The pain wasn't the worst part.

He barely remembers feeling anything. It was all numbed by the onslaught of adrenaline coursing through his veins. The natural response kicked in, right when the dogs bared their sharp canines and pounced forward.

Their barks were thunderous, piercing his ears and making his heart hammer in his chest. He tried to scramble away, but his limbs went limp under the overwhelming fear. He stumbled hard onto the wet gravel road, knees and elbows scraping and dragging on the rough surface.

The dogs were relentless, their claws instantaneously upon him, ripping and tearing. Shielding his face with both arms, he curled up and started to crawl, heart pounding and tears welling up in his eyes.

In his peripheral, people on the street shift and linger like ominous shadows, overlapping each other. The murmurs were punctured by loud snickers, clouding his mind, cutting deeper than the physical pain.

All he wanted, was for the world to leave him be. Just a moment, to grovel away silently and endure in solitude. But the palace guards’ scornful jeering continues, and the dogs grow brazen with each passing minute, eyes burning with vicious excitement at the smell of ferrous blood oozing from his wounds.

The realization finally dawned on him, that nobody was going to help. He’s alone, unequivocally and absolutely. Yet something else grew from the totality of the thought, amidst the ragged breath and cold sweat beading down from his face.

A simmering rage, festering and culminating over the years, finally spills over. The weary footsteps of father staggering home in the dark, the pitter patter of raindrops on the leaky roof, and the smell of putrid staleness in the air as he wasted away in high fever - fragments of thoughts tangled together, suddenly ignited by the spark of rebellion that could no longer be ignored.

The rest became a bit blurry.

He remembers the fear in the bystanders’ eyes, and the yelps of the dogs. He kicked and punched with a savageness that blinded all his sense, saved for the fury from within threatening to decimate all. By the time he was physically torn away by the guards, his arms and torso were covered in bright blood smears, some his own.

Yoongi was twelve back then. In thirteen years, he will lead the thousands of revolutionists through the streets of Paris, eyes shining with the same blinding fury as his own, face reflected under the bright flickering torchlight. Together they will destroy the very palace he had stumbled in front of, and dare to obliterate the divine monarchy of God.

---

The coat fabric is thick and of a brilliant blue, deep and mesmerizing, matching Taehyung’s twinkling eyes.

Jimin has a certain penchant for the color, curling his lips ever so slightly every time he spots it on the Grand Royal Coat of Arms. The golden arches of the crown gleam, flanked by a fluttering banner with the motto of the kingdom - Montjoie Saint Denis. Battlecry of the warrior forefathers, how ironic that the same brilliant blue now decorates the frilly coats of the lounging nobles.

Not that Taehyung doesn't make it look stunning.

He's leaning onto the tall gilded door frame, straining his neck to peek at the royal court receiving some young somber noble from the countryside. Jimin lounges by the window in the expansive hallway, bored and inexplicably restless.

“This guy is… different.” Taehyung mumbles, eyes fixated inside the room.

Jimin hums. Outside the window, a sparrow flaps its wings on a tree branch. Something frantic about its movement, making him anxious.

“Never heard of his family before, but man, those eyes...” Taehyung arches his eyebrow, “I feel another bet coming up.”

Jimin replies, “thought you just said he sounded like a boring religious recluse.”

Taehyung shrugs, “well, what else do we have going on. Mmm those lips… I say - in bed in a month?”

Jimin yawns, shoulders slouching into the chaise more, “if you want. I need evidence though, you have to break his heart, destroy him enough for all to see.”

“Of course, no pleasure in winning without proof.” Taehyung flashes him a hollow little smile. “And the reward?”

“The reward…” Jimin brings his fingers to his mouth absently, the polished gem on his ring grazing by his lips, “well, maybe after all this, you can come to my estate for the night.”

“Oh, I thought you don't bed friends.” Taehyung scoffs.

“There are exceptions to rules, given the right circumstance.” Jimin responds, voice flat. After a pause, he adds, “did you hear the regent is calling a meeting with all three estates?”

Taehyung’s preoccupied, snickering and gesturing to someone within the room, with a carefree smirk by his lips, “you know I don’t care about politics. What a bore, better not tell us to cut back on all the festivities again.”

“Unfortunately, it might be a bit more than that this time…” Jimin’s glance is back through the window. The bird is gone, all that’s left is the grey cloudy sky, and the empty branch vibrating in the wind.

The year is 1789. Unbeknown to both of them, in five months, Versaille and the world as they know will crumble and fall. And Taehyung will be dead, along with hundreds of Jimin’s friends and acquaintances, victims to the black undertow that swallows up Paris in the blink of an eye.