regret not going.”

“But I just—but, but—” She’s stumbling over her words and she’s never felt so weak before, not since the first time she was forced to pick up a sword and learn how to wield it.

His image is distorted by the tears filling her eyes, but she can see the understanding there. They’ve known each other since they were kids and if anybody can decipher her jumbled, panicked words more than she could, it’s him. His hands are warm, soft and secure.

“When it hurts. When you’re too scared to keep going, just look at me.” He murmurs as he pulls back, his eyes locking with hers. Her heart jumps in her chest when she sees his concerned eyes, the way they search hers for acknowledgement, his thumbs tracing her cheeks, as if he’s wiping away her tears before they’ve even had the chance to fall, his nose bumping against hers, “You don’t—you’re not alone, love.”

Her heart skips a beat because she had said so much to him, once upon a time, and she blinks, watching as he glances down, his brows crinkling together before he lets go of her, allowing her space. Her chest rises and falls heavily as if he’s kissed her, but he hasn’t. He can’t.

She watches as he picks up her funeral robes and presses it into her limp hands, squeezing her hands gently in the process. He watches her for a moment, as he takes a couple steps back, before he fully turns away and disappears into his room, the door shutting behind him. She dresses with trembling fingers and a trembling heart while he waits in his room, his shadow visible through the thin screen.

They walk together, but he doesn’t talk to her. Still, he keeps his promise, watches her once in a while, between hugging Jongdae tight, when she’s standing next to Hoseok, Junmyeon, and Yixing, and Jongdae has his red, swollen eyes pinned on Minseok’s grave as if he can somehow bring him back to life with his thoughts alone. When fear latches onto her heart because Minseok could have been her and—and, for the first time in her life, she wonders if she would die for her King. It had always been an unspoken duty of hers, but now she truly thinks about it, contemplates the very possible possibility.

She thinks of what it’d be like living out her life without her King and her stomach churns at the thought. She can’t wrap her head around it and she decides, right then and there, that she would, Heaven knows she would do it in a heartbeat if it meant she wouldn’t have to live in a world without him.

She would and that thought alone terrifies her the most. That moment of fear is only made worse when her eyes slide sideways and the Queen is staring straight at her.

~.~.~.~.~

“Marriage?” She looks at the Queen Mother as if she’s just grown another head. She might as well had, judging from the way she’s been acting since the King had been murdered. She never knew the Queen was so obsessed with self-preservation. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“I am not sure who permitted you to talk to me this way,” The Queen Mother begins and both she and the Queen Mother glance sideways at the King, watching as he places a hand oh-so-carefully at the small of his wife’s back, his smile kind as he nods along to whatever she’s saying, though his eyes are focused ahead, on her and his mother. There’s a little wrinkle between his brows and she swears he’s walking a bit faster in their direction. “But, rest assured, I won’t let it slide the way he does.”

Her stomach churns when she locks eyes with the King for a split second before she breaks eye contact and turns on the Queen Mother, frowning despite bowing her head in apology. “I’m sorry, but I thought you knew that it was against the law for me to marry.”

“A law made by the King, yes.” The Queen Mother’s smile is pleasant, though her eyes are calculating, annoyed more than anything, “He can change it with just a of a pen.”

She opens to politely tell her to off for once, but then the Queen Mother adds, “Isn’t that right, my son?”

She’s forced to look at him, then, and he appears confused, his eyes flickering over her face for just a moment before it settles on his mother’s and stays there. “What is?”

“She’s still a woman, above everything else, and I’m sure she’d like to get married and bear children of her own. You can give her that.” The Queen Mother speaks softly and she wonders if the Queen Mother meant for her last words to come out the way they did. She’s sure she’ll never know, but the King still blinks rapidly, obviously shocked, the tip of his ears reddening ever so slightly, unnoticeable except for the fact that she’s made a habit out of looking at anything but his face these days and has become very acquainted with his ears. When she glances sideways for a moment, at his Queen, she feels queasy because the woman is blatantly staring at her, surprisingly expressionless, though her eyes remains pinned on her. The Queen Mother puts a hand on her arm and smiles at her son, “I say we get our pretty little Sword married. She’s already a bit old, isn’t she?”

Then Queen Taeyeon laughs, snorts really, and it startles her out of her poorly concealed glare at his mother’s words. “If she’s a bit old to get married, then I must have been a hag.”

The Queen Mother blinks, clearly stunned for a moment, and she has to share in the Queen Mother’s testament because never, not once, did she think that the Queen would try to defend her. King’s wasn’t just a whisper used by men on the battlefield with scorned egos. “Oh, ah, no. You look very young for your age, Taeyeon darling.” The Queen Mother recovers quickly, smiling gently.

She can practically hear the unspoken her, on the hand, not so much and before she can really tell the Queen Mother to right off, he speaks up, hand moving up and down his Queen’s back reassuringly as he says, “Honestly, Mother. If she wanted to get married to someone she would have let me know. I cannot do much for hypotheticals.”

She can feel his gaze burning into the side of her face. “Right.” She says, irritation dripping from her tone as she addresses him without even looking at him, “I’ll get back to you on that when I find myself a suitable husband sometime in the distant future,” She glances at the Queen Mother, “And thank you for your concern, Queen Mother, but I’m a bit preoccupied with keeping your son’s head on his shoulders at the moment.”

The Queen Mother’s expression twists and Baekhyun sighs and she can’t even walk away because she’s supposed to watch after him.

~.~.~.~.~

“Why did you—”

She speeds up, walking ahead of him, and she hears him grunt in annoyance behind her. He catches up quickly, strides matching hers.

“Hey, I’m talk—”

She walks even faster this time and he curses loudly. They’re lucky they’re within the King’s private quarters of the palace and there aren’t any servants around. Kings aren’t supposed to curse and they sure as hell aren’t supposed to trail behind anyone, either. She makes it to the entrance to her room, right outside the sliding doors, when he grabs her sleeve and tugs at it. It’s not strong enough to actually make her turn around, that’s her choice, but it makes her pause in her steps.

They’re silent, frozen in time and space, his hand pressed to her elbow, pretty fingers splayed out, and her eyes pinned on the paper screen of her door. It’s like the night when she returned from war, except now he’s the one staring at her back. It must be a first, she thinks, because the King never speaks to another’s back, especially not when he’s addressing them directly. She figures it’ll do his kingly ego some good, anyway.

Then he says, “Maybe, Mother is right.” She blinks rapidly at his words, at how small his voice sounds. “You—You deserve someone who can love you. Fully and wholly. You deserve a life outside of me.”

“I do.” She murmurs, because he’s right. But that’s not the point here. “But it’s not allowed.”

“I can—I can do it. Allow it, I mean.”

She wants to say what if I don’t want you to allow it? but it gets stuck in , a huge lump that makes it hard to speak. His fingers tighten around her sleeve and she still can’t speak.

“Can you—can you turn around for me?” She doesn’t listen, not until she hears a soft, “Please.”

Her heart swells at the soft sound, a word that rarely leaves his mouth, and she swivels slowly on her heels, her eyes meeting his immediately. She deflates under his gaze, his soft, melting eyes, at the unconscious smile playing at his lips because she actually chose to do what he wanted her to do.

His fingers are still curled at her elbow when she says, “Stop looking at me like that.”

“I just—” He pauses, glances down at his pretty fingers before he looks back up, his expression filled with ancient exhaustion. “I want you to be happy.”

“Did you ever stop to think that maybe I am?” She breathes out. They’re barely touching, just his hand on her elbow, over her sleeve, and she feels breathless.

“You’re not.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You don’t smile anymore.” He says, his eyes searching hers. “You don’t laugh at the stupid I say like you used to.”

“Maybe you’re just not funny anymore.” She points out, blinking rapidly at his words because she’s not as happy as she used to be, he’s right, but that’s what happens when war enters one’s life.

“I’m sorry.” He says, suddenly, drawing her out of thoughts in a way that reminds her that he knows her too well, that he can practically read her thoughts, “I’m sorry for sending you out there. I just wanted you gone so I could think. I didn’t think things through.”

“You’re lucky that I’m not easy to get rid of, then.” She mumbles, avoiding his eyes, avoiding the sincerity melting his brown eyes so beautifully. His eyes remind her of the Earth on a spring day, right after rain when the sun is shining, soft and warm.

He laughs, reluctant and short but so ing beautiful nonetheless, before the sound to an abrupt halt. His dark eyes grow cautious, hesitant. She knows what he’s going to say before he says it and she thinks it’s funny that despite the months and months they have gone without properly speaking, she can still read him like a book the same way he can with her.

“Please, love. Find someone else.”

There’s a pained edge to his tone and she wonders how he could possibly say something like that.

“Why?”

He opens his mouth to reply before he promptly closes it. For a moment, she sees all the vulnerability, all the age-old exhaustion, creep on to his expression all at once, jarring in its intensity.

She stares, waits for him to speak, minutes ticking by as the silence grows.

He doesn’t speak first though.

Another voice enters the foray, voice feather soft, sweet, and she instantly tenses at the sound. “Ah, I’ve been meaning to speak to you.”

She glances over his shoulder and the Queen stares back at her, unblinking and expressionless.

“Your Majesty.” She says, bowing her head, the words tumbling out quickly. Baekhyun’s hand falls from her elbow and she feels like she’s been caught red-handed, despite the fact that he was barely touching her.

“Would you like some tea?”

He blinks, glancing between them with the slightest frown, but all she can do is nod and follow after the Queen, Baekhyun watching them disappear around the corner.

~.~.~.~.~

“I’m pregnant.” Queen Taeyeon says, just as she’s sipping delicately on the tea in her hands.

She silently commends herself for not choking on the tea as she places the tea back on the table, carefully keeping her expression neutral. “Oh, congratulations! That’s amazing! I wasn’t aware.”

Queen Taeyeon doesn’t clarify that her lack of awareness was due to the fact that no one knew and it only solidifies the fact that he probably knows already. Instead, Taeyeon just stares at her, as if Taeyeon wants her to put everything together on her own.

She thinks back on his insistence, his reluctance to answer why, and there’s a spike of anger at the very pit of her stomach because of course, of course, he had wanted her to find someone else when he had found out that Taeyeon was pregnant. He was just trying to air out his demons, ease his ing guilt.

They stare and stare until Taeyeon puts her teacup down with a light clink that’s entirely too loud, making her jump. Taeyeon speaks slowly, “Look. Let’s just speak frankly with each other.”

She blinks.

Taeyeon stares.

“…Why?” She asks, unable to wrap her head around this situation.

Taeyeon smiles then, her expression lighting up prettily, and she wishes that Taeyeon would at least shout at her or something, because she has no reason to hate the woman and it’d make it easier if she did.

“You love him and he loves you and I love my maid, yet here we are. All for politics.”

“I don’t—wait, what?” She cuts herself off, blinking rapidly in surprise.

“You heard me.”

“I did, but I’m just…in shock?” She frowns, then her eyes widen, “But does he know?”

“Yes, but you must know that he’s a sweetheart. He can’t marry you and he feels bad about it.”

“I’m…I’m his Sword. He can’t marry me no matter how much he wants to. And I don’t care about marriage, I’ve known I wouldn’t be able to marry since I was a kid.”

“That may be right, but it will get lonely.” She keeps staring at her and it’s almost unsettling, how piercing her eyes are. “All you can do is stay by his side, as his Sword in public and behind closed doors otherwise.”

“I know. Why—Why are you telling me this?”

“It’s a lonely life to live, you know. I just want to know if you’re okay with it.”

“Is your maid okay with it?” Her eyes drift sideways, to the paper screen door where the maid in question’s shadow head is turned, despite her kneeling. She shifts her gaze back on Taeyeon and she’s smiling, her eyes lingering on the shadow of her maid. Taeyeon doesn’t answer and she gives her a pointed look, “That should be answer enough.”

Taeyeon laughs and laughs before she says. “I like you. It seems he has great taste in women, myself included.”

There’s a loud choking sound coming from outside the room, presumably from the shadow of the maid and she can’t help but laugh out loud when the sound of a tea cup breaking and a soft curse drifts into the room, Taeyeon grinning all the while.

~.~.~.~.~

She watches him step into the empty training courtyard, stride filled with purpose, swift and agile, his hands clasped behind his back. She’s breathing hard, sweat dripping down her back as she lowers her training sword. She brushes her hair out of her eyes, ignoring the way his eyes flicker over her frame, lingering for a second too long.

(After she had left Queen Taeyeon’s chambers, she had spent days thinking. Thinking of how Taeyeon had practically given her permission to have an affair with her husband, because Taeyeon would be having an affair with her maid all the while, because their marriage was nothing but alliance and business. It was so utterly twisted, the very idea of what was happening here, but she had thought hard about it, reeling over Taeyeon’s words, and her mind seemed to be stuck on just two things. One, Taeyeon was pregnant. And, two, it would be a lonely life.

She had never thought about kids, never seen them as a plausible outcome in her future. She still doesn’t see it that way, but she thinks that’s something the King will have plenty of, and her brain seems unable to stop her from imagining the future, with King Baekhyun and Queen Taeyeon and maybe even three more Queens alongside her, the same way his father and his father’s father had done, and dozens of children, little boys and girls, princes and princesses, running about in their palace. The image is seared into the back of her eyelids, an image that truly has no place for her, not really.

She had lain in bed, lost in thought, and her eyes had prickled with growing intensity, her chest coiling tight, until she was blinking in rapid succession, her nose stinging.

She had lain in bed and remembered hating herself, right then and there, because she thinks, despite the loneliness, she would have been happy to be by his side, share in his happiness as he raised an entire country and children of his own.

And in that self-hatred, she realized that, perhaps, Baekhyun was right after all. She didn’t deserve to be half-loved, hidden behind closed doors. Her world already revolved around him enough, it always had.

(And months later, because the realization had been an epiphany of sorts, slow as it creeped into her thoughts and burrowed itself a home in her head, she had burst into Taeyeon’s chambers, hair all over the place and one sandal missing, and gasped out, “I can’t do it. I—I was wrong. I can’t—”

And Taeyeon had given her a beautifully sad smile, her hand flat over the now visible baby bump forming there, and she had said, “My maid couldn’t do it either.”

She had glanced sideways and the maid tending to Taeyeon now wasn’t the same maid from before. And as she stared between the bewildered maid and Queen Taeyeon she could feel her heart tearing itself in two, three, four pieces, one for Baekhyun, one for her, one for Taeyeon, one for her maid.)

“I saw your letter.” He says as he plucks a wooden training sword off the mantle. He fumbles for a split second, because although he is well-versed in the art of sword fighting, he was never much of a fighting person to begin with, preferring wits over force. His pretty fingers trail along the edge of the wooden sword before he slowly steps towards her, raising it casually. “Since when did you write me letters?”

He taps her limp sword with the edge of his and she frowns at him, even as she raises her own sword. She thinks it’s hardly the time to for sparring practice, especially when this is the first time she hasn’t clammed up when he’d try to talk to her. Especially when he clearly wants to discuss something important.

(“You must know by now.” He had said, after dismissing his servants. She had stared at him from where she was kneeling, watching his grip on his pen tighten in front of her.

“Congratulations, Your Majesty.”

She had watched, silent as stone, as he dropped his pen and looked at her, his pretty pink lips pursed and his eyes flashing. She could see the purple-blue skin under his eyes, the slight gauntness there, barely concealed. Yet, he was still so beautiful. Sad and so, so tired, but so beautiful.

“You should get some rest.” She had said before she slowly pushed herself to her feet.

“I didn’t say you could leave.”

And she had paused in her spot, staring down at him. Though she was towering over him, he had looked so regal, so powerful, his heavy gaze made for a King of their nation. And he is a Great King, a King riddled with decisions and correspondence up to his eyeballs, and a predicted son on the way. He is everything this nation could have wanted, that they needed. He was not only hers to love, and that thought always crawls into her head, reminds her of her place.

Silence, long and drawn out, grew between them and she remembered thinking, if he were a different King, a normal King, he would have made her stay. He could have made her stay. She is his Sword and she can’t do a thing but listen to him. He knows that, he always had, but he’d never use it against her because he always wanted her to be the one to choose.

So his fingers were curled into fists as he let out a soft, staggering sigh and said, “Fine. Go, then.”

And, maybe, if she wasn’t so vindictive, so stubborn, she would have stayed anyway. She could have stayed anyway.

But she didn’t stay and he didn’t ask her to stay.

Sometimes, she would think back on that day and wonder if that’s when they really started to crumble apart.)

He uses his sword to aim a measured hit, a warm-up that she easily knocks away. There’s no force behind it; there never is no matter how many times she ends up pinning him to the ground for going easy on her. “I think you’re getting a little rusty.” She goads, lightly knocking his side with the edge of her wooden sword and laughing when he yelps.

He snorts, but his expression twists into something else, something worse than amusement, something more bitter. They easily slip into the routine of it, though, despite that split second of something else. The light blows, the easy parries, the twirls and ducks, all slip out of them so easily and she finds that she’s missed this, this fluidity, this familiarity. She can see the dim smile playing on his lips, the grin when she aims for his shoulder and he swiftly knocks her arm back, using his other arm to grip her arm, twisting her until his face is this close.

They were—are—best friends, above everything else, she supposes. And she’s missed him. Nothing’s been the same since she’s returned from war.

She uses her foot to knock his legs out from under him and he gasps as he falls backwards. She laughs, loud and unabashed, and she’s too blinded by his grin, one that actually reaches his eyes, to notice him grab her ankle. She screams no fair, laughing on her way down, but he’s already on top of her, his sword flat against . He’s giggling, a soft, musical sound, and she can’t help but laugh, too, at least until reality seems to catch up with them, almost at the same time.

And then he stops abruptly, blinks rapidly, his smile slipping from his face, replaced by a dark, dark look that makes her lightheaded for a moment. His fingers loosen around the wooden sword. Her chest rises and falls, rises and falls, and he glances down, distracted by the movement.

And then he leans down.

(“Stop me whenever you want.” He had said back then, his back pressed to the tree and his eyes pinned on her lips. It hadn’t made sense to her because she could have easily stepped back. He was the one pinned to a tree.)

Her fingers grip the front of his robes and his pupils are blown up, brown almost completely gone. He shifts on top of her, a subtle roll to his hips, and shivers run up her spine, coil up at the pit of her stomach.

She can feel his breath on her face, can feel his weight on her hips, can count every single one of his eyelashes, can map out every plane of his face the way he can map out every star in the sky, and she doesn’t want to be anywhere else but right here.

(“We aren’t supposed to be doing this.” He had gasped, when she pressed her thumb to his cheek, when he slid a hand up her .)

He pauses, hovering just so, his lips millimeters from hers. His nose bumps against hers, his hair tickles her forehead, and she can’t help it, can’t help leaning up and pressing a tiny kiss to the corner of his lips. He sighs, a shuddering thing, as if he’s finally able take a breath after years of exhaling everything. She feels the same way, her back arching so she can get closer. She tugs at the front of his robes, pulls him closer, but she doesn’t quite kiss his lips yet, perhaps because she wants him to make the decision himself. She wants him to meet her halfway. He drags the wooden sword out from between them, his forehead knocking against her nose as he looks down, his eyes fluttering up and down her face. His hands find the sides of her head and finally, finally, he presses her lips against hers, and she can feel the rhythm of his heart beating against hers, can feel her skin ablaze wherever he touches her, the rhythm of his hips, as he gasps against her lips, his fingers curling through her hair, short pretty moans dripping from his lips, sounds she’s missed so much.

“Please.” She sounds so desperate, starved, and perhaps she is. She has been. She grasps at him as if she’s a beggar snatching up food, clinging, grip tight. He smiles against her salty skin, right below her jaw, seems nonchalant though his movements are just as rushed, just as starved. “Please, don’t stop.”

His lips are at the edge of her collar, where her skin is hidden beneath cloth, and when he looks up at her through dark, heavy eyes and long eyelashes, dark hair plastered to his forehead, she threads her fingers through her hair, admires the way the dark strands spill from her fingertips, and smiles so ing fondly despite herself, despite everything. Her cheeks hurt from how wide her smile is. He turns his head and kisses the inside of her wrist with profound care. Her stomach bursts with butterflies, her breathing picks up.

“I’ve missed you.” He murmurs against her naval, his feathery touch gentle, soft as his pretty fingers tiptoe up her thighs. “I always miss you.”

And then he dips down and he doesn’t stop. She doesn’t ask him to.

(This is when they crumble.)

~.~.~.~.~

His hand remains poised, pen frozen midair.

“This is what you want, right?” Baekhyun sounds accusing, almost, mixed with barely concealed disbelief.

But also resigned, as if he can’t do much about it.

She thinks he could, if he would just act like a normal king who takes what he wants, whenever he wants. But she figures that’s what she loves about him, his unusual tenderness.

She nods in response, her cheeks reddening involuntarily when he gives her a long, long look, his bottom lip catching beneath his teeth as he reminds her. “Words, sweetheart.”

She ignores the churning in her stomach as she says, “Yes, this is what I want.”

He stamps the document and the thud of his hand coming down on paper is louder than necessary. “Then that is what you’ll get.”

(“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Your Majesty.”

“Who said I was jealous? Was it Jongdae? I’ll have him—”

She laughed and he cut himself off. “You’re an idiot.” She mumbled.

“I could have you whipped for saying that.” He said. She ignored the edgy undercurrent, the glittering dark eyes, the fluttering stomach, and just snorted before patting his cheek with affection, earning a pout in response.)

“Good.” She says, before spinning on her heels and walking out, nearly running into an obviously eavesdropping Jongdae and Taehyung on her way out. Yixing just gives her a look, a look that reminds her too much of Minseok. She ignores Hoseok’s are you okay and half-walks, half-runs back to her room.

~.~.~.~.~

She is there when the baby is born. She isn’t sure why, really, just that Taeyeon’s maid had asked her to come, hurriedly mentioning something about Taeyeon wanting her there as the maid dragged her along by the arm.

She walks past a pacing Baekhyun, just outside the room, and ignores his inquiring gaze by firmly shutting the sliding door in his face.

Taeyeon looks so utterly unlike her usual self, her hair all over the place, her eyes wild, and twisted with annoyance. Her demeanor is everything but the calm, almost stoic, Queen she’s always been.

“I’ll ing kill him.” Taeyeon shrieks, her face red, and she can’t help but laugh as she grasps Taeyeon’s hand, only to cut herself off when Taeyeon turns her deadly glare on her, her grip tight enough to stop circulation, and says, “Don’t you ing dare laugh or I’ll kill you too.”

She resorts to words of comfort and lamenting the pain in her hand from Taeyeon’s bone-crushing grip.

She is there when the baby is finally born and it’s a baby boy, just as the palace astrologist predicted. Taeyeon’s face is red, shining with sweat, but her smile is lovely. The baby is just as red, wrinkly the same way she is when she stays in the bath too long, there’s something almost sweet about the sight. Something that has her looking on with inexplicable affection swelling in her chest.

When Baekhyun appears, looking haggard and so, so worried, she nearly jumps out of her skin. But then he reaches for the baby and his smile grows and grows, especially when he fingers his tiny hands and the baby stops crying so hard.

Her heart swells again, so big that it makes it hard to breathe.

“I want you to be their guardian.” Taeyeon says, pausing to take a deep breath before she continues, Taeyeon’s eyes on her, “In case something were t—to happen to me.”

There’s a twinge of pain in her neck because of how fast her head snaps to the side, expression incredulous. “What are you—”

“Especially the girls.” Taeyeon adds, her cheeks rosy and her expression exhausted, though there’s something utterly fierce there in her eyes, “Since they won’t have a Sword to protect them, they’ll need you most.”

She thinks of Soojung, then, and when she glances at Baekhyun, rocking his son gently in his arms, she knows he’s thinking of Soojung, too. His tender expression is obscured by melancholy.

“I don’t know.” She murmurs, because she wasn’t expecting this. She doesn’t get why Taeyeon would want this of her.

Then Baekhyun looks up and actually meets her gaze with something other than gloom or indignation. There’s just determination of his own lighting up his brown eyes. “Taeyeon is right. I trust you with their lives.”

Her heart twists. Taeyeon smiles. Baekhyun keeps staring.

(This is when they crumble into distant memories and long, lingering looks.)

~.~.~.~.~

The loneliness quickly becomes unbearable.

(Taeyeon could attest to that, she thinks, because she finds herself noticing Taeyeon writing more letters than she used to. To whom, she’ll never know, but she knows Taeyeon never sends them. They just sit on her desk in a neat pile and she’s been meaning to ask about them, but she has no idea how. She doesn’t want to admit that she begins to notice Taeyeon spending more time with Baekhyun, too, and they laugh together, take more walks in the courtyard together, more than they used to, and she’d be lying if she says she was indifferent.)

It’s not necessarily loneliness during the day, because during the day she’s guarding Baekhyun, training with Yixing or Junmyeon or Hoseok, teaching their child (and Sehun and Taehyung) to fight with swords, training the future princes’ possible Swords, double-checking palace security and war tactics with Jongin, kicking Jongdae in the shins for being an idiot, or reading with Taeyeon. She’s never alone, not once, during the day.

(Sometimes she wonders if they do it on purpose. Jongdae certainly gives her strange looks, nowadays. He tells her she should sit at Minseok’s grave sometime and maybe Minseok will be nice enough to bless her with some wits. That’s usually why she kicks him.)

But there are days when she is left to her own devices. There are nights when she lies awake in her too-big room with her too-full thoughts. That is when the loneliness becomes most unbearable.

That is when she meets General Min Yoongi at a war tactic meeting and she thinks maybe she’ll be fine.

~.~.~.~.~

Queen Mother looks her in the eye, her smile polite. She is much older than before, wrinkles forming where she smiles.

“Better late than never.”

She narrows her eyes and mutters, “…Thank you?”

For a moment, a short almost unnoticeable moment, Queen Mother gives her a genuine, almost sympathetic smile. “It’s better this way.”

She isn’t so sure, but at least General Min Yoongi makes her laugh.

(Baekhyun doesn’t stay through the whole wedding ceremony. She finds it in herself not to care.)

~.~.~.~.~

She is there when the other children are born, too.

She may be vindictive and bitter, missing him despite the fact that she’s married now, but she can’t find it in herself to hate his children and what they represent. Not when they giggle the way they do, not when they’d tumble over each other in the grass and play-fight in the courtyard and the youngest girl reminds her of Baekhyun more than any of the three boys. Not when they make her laugh. Not when she learns to love them so, so much, that they are practically her own.

(Especially when she can’t have kids of her own because nine months of pregnancy will only hinder her duty to protect the King. They can’t afford that now, not during times of war.)

Yoongi straightens up from ruffling one of the little prince’s heads, his black hair sticking out all over the place and his pout oddly reminiscent of Baekhyun’s, though his piercing eyes are all Taeyeon. Anxiety bubbles up in her stomach because he is leaving for the battefield, but Yoongi just smiles, easily, nonchalantly. He is never nervous about anything and it’s a trait that manages to help put her at ease. Even if he’s heading south, to stop a rebel campaign headed straight for the palace that sounds more dangerous than the battle she had been in.

As if he can sense her anxiety, he gently pats her hand and kisses her cheek in farewell.

“Don’t die.” She says, a little too bluntly because of the anxiety. “I’ll be angry.”

Yoongi laughs, his mouth wide, and she hates that she wishes it were someone else’s laugh she was hearing because Yoongi doesn’t deserve that, “As if you’ll get rid of me so easily.”

“If I wanted to get rid of you, I could just as easily do it myself.”

Yoongi smiles, rolls his eyes, and says yeah right. Before she can respond, he gives her one last kiss on the cheek before he starts to walk away, waving back over his shoulder at her multiple times, and she can’t help but smile in his stead.

She turns, still smiling, and Baekhyun is there, kneeling in front of his daughter, though his eyes seem to be set only on her.

Her smile falters because he is not smiling at her.

“I thought you were going to help them practice.” He says, his tone unbearably formal.

“They wanted to play in the field.” She responds, tone a little awkward.

She watches him lift his daughter into his arms, the same daughter that looks so much like him, and her heart jumps in her chest, beating rapidly against . He nuzzles her nose and giggles, squealing in delight. Her heart jumps.

Here they are, standing in a field, green grass ankle high and flowers blooming all around them, reds and yellows and whites and purples blurring together. The wind blows gently, carrying the sweet scent of sweets baking in the kitchens. He’s a couple feet away, but he feels much closer. She can see the tree in the corner, mighty branches that used to shelter them from the summer heat when they’d come out to play, as young children, still as strong as ever. She remembers it’s droopy leaves tickling her face as she ducked underneath them, taking care to avoid getting a mouthful of leaves whenever she’d turn back to goad on Baekhyun, Jongdae, or Minseok when they’d take too long to find her. The palace glitters through the trees and the little field feels almost dreamlike, like a lost paradise in the midst of burning war. When she looks up, the sky is a clear, cloudless blue. When she glances sideways, there is the lake where they’d lay on their stomachs and watch the canoes drift by. She stares at him, at the little girl tucked against his chest, babbling nonsense he nods along at, and her heart nearly bursts apart. She thinks it should be impossible, because her heart had been torn into pieces long ago, but what was left of her heart is his, too, and it’s breaking, rupturing, and she’s staring and staring. She can’t look away and her thoughts whisper a malicious, this is what you could have had and she loathes that voice the most.

She blinks rapidly and his eyes are fixed on her. He’s stepping towards her, and she’s stepping away, stumbling over her own feet ungracefully, in a way that completely contradicts who she is, as a graceful swordswoman.

He takes another step.

She runs.

~.~.~.~.~

He finds her crying, later, and, through her blurry vision, she catches sight of the same brokenness on his face as she feels in her chest.

She’s crying so hard she can barely breathe.

She could have had all of this with him; in another universe, maybe another lifetime, she could have been truly, completely happy. But not here, definitely not now, and she’s heaving for air, hands curled into fists at her stomach as she rests her head against the wall. She cries for all the kisses they could have had, the wedding they could have had, the touches they could have shared, the books they could have read together, the kids they could have had, the—the years, decades, they could have wasted away together. She cries for the memories, all the what-ifs, for the memories, for the goddamn lingering looks that could have mounted to something, anything.

She clutches at the cloth at her stomach when she feels arms wrap around her, holding her tight, the warmth of him so utterly familiar, so secure that it only makes her sob louder. He moves her head off the wall and onto his shoulder. “I don’t—Please, don’t—” She can barely formulate words.

But Baekhyun holds her so, so tight and just whispers, “I’m so sorry.” Over and over again, though it doesn’t relieve any of the pain. Her chest hurts so much and she doesn’t think it’ll ever stop hurting and all he can do is hold her in his arms and whisper sorry in a horribly pained, haunted voice.

(This is when they crumble, hearts and all, and she thinks it was a long time coming. Better late than never, as the soon-to-be late Queen Mother had loved to say.)

~.~.~.~.~

Yoongi and his army don’t return, except for one man, bleeding and exhausted and heaving for air as he relays what had happened.

She is given no time to grieve.

Because the messenger, the single survivor of the army Yoongi had led, was sent by the rebels, told to run as fast as he could, to inform them that the Rebel King will be at their door in a few hours. That he’s already scaled the countryside, burning resisters to the ground and killing men, women, and children loyal to the King. If they flee, the Rebel King had said, then he will find them. If they stay, he will kill them. So what will the King’s choice be?

She finds him ripping his hair out over maps in the war room, trying and failing to strategize. They’ve sent horseman through land routes and they are all said to be barricaded. They are surrounded, trapped as the Rebel King and his army advances.

He shoves the maps off the table, his hands gripping the edges tightly as he looks up, breathing heavily, his eyes somber, wild.

“I don’t know what to do.” And he looks at her with so much hope, as if she’ll have all the answers, when in reality she is just as lost as he is. He looks the way he did when he was eighteen and onto the throne because of an untimely death.

“Baekhyun.” She murmurs, stepping closer, her gaze finding his, “This is your kingdom.”

“And they’re burning it down.” Baekhyun pushes a pretty hand through his hair.

“Then stop them.” She shakes her head, whispers, “Burn with it if you have to.”

His eyes fill with anguish. He looks like he wants to kiss her, drag her down to whatever headspace he’s in, relish in her, drown in her if only to forget where he is. It’s like the first time, when the grief was talking and he didn’t know what to do.

It’s a testament to who he is, how much he’s grown, how many years has passed between them, when he just kneels and picks up the maps, straightening them before kneeling over his table.

“Help me.” He asks, finally asks rather than wait for her to make the decision herself.

She crouches on the other side of the table and helps.

~.~.~.~.~

She readies their men, the archer’s arrows on standby. Yixing had sat there, in there too-spacious, almost empty war room, and stated rather bluntly that the royal bloodline cannot die tonight.

He had looked Baekhyun dead in the eye as he said it.

“What kind of King would I be if I let everyone else die for me?” Baekhyun asks, raising a brow.

She can’t help but quip out, “A normal one.”

He smiles, grins really, and Yixing gives them both a confused look when their smiles don’t let up that pairs excellently with Jongdae’s incredulous eye roll.

~.~.~.~.~

The boat rocks back and forth gently against the current, an almost surreal sight to behold when all she can think of is the oncoming army storming towards them, so loud that they can already hear their jeers echoing through the silent night.

“I’m not going.” Sehun glares vehemently at each and every one of them, but his fingers are trembling.

Taehyung isn’t smiling and the sight looks so awfully out of place on him, “Neither will I.”

“You both know how to get to Uncle Heechul’s.” Jongin says, scowling slightly when Sehun’s glare just deepens.

They’re shouting their refusal while Junmyeon shushes Sehun, murmurs something she can’t hear, especially when Taeyeon pulls her aside, her children huddled against her. She can’t help but notice Baekhyun kneeling, kissing each of their foreheads and murmuring to them, the kids so, so quiet as they cling to Taeyeon and him, because even they can sense the tension around them.

“You are my everything. Please, remember that. One day, you may have to reclaim the throne and it will hurt. You will suffer. I am so sorry for that. I’ve made so many people suffer, you know…” She hears him murmur and she forces herself to turn away, ignore what he’s saying because there’s something almost intimate about the words leaving his mouth. Something almost sacred that she feels she shouldn’t hear. Instead she really looks at Taeyeon, who has a reassuring hand pressed to his shoulder. Taeyeon’s other hand is at her elbow.

Taeyeon reaches towards her and places a soft kiss against her cheek. “Thank you for everything.”

It’s so, so genuine that it makes her heart swell and splinter all at once.

“Be careful.” She replies. “Please.”

Taeyeon smiles and nods, her eyes glistening.

She watches, with a sinking heart as Baekhyun pulls Taeyeon into a hug that feels entirely too final. When Taeyeon turns away, ushering their children alongside her and into the boat, there’s dread bubbling in her stomach. She turns to look at Sehun, at Taehyung, and her eyes begin to sting, especially when Sehun’s bottom lip keeps trembling and Taehyung clings to her tightly, blabbering everything and anything he can. Junmyeon ruffles her hair and Hoseok gives her a huge grin and a kiss on the cheek, but there’s something awfully irrevocable blanketing all of their movements.

Junmyeon and Hoseok practically drag Sehun and Taehyung into the boat. Jongin is sniffling, but he looks determined, the same way Jongdae does. They watch the boat sail away, the stars sparkling over the surface of the lake in a beautiful, almost dreamlike way, white-yellow sprinkled over blue-black, like a mirror reflecting the entire universe. As the boat disappears, she can feel a part of her heart disappearing as well. She feels like the end is nearing and it’s disconcerting, heavy on her heart. Vaguely, she wonders how many pieces her heart can break into, will she be able to give it all away before it’s time for her to go?

“You should have gone with them.” She says, her voice loud in the heavy silence between all of them. “You’re the King.”

“Kings don’t run.” He tells her.

She feels him regarding her and she finally looks, carefully examines the planes of his face, how they’ve become sharper over the years, just like his smile, how his eyes have little laughter lines surrounding them, how they sparkle the same way they did when she first met him as a child, and she tries to memorize it, one last time. He looks like he’s doing the same to her.

And then he places a gentle arm around her and brings her head into the crook of his neck, kissing her temple gently, carefully. She sighs and they both stand like that for a moment, staring at the water, his fingers drawing circles, the motion soothing.

It’s serene, peaceful, and she truly wishes she could live in this moment forever, wishes they didn’t have to fight a battle where all the odds were against them. She wishes she could live here forever because maybe, then, love would have a place in a Sword’s life. And, most certainly, a King’s.

“Do you two need a moment?” Jongdae asks, tone both amused and incredibly cynical, breaking her out of her reverie. Baekhyun jumps, cursing loudly at the sudden interruption.

She sighs and proceeds to kick Jongdae in the shin, earning a high whine from Jongdae, snickering from Jongin and Yixing, and laughter, beautiful loud laughter, from Baekhyun.

~.~.~.~.~

The Rebel King, with darkly lined, big eyes, strange ears, and the name Chanyeol, sets the sky on fire, darkens the already dark sky with a curtain of arrows, and floods the palace grounds with an army much bigger than the one they had left at the palace.

She already knew this was how it would go.

So she tries to set him ablaze, when the Rebel King rounds on them, when she’s the only thing blocking him from Baekhyun and his crown, from the heavenly mandate he believes is rightfully his.

She breaks a lantern, watches the fire consume his cloak and the Rebel King screams, lashing out with his sharp, golden sword as he tears his long coat off him. She snickers and the Rebel King growls at her. Baekhyun lands a hit, gets him between the ribs, and she grins at him, elated, dirt streaking her face and pain shooting up her leg, but so ing elated.

Baekhyun’s expression changes from glee to shock and then he is moving and before she can say anything, do anything, think things through, the Rebel King is laughing, cackling like mad.

The sword goes straight through Baekhyun and she screams, lunges for the Rebel King when he twists his sword, laughing all the while. “This is what happens when a King hides behind a woman’s skirts.”

(This is how he crumbles, gasping for air that won't help.)

She watches from the corner of her eye as Baekhyun’s eyes flutter, as he reaches out to her, as if he still wants to help her, his mouth moving though there are no discernable words coming out.

“Pathetic.” The Rebel King bites out and she rounds on him, blood ablaze with anger.

She’s so angry because she was the one that was supposed to be stabbed and no King should step in for their Sword. She’s so, so angry and she finds herself slashing and stabbing, relishing in the Rebel King’s deep cries when she manages to slice at him. She is fueled by anger, blinded by it. Her eyes sting and only then does she realize that she’s crying, her screams lilting up before cracking, breaking off into weak sobs. She’s surrounded but she keeps going.

She keeps going.

(This is how she crumbles.)

a/n: this is the fastest I've written something in a while. Like...I love having inspiration for things lol. But thank you to everyone who subscribed! tbh this narrative is really confusing this is why I don't write everything in one/two days....anyways I hope you liked it!!!! Leave yours thoughts down below! I love you all so much!!!

xoxo