Life was valued as short, precious and cherished. But when life became a journey that outlived the fall of mighty things, there was nothing more we wish upon ourselves besides the closing curtains of death. That was our reality, my brother and I. We lived endless lives, for centuries. Never aging. Never weakening. Only desparate to see the end of our so-called "gift". At least, that is what the King's advisor put it as. Before now, we were just two town kids, children of the local blacksmith, widowed when my mother died giving birth to me. He rarely spoke of her then, and even now, where is corspe lies in the family grave, he whispers no word of her. 

It happened spontaneously. We were in the workyard, testing the newly smithed swords. Being one of the only blacksmiths of his kind, my father often alowed my brother and I to wield his own designs, testing their efficiency, strength and fluidity. Such was also a method to teach my brother and I how to properly wield one, and how to utilise it. Growing up surrounded by weapons, fire and the cool stench of smoldering metal divided me amongst other girls. I suppose that was the main catalyst to my aggeression even till now. By then, my brother had reached past his teenage years. A real man, he would always say whenever the topic was ever brought up. I, being six years younger, was nearing the end of my years as a teen. Seventeen? I guess. 

I twirled the sword delicately between my fingers and the blade whipped sharply to my side, coming to an abrupt halt, tip pointing unwaveringly at my brother. Before he could even lift his weapon, he dropped to his knees burying them into the dirt as he screeched and hollered in twisting and distorted agony. My father and I hastily scrambled to his side and he, now bent over and shivering, begging for mercy. 

"Oppa!" I cried into his ear as my quivering arm hovered over him, unsure of what to do. 

"Joon Hee, no!" my father bellowed, snapping my wrist from my brother, "He could be sick."

"Sick? With what?" 

"I don't know, but you don't touch him. Understand?" Through jaggered breaths, I nodded and retreated back to the doorway that led into the workhouse. My father, built heavily after years and years of welding, smoldering and shifting metal, wrapped rags around my brother's arms before slowly lifting if off the dirt,

"Chanyeol-ah, what happened to you?" I heard my father whisper, but only barely as my brother continued to howl into the mid-day sun.

They did not make it as far as halfway before swords began plunging down my spine. I plummetted into the ground, driving myself into the dirt as the wrenching pain lashed out in every possible way. I could only hear the grotesque shrieks gurgling out of my own mouth before a dark shadow loomed over me. Although my father's mouth moved no sound nor words resonated back at me. Only the horror of my own screams and the crunching of dirt beneath me was all I could bare. It wasn't long before the pain finally withdrew, like the ocean tides drawing back into the sea before lashing out again, except, they did not. However, the absence of pain brought about a long and silent darkness, to which I completely lost  lmyself.

My father said that it wasn't long until I reached consciousness, but rather than that, he was more surprised that both my brother and I made full recoverys. "No fevers, no bleeding, no nothing," he said. I knew more than to question it. Afterall, I was feeling extraordinary as to the previous week of muscle pains and weariness. It was the best I had felt in a long time. Chan Yeol was quick to agree as he began to stretch and flex, showing off his tall physique under the fabric of his hanbok. 

"However, Joon Hee-ah, Chan Yeol-ah, you must not tell a soul about what happened today. No one. Got it?" We both nodded in obidience. Chan Yeol and I both knew of the consequences of such absurd occurances. Witchcraft, people would utter shortly before you were hung by your neck over a blazing fire. From then on, it was a normal day. While my father and my brother were handling the smithing at the workshop, it was my duty to tend for the rest of the goods. Afterall, a girl was a girl no matter who she played with. It was late morning and the streets of the market were still buzzing with lightly coloured silk and long flowing hair. Mine was plaited neatly and tightly down the length of my back, swaying ever so slightly to the rhythm of my stroll. Seeing the familar faces down the pathway, the butcher's wife and son, the artisan that lived only footsteps from the door of the shop, I lowered my head to them all as I made my way to the core of the market with the hand-made straw basket held tightly to my chest. 

With the basket half full of the necessities of the month, I continued down the lane towards the posts that roped down the horses. They had always facinated me. Their bulging muscles, curtain of hair and their chiseled faces that held their solemn eyes. I neared in closer to one, hand cautiously stretching out to meet the base of its neck. The stallion of an ash-like brown stumbled steps back before reaching its snout ever so carefully, curious of the hand that hovered towards it. 

"What do you think you're doing, girl?" uttered a scratchy voice from behind my shoulder. I rapidly darted out of reach, turning to the voice which left only shudders and shivers. The boy reminded me much of my brother. Yet his eyes were much darker in comparison to flourishing colour of his clothing. A rich boy, I assumed. Explained the horse. 

"I was just looking," I murmered, eyes darting down from this beady gaze. 

"You really shouldn't be touching other people's horses," he replied, edging closer as I stood frozen in the gravel.

"I'm so sorry. I just didn't know who's horse it was and-" 

"Despicable!" The boy yelled, snatching at my chin as he pulled my face to meet his. He cowered over me dramatically as his blackend eyes pierced through mine, "You look at me when you speak, girl."

My free hand carefully brushed against the handle of my sword, so descretely hidden under my dress. A tender than rested upon mine while another gripped upon the boy's as it tightly held my chin,

"Let go," was all my brother said. The boy chuckled and struggled out of my brother's grasp, letting me go as well. Although the boy was charged with anger, my brother hastily clasped onto my wrist before pulling me away into the crowd at a hastend pace. However, the boy lauched at my basket and forearm before dragging me towards him. Without thought, I dropped the basket before I swung my leg to pin his clenching arm into the dirt. He howled yet not for long. His hands reached up my leg, pulling me down with him. Before he could do much further, the glinting sheen of a blade pointed sharply towards him. All movement stopped. Event the bustling market had come to a standstill, eeriely watching for what was to unfold. 

"I am ending this," Chan Yeol growled through gritted teeth. The boy hesitantly began to back away as my brother pulled me quickly to my feet. Hand now clutching my sword through the pastel pink fabric, I watched the boy with quickened breaths. Heart throbing heavily against my chest. By now, a small group gathered around the boy, their hefty muscles contrasting his lanky stature. Both me and my brother knew without knowing what exactly was to come. 

Having been training with the sword for a long as time would tell, I was far more than ready to do what was needed to be done, especially with Chan Yeol by my side. The boys too, drew out their swords, and I followed with mine nearing closer to my brother as the air began to thicken around us. No one dared to speak nor utter a single sound, such tension was tight enough to snap the metal of our very blades. 

"Not now," the boy grumbled as he held the shoulder of a boy, whom noteably had a scar running past his ear down to the middle of his cheek, as if mimicking the structure of his cheekbone. The scarred boy submissively withdrew and with that, the others followed the cue. 

"You wouldn't want to get into a fight with these two. They're the swordsmith's kids," he teased before saddling upon the horse and trotted off, his lackys eating the dust as they trailed behind him. 

When the dirt kicked up from the hooves of the horse began to settle and the business of the market waddled on, Chan Yeol and I stood there unsure of what went down. Yet all my brother could say was, "This isn't good."

I scalvaged whatever fruit and goods was left undamaged by the hustle into the basket as we both hurried home before the sun could disappear behind the vast forest that lined the sky. 

The smoke in the workshop, the dazzling flames that visciously lapped at the sky and the crumbling ashes that befalled upon us. The flames continued to gather and the stench of sour ash began to hang heavily in the air. All I could do was helplessly watch the disaster unfold. Then, from the ashes of what used to be our front porch, something shifted in the dense blackness of the smoke. 

"Father!" Chanyeol and I yelped as we faltered to our father's side, heaving at the flames and he dragged him out of the heat and into the clearing. The neighbours began to gather, crying uselessly at the destruction whilst others murmmered whispers of sympathy and pity. 

"Appa..." I mumbled as the salty tears mixed with the flecks of ash, leaving a rotten taste in my mouth. His body, able but limp lay in a heap between my brother and I. His work clothing, charred to the point where the colour had faded to nothing by black and grey. His skin scortched by the tongues of the flames, bleeding and peeling the worst of places. He was not breathing.

It was the first time then, I had seen my brother cry. Chan Yeol had always been the one for laughs and joy, there was never a down day. Not with my brother around. His eyes that were once filled with the light of other's happiness were now drained of anything and remained a dull brown. His cheeks dotted with flakes of ash, smothered in the grey of smoke and dust and they mixed with the tears that streamed like the rapid rivers of the valley. 

As if waiting for a spontaneous miracle to occur, we waited in the silence of the burning flames and the growing muttering of the townspeople. More had gathered, but not to express their worries. They were pointing at us, Chan Yeol and I. Their hand covered their faces of disgust, horror and shock,

"Did you see that?" said one, "They just-just,"

"They're monsters."

My brother looked up at me, eyes swollen from the sting of the fumes and the saltiness of the tears that welled in his black eyes. They sensed urgency, danger. Like the the wavering eyes of a deer as she senses death. Chan Yeol was not one to run away from danger, but today was different. Things had changed, circumstances shifted and the situtation was dire as we knelted in the rubble besides the limp body of our father. 

"We can't leave him, Chan Yeol," I whispered harshly, holding tightly to the hands of my brother and father, urging him to stay. Our father was the only thing we had left, he was out carer, our protector and our dad. 

"We don't have a choice. There's something wrong, and you know it," he beckoned, tightly squeezing my shoulder, "Joon Hee-ah, we have to go. We are not safe. Who ever did this, they're not done yet." 

And sure enough, the grinding thumping of hooves on gravel erupted into the air, filling the atmosphere with sound as the roar of the fire damped to whispering whimpers. People began to shift, dispersing back to their business as the galloping grew louder. Chan Yeol leant over my father and hastily placed a single kiss on my father's undamaged forehead before heaving himself off the ground. Clutching onto my father's arms, I held onto his body, "Until we meet again," I whispered and hesitantly hurried after my brother.

"We have to head into the woods, I know a place there," my brother grumbed urgently. The smell of ash still lingered in the air as I opened my mouth to answer. But then there was a razor whistle that piereced the air before it punctured my skin. A tedious prick followed by the fading of light and the birth of darkness and I collapsed into my brother's arms, before he too, crumbled to the ground. A thin needle dug deep into my brother's neck, a tranquiliser. On its tail, branded in red, was the harrowing emblem of the Joseon royal family. 

 

---

 

It was the palace. The main palace. The colours of the pillars and the embellishments of wood glistened under the low gleam of the hanging lanterns. They brought us into the throne room, the most central part of the palace. Adorned with carvings and paintings of gold, red and all colours in their vibrant fashion, the throne room stood eeriely still as Chan Yeol and I, now dressed in clean robes of the muted hues of pink and blue, approached His Majesty's throne. We were ordered not to even look at his feet, let alone his face. But it was hard to ignore the King's glittering hanbok of red and gold that hung graciously off the arms of his brilliant red throne. 

Shoved by the royal guards, we came to kneel before the King, himself, as he sat in all grace, perched in his throne eyeing us like prey. A shorter, more older male shuffled to the King's aid, eyes sheltered to the ground to avoid this King's leering eyes. 

He said, "These are the children, pyeha." Without looking up, I could feel the eyes of the King barrowing its way into the back of my head. I dared not to speak, but my brother knew no shame.

"Pyeha," my brother said heavily, bringing silence to the throne room. "We need help."

"How dare you speak before the King," hissed the King's advisor but he was quickly silenced by the King.

"Help? Well isn't that funny, you were brought before me because I needed yours,"

"Pyeha?" Chan Yeol asked. Returning no reply, the King nodded at the royal guards monitoring behind us. Suddenly, their ragged hands seized my arms, pinning them to my back. I lashed out at them, squirming and biting, but they held back relentlessly until the joints in my shoulders began to ache and my breaths quickened as I sank back into the floor. Chan Yeol pulled off a harder fight, kicking and headbutting until he was finally subdued by the larger of the guards. 

Concealed within the folds of their dark blue robes, some stained with the gloom of blood, were their slender daggers to which they drew. I tried desperately to lunge out of their locking grip, causing the skin around my wrists to burn pink and tender. But my raw wrists were the least of my problems. The blade of the dagger edged nearer and fear began to erradicate all sound as the blood pumped heavily in my ears. Only the faint screaming of my brother, begging and crying for them to stop. Soon, the eerie cool touch of the gleaming dagger came to the delicate skin of my throat. Vision blurred with tears, mumbled over and over again, pleading them to stop. But the knife only dug deeper until blood began to run. The tearing singe of blade through skin and the one, single swap of the knife through my throat sent me crashing to the ground, hands clutching at the gaping wound that ran red with blood. 

"The boy, too," the King ordered as Chan Yeol, teeth clenched, glistening with his saliva and tears. I couldn't bare to watch, but my body did not comply. The swift slash slicing through his neck, the rivers of blood that poured mercilessly from his throat. His one last glance at his dying sister, and his cold, hard plummet to the wooden floor beside me. 

I yearned to say his name, to call out to him, he was always there when I beckoned. But now he lay in a lifeless heap, eyes red but blinking, staring at me with no emotion. 

Is this what death felt like? I thought to myself. The pain was only short and faint, much to my surprise. When minutes passed and the room remained still, everything was mellow, as if blood had not be spilt. My hand hovered to my itching throat, weary of the fatal cut that stained my throat red. Yet, there was nothing but the flakes of dry blood. 

"What's going on," I whispered to myself. There was absolutely nothing, not even any scarring, "...Chan Yeol oppa." He too, had come to his senses, groping harshless around his neck, scratching at the non-existent wound, the one which has littered the floor with his blood,

"Just as I thought," stated the King, still sitting placidly at his throne. The wrinkles that lined his mouth creased dramatically as a sly smirk appeared eeriely across his face. 

"What do you mean...pyeha?" I grunted. 

"Children, you are indeed very lucky," he chuckled, "I have given you eternal life." 

"Eternal life?" Chan Yeol snarled. The veins that trailed down his arm throbbed and his clenched fist trembled immensely,

"Would you have rather died?" The question muted my brother, but he only dug his nails deeper into his palms. It was not long until he would draw blood, "but, my lovely gift comes at a price."

Hesitantly, with quivering eyes, I lifted my head, facing the King himself. He was not as young as the talk in the market has described him. The lengthy wars had taken a toll on the King, who may have once been handsome before age began its deed. His thin beard gathered densely at his chin before dispersing into whisps of hair as it approached his ears. His eyes were just like any other, a charcoal black that glittered every so often under the faint lantern light. The crevices that borded his eyes had sunken into his skin, creating vast shadows under the dim light of his eyes. 

It was a dull silent, filled only by the fragile flicker of the lantern flame, until he spoke once more,

"An eternal life must not be wasted, but cherished, utilised. You are still subjects under your King and you will serve not only the King, but all of Joseon."

The King, for the first time since meeting, stood effortlessly out of his raised throne. His vivid red hanbok, decorated with the delicate embroidry of spiraling dragons, fell like elegant curtains as he stepped down from his prized seat, 

"You will now serve me, and the kings to proceed me, for all your life and eternity,"

"And if we don't?" questioned Chan Yeol. His chest heaved up and down rapidly, grunting as he did so. If anything else, Chan Yeol was irrational when his emotions took the better of him. Although it made him genuine, it made him foolhardy,

"Oppa, don't do this," I quietly murmered, resting my pale hand against his, clasping over them,

"Oh but you will, afterall, everyone that you love are dead, are they not?"

And just like that, not matter how much we opposed the reality, the inevitable truth, our fate, we became the Joseon King's personal servants. Every day we served the king, every order we obided. We became the 'loyal' dogs for the King, and that was how it was supposed to be. Until the end of time.