November, 1789

“Make it memorable.”

“Hmm?” Jimin turns around from the window, fingers smoothing back a loose strand of blonde hair absently.

“Papa’s order. It's our first time meeting him, after all.”

“And what does he wish me to do? Throw myself at his feet and pledge my undying allegiance?” His voice is icy. “Or maybe Papa wishes for me to play coy, flash him a bit of skin, a tease of what I can offer later?”

Victoria frowns and averts her gaze, “you know I dislike this as much as you do. But we have no choice. There were already talks of nationalizing this house at the assembly, willingly offering it to a general of the National Guards changes the tone. It shows sincerity from our family.”

“Yeah? And what about me? Am I part of this offering, sis? Or is it either one of us, whatever the general prefers?” His words drop in the room, and are met with silence. Victoria purses her lips, and the light from the windows casts sharp shadows on her delicate features.

She is seated in an armchair by the corner of the salon, curly blonde hair pinned up loosely. A maroon Indian shawl covers her shoulders, the simple white cotton dress underneath gently draping over her diminutive figure.

An image flashes in front of his eyes, of the sixteen years old Victoria entering the grand royal ball at Versailles for the first time. Her dress was of the most elaborate robe à l'Anglaise style, in an icy blue silk fabric that rustled as she danced, with white lace fichu hanging delicately over her neckline. Her bright eyes gleamed all night with excitement, and Jimin’s heart aches at the sudden reminisce.

His pretty little sister, the petit canard, always carrying herself with the utmost dignity and grace, how he wishes to protect and give her the world forever. But now, she's a bird trapped in the gilded cage of Tuileries palace, along with Papa and the royal family.

Well, maybe his fate is not that different after all.

“Hey.” The softness of her voice gives his thoughts pause, as his gaze meets hers. “You've always been the cunning one of the family. Remember how upset Papa use to get when we were younger, when he could never quite pin you down for all the mischiefs you schemed up?”

A smile plays by her lips, fond and warm, “this general, however he turns out to be, never grew up in the palace like we did, he'll be no match to your maneuvers.”

Suddenly, they hear the clamor of carriage horses in the front, and footsteps of the servants by the staircase. With a reassuring nod, Victoria gets up to stand beside Jimin, “The three of us will rely on each other like we've always done. It'll be better soon, as long as we keep trying. For the family.”

A pretty little pretence, but Jimin responds with a stiff grin, accepting the false optimism neither of them truly believes in.

For the family.

---

By the time they reach the front foyer, the servants are already lined up and waiting. There are only four of them left now, led by Jin, who flashes them a warm smile.

“Ready? Maybe try to smile more naturally, master Jimin.”

When Jin steps up to open the heavy wooden doors, his demeanour changes, a diplomatic courteousness washes over his profile, as his back straightens.

There’s the sound of horse neighing in the yard, and the clamor of people retracting luggage. Jimin hears distant murmurs moving towards them, and glances at Victoria, who looks just as uncertain as him.

There’s a higher pitched voice, jovial and chatty, but what makes Jimin pay attention is the tone of the other - lower and much quieter, with an innate gentleness to it. “He won’t forget this soon you know, It won’t be a joke to him.”

“Yeah but oh man, you should’ve seen his face! Then I proceeded to tell him how we had to scramble just to find some patched up uniforms for the thousands of new recruits, and I said, ‘commander, perhaps you could lend us some ammo for the time being?’ Half the assembly was roaring by that time.” the young man laughs heartily as he steps through the door, the bright tricolored cockade on his navy tricorn vibrating against his exuberant gestures.

The other man curls his lips but looks towards Jimin and Victoria, the softness in his eyes replaced by austerity.

“Welcome, generals. My name is Jimin, and it’s an honor to meet you.” Jimin bows curtly.

“Oh my, the prince and princess of Lamballe, in person. I’ve heard so much about you two. Hoseok and -” a cheerful wave of the hand towards the other, “- Yoongi, at your service. Are you a Bourbon or an Orleans? My apologies, too many royalties, I forget.”

Jimin frowns, but hears Victoria’s voice next to him, sweet and serene, “Victoria Thérèse de Bourbon, pleasure to make your acquaintance. Perhaps you have met our father in court, Louis Jean Marie de Bourbon, the Duke of Penthievre?”

“Perhaps.” Hoseok steps closer, taking note of her with unabashed intrigue. Then a smile slowly spreads by his lips, “honored to be graced by your beauty, princess. Or should I call you Victoria?”

She curtsies demurely and responds, “the honored is all ours, to be able to provide our residence to the National Guards.”

“Well, the house is to be owned by the state and retrofitted for future use. But for now, it’ll be a temporary secondary office.” Yoongi adds. Jimin glances at him, taking note of the mud splatters on his white pants, and the corners of his navy coat fading from wear.

“Yes, Salle du Manège can be so...stuffy. A more casual setting would be great for smaller gatherings. And coincidentally, Yoongi could use a new home, something more befitting of his new stature.”

Hoseok pats Yoongi on the shoulder, who adds flatly, “also temporarily.”

Hoseok comments. “Frankly, I’m not so inclined to live where I work, but to each his own I guess. Let’s go check out the rooms, shall we?”

“As you wish, general.” Jimin replies, voice flat, and gestures for Jin to lead the way.

They stroll through the ground floor, passing by various antechambers until they reach the Golden Gallery.

“Wow.” Hoseok’s eyes grow wide. Jimin’s seen the same reaction all his life - Galerie Doree is designed to impress after all.

The endless hall is spacious and expansive. The visitor’s sight is immediately drawn towards the high ceiling with the vibrant oversized murals. “Like getting a glimpse of heaven,” as the royal architect use to observe proudly. On their left, stands a row of tall windows, with view of the lush garden and trickling stone fountain. On the right, double overlaid arches gracefully showcase dozens of paintings trimmed to size specifically for the walls, of wondrous scenes of seafarers and hunting. Golden Rococo flourishes and mouldings decorate every corner and seam, blending everything into an opulent dream.

The arrangement of this room echos of the Hall of Mirrors of Versaille, for good reasons. Jimin knows grandfather always tried to inject subtle political hints into his decorating schemes, sometimes leading guests through the gallery and Salle de Rois upstairs before finally settling at the salon, to establish the proper impression without uttering a word.

Jimin follows Yoongi’s movement, as he gives the place another glance before turning around, “impressive indeed, we won’t have much use for it though. I recommend locking it up, if you don’t want small things to randomly go missing -” he gestures to Jin and steps back into the hallway, leaving a baffled Hoseok behind.

“What, wait, Yoon, we haven’t even walked through half of it yet, where are you heading?”

Through the grand staircase back at the front, up and around to the second floor, Yoongi heads the way, shoulders squared and strides brisk, as Jin provides comments for each room. Yoongi’s expression is impassive, not revealing what’s on his mind.



Jimin speaks up when they arrive at the grand chamber, a beautiful room overlooking the garden, with fabric canopied bed in the center, and oversized oil paintings adorning the walls. “This is the master chamber. We hope it’s to your taste.”

Yoongi shoots him a sideway glance, “Is this your room?”

“It use to be my father’s, but he preferred the apartment at Versaille when he’s not in Rambouillet. So yes, it’s been mine for a while now.”

Yoongi walks through the room, muddy boots clicking on the wooden floor with intricate inlays. He turns around without a second glance, “I won’t need it. Let’s move on.”

Jimin sees his surprise reflected in Victoria’s eyes. “Are you sure, general? I insist -”

Yoongi flutters his hand to cut him off, “I’m sure. And please, call me Yoongi.”

Hoseok makes a silly face as he walks out, trailing behind Yoongi.

They walk down the hallway to a small side chamber. “One of the guest rooms, secluded from the rest of the house.” Jin announces.

There’s less sun to the room, as it faces the front court, away from the open garden. But the frames and mouldings are simpler, and the walls are mostly bare, saved for a small painting of a lush green forest. The canopy atop of the bed is of a light cotton fabric, and the canape by the window is basic and cozy looking.

Jimin can almost hear the faint giggles in the room, from when Victoria and him use to hide in this room behind the curtains as toddlers, with fairytale books and toys in hand. A secret little corner reserved for the two of them.

Yoongi hums but doesn’t say anything.

“Well, shall we move onto the salon then?” Victoria comments gently, earning a nod from Hoseok.

The salon is as Jimin and Victoria have left it, with most personal items already stored away a few days ago, and every corner cleaned and polished. The armchairs have all been moved back against the walls, leaving the room airy and open with sunlight streaming through the windows.

“Great size, just need a large table about here, and bookcases over there for storage…” Hoseok surveys around the room and gestures.

“As you wish, sir. These can be arranged quickly.” Jin replies, standing attentively next to the door and out of the way.

“And all the paintings off the walls please, and this rug and the end tables, and all the chairs to be swapped for basic wooden ones.” Yoongi scans through the room and comments.

“I see, we are going for the utilitarian look.” Hoseok responds, “I like it. It wouldn’t be you if it’s not bare-boned and practical, Yoon.”

“And new locks for the doors, with just one set of keys please. Same for the last guest room we just saw, please move my luggage over to there.” Yoongi adds.

Jimin arches his brow at the comment. Yoongi’s back is towards him, and there’s something about his silhouette, with the worn out navy colored coat and the dark brown hair peeking through his tricorn hat. Something unfussed but commanding.

“And general Yoongi, as for me, I’d like to stay around for a bit, if you don’t mind. Palace de Toulouse is a sizable estate, as you can imagine. It’s best that I help to wrap things up properly before handing the property and the staff over to you, perhaps?” Jimin curbs the bitter taste of disdain in his mouth, lips forced into a thin diplomatic smile.

Yoongi turns around to face him, and the sunlight behind him contrasts his shaded features, framing the outline of his figure in a golden glow. Eventually Jimin hears his response, voice plain and matter of factly, “as you wish. A week should suffice, I would imagine.”

---

The rest of the day passes in a blur - servants moving furnitures, soldiers in and out with long scrolls of maps and diagrams, and Jimin only catches glimpses of the navy blue coat a few times.

His gaze locks with Victoria’s as she leaves to go back to tending the royal family at Tuileries Palace. Her eyes dim when Hoseok volunteers to her back safely, and Jimin feels the irritating clench of his heart. It lingers as he watched their carriage disappear onto the street.

Jin provides feedbacks to him constantly throughout the day.

“Not much luggage, barely fills the armoire.”

“He’s told all the servants to leave his room twice now, does he even need a valet?”

“Just heard from the kitchen that he grabbed some food and went back to the room. I suppose you are dining alone tonight, master?”

A hermit.

A disgusting and gloomy hermit that’s now the owner of the home he was born in.

Jimin scowls. Suddenly, the thought of sharing the house becomes too much to bear in the moment, and he calls for a carriage.

Dingy taverns, fancy cafes, cheap red wine or the grand crus, none of it seems to matter after a few sips. His head is soon spinning, the crowds a little too boisterous, and the pretty faces a little too eager, but there’s undeniably a certain comfort in the familiar scene. Being in denial is something he excels at after all. Just a bit of intoxication, mixed with a fresh new face, soon the heart is thrumming contently at the temptation of the curvaceous flesh. The moans are perfectly lewl, the body writhes just so, but as he feels the pressure built up within him, as he chases after the release, groaning and biting into his lip, the exasperation never takes leave.

By the time he gets back to home, pulling off his coat clumsily and climbing up the stairs with heavy steps, he sees the closed doors of the salon and the faint flicker of candlelight peeking through from underneath.

That night, the dreams haunt him more, relentless, refusing to loosen their grips on him.

A torch amidst broken shards of window glass, smelling of melted wax and danger, the flame flickering and slithering, like a glowing snake that threatens to devour the whole house. A low sob in the distance, echoing the sorrow in his heart. Is it Victoria’s voice?

And then blood, in such a shocking brilliant red, making a mess of everything. Taehyung’s pale face drenched in sweat, the familiar nonchalant smile a little worn out, “don’t worry, I’ll be back soon, I’m sure of it.”

He wants to scream, but it comes out as muffled gasps, feeble and hollow. He tries to move, to fight back or run away, something, anything. But as always, his limbs are stuck, beyond his control, and there’s nothing he can do but to watch and suffer silently.

The dreams are not the worst, Jimin knows subconsciously, even as his breath turns ragged and his mind fights with the hazy fragments.

Reality is far worse, what he has to face when he wakes up eventually. They lost, each piece of the chess game fallen resoundly, each step of defeat costly and irreversible.

Feudalism is dead, burned down along with the crumbling walls of Bastille, smashed to bits like the ransacked suites of Versailles. They are the last vestiges of the dying era, royalties left as collaterals, toyed around carelessly by the revolutionists.

Jimin grimaces, as his mind sinks, untethered like a faded leaf in the wind, down, down into the bottomless void.