[title song: starry night - suho]
[8k, this was written two years ago so the writing is a bit different, parenthesis = present and each section goes present > past, gif credit sefuns]

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[1/3]

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The first time he sees the crown is on a beautiful spring day. The flowers are blooming, and the breeze is gentle, a reminder of new beginnings, of newly watered crops, of gentle weather before the hot, hot summer engulfs their days. He is all limbs, long and lanky and all over the place. His ears are large and his grin is larger and he is of the same vein of innocence as the little prince swathed in too big robes. One could say this is when their lives begin to run together, always in the same direction, always side-by-side, but never, not once, converging, not until the end.

(He would say otherwise, his dark eyes glinting with a sort of mirth, humorless almost, as he’d speak of them as points that begin and end together, but run in opposite directions.

“How is that possible?” She whispers one day, frowning at him from across the bath covered in deep red rose petals, almost like blood in the water.

And she’d watch him tilt back his head, now nothing like that lanky sweet boy she imagined him to be so long ago, the length of his neck smooth as his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, his eyes fluttering as he closed his eyes, a grin dripping from his lips, beautiful in a mad sort of way that always has shivers running right up her spine. His arms are outstretched along the edge of the pool, his muscles taut, defined, scars glinting in the dim lighting, his dark hair plastered to his forehead as steam rises between them from the pool of water.

His deep voice startles her, echoing through the bathing chamber, drifting through the steam in such a way that she finds herself drawn to him, as she always is, despite everything that she is, everything that she wants, everything that he is, would become for that beautiful, gilded crown sitting so faraway, atop the head of a beautiful, gilded king.

“Where I shall rise, he will crumble.” He says, with such ardor, such determination, that she feels it at the pit of her stomach, she feels it in the way the hairs at the back of her neck and along her arms stand on end, goosebumps trailing up and down her brown skin despite soaking in the hot bath. “He will burn.”)

Spring is for new beginnings and this spring was meant to be his.

Yet, here he is under the blazing sun, still battered and bruised from his last training session alongside Kim Minseok—the only other Sword-in-training in this horrible training camp that he had ever deemed better than him (Yixing, Junmyeon, Hoseok, they’re all right, but he’s better)—his lips parched and his stomach grumbling because the generals training them are gluttons for punishment and he had missed a spot while sweeping the study floor, and there is the little prince he is to dedicate his entire life to. His crown spills from his head and his eyes glitter in excitement and he thinks, this isn’t how they usually set up the Sword Ceremonies.

He remembers glancing into the crowd of other boys, all handpicked by the King’s generals and his own Sword, trained for the sole purpose of being chosen as a Sword for the princes, sworn to protect their Princes no matter what, making them their number one priority for the rest of their days. The ones who do not make it, because there are only so many princes to go around, end up as generals or soldiers, all forgotten, fading into the background and left to die on the battlefield for a King who will never know their names.

That is the one thing he cannot stand to be: forgotten.

“Chanyeol.”

He turns and Kim Minseok’s almond eyes are solemn. Minseok shakes his head, a quick movement, even as he shoves and edges past the crowd of boys. He notices Yixing’s gaze on Minseok, following him, before the two of them lock eyes and then Yixing looks away.

Minseok is tiny, much tinier than Chanyeol, and a bit chubby, his cheeks full, but his eyes are sharp, analytical, just as his mind is, and Chanyeol knows that Minseok will be the legend that Chanyeol has always wanted to be. That observation has driven Chanyeol to near madness during plenty of training days.

“What is going on?” Chanyeol asks, nodding towards the stage, towards the King and Queen smiling as they watch their eldest son swing his legs on the makeshift throne they’ve set up at the main stage, right in the middle of their training fields. He’s read scriptures and seen paintings of the Sword Ceremonies and he knows this is different. For one, there’s a tension in everyone’s shoulders. General Minho’s forehead has little creases in them, as if he’s squinting into the sun. The King’s own sword is frowning and keeps disappearing behind the makeshift stage, behind the crowd of maids and caretakers the Royal Family seems to have an endless supply of. The Prince’s procession is quiet. The boys around him are quiet, too, clearly sensing the tension in the air. Only the Prince seems to be in good spirits, tugging at his too-big robes with a matching too-big grin and twinkling eyes. His crown glints in the sunlight and Chanyeol cannot stop looking at it.

Minseok peers up at Chanyeol, arms crossed over his chest, even as he whispers, “I heard one of the guards saying the trials are cancelled.”

Chanyeol’s voice is too loud when he exclaims, “What?”

General Minho throws him a stern look. The Prince looks over at him and they lock eyes for just a moment. The Prince may look young, but Chanyeol knows they’re around the same age. Perhaps, he thought the little prince would be so spoiled he’d act like a baby, but there’s a certain hint of immense intelligence there, the same kind of intelligence Chanyeol, Minseok, Yixing, Hoseok, Hyunsik, Jaebum, all the boys he’s grown up with have because of their intensive study programs. There is a nimbleness to the little prince, despite the way he swings his legs and the way his crown had slipped from his head earlier, that reminds Chanyeol that this boy has trained with a sword just as intensely as he has, privileged and protected as he may be.

For a moment, Chanyeol wants to test that, test his skills, spar this little prince who is truly not so little. He wants to fight him, feel the sweat running down his back as they go for blow after blow, until only one of them comes out the winner—Chanyeol tears his eyes off the little prince first, shaking that thought away. He swears he sees the prince’s grin widen after.

Minseok is just shrugging, pouting up at the stage in annoyance, just as the King’s announcer calls them all to attention, the whispering ceasing immediately.

Spring is for new beginnings. Perhaps, this wasn’t the new beginning the heavens wanted for him.

The King’s voice booms through the silence. It is grating on Chanyeol’s ears. It always has been, but Chanyeol still smiles.

“I would like to applaud you all in your achievements and your determination in fulfilling your duty to myself, this Kingdom, and the Heavens. Heaven will surely reward you at the next Sword Ceremony, I am certain of it. However, it seems Heaven was eager to bestow a Sword upon our great Crown Prince on this sacred day. Some may call this an obstacle, but I think of this as a challenge from the Heavens. A challenge, I believe, that is befitting of such a great Crown Prince. A challenge not only for the Prince, but for all of you here, as well. I hope you all will welcome her with open arms…"

“Her?” Minseok repeats. He is not the only one to notice. Chanyeol’s locks eyes with Minseok, both bewildered. A girl who has never touched a sword in her life as the Prince’s Sword? This had to be a mistake.

The King’s voice rises above the sudden onslaught of whispers, his stern eyes sweeping over the crowd, silencing the whispers immediately, before he finishes, voicing booming, “…what heaven mandates is never a mistake. Always remember that.”

He makes a wide, sweeping gesture, his expensive robes fluttering all about him and she steps in, the King’s own Sword at her side, directing her forward.

She is tiny and skinny and nothing special. A sort of fiery resentment bubbles up right at the pit of his stomach because he—they—had all trained for this, had shed blood, sweat, and tears for this moment, had to leave their families at such a young age, either for the paycheck to send back home or the glory they might achieve or both, in fact Chanyeol can feel the bruises stinging against his ribs, and this peasant, this girl, will take that all away from them—from him. And for what? For a heavenly mandate Chanyeol has never really believed in? He glances at Minseok and his expression is taut, his mouth twisting into a frown, his eyes narrowed, and the other boys are frowning, as well.

She doesn’t even have the decency to look them in the eye, gaze settled on the floor as she fidgets with her fingers.

“The Heavens will allow you a chance to shine. Do not fret, my children.” The King tells them, his belly full with food unlike the families of the boys who have been working to become the new Sword, before turning his kind smile on the girl. She looks up at him like a fish out of water before she bows low and deep and the Crown Prince saunters up to her, nudging her side with his elbow before muttering something that has her scowling at him in front of all of them.

Chanyeol smiles like he’s meant to, but his stomach churns in anger.

~.~.~.~.~

(She watches the way he peers at the golden blade in the prisoner’s hand, kneels in front of the trembling man, and examines his appearance in the reflection of the blade. A grin stretches taut across his face, all teeth and big eyes, distorting and twisting his handsome features, and the trembling man lets out a small whimper. It sounds something like just take it.

And he does. Chanyeol plucks the blade from his outstretched palms and he drags a finger down the length of it. He looks up as he does it and he meets her gaze and she finds her cheeks heating up as he does it, his dark, sinister gaze pinned on her, even as he drags a thumb back and forth, back and forth, humming softly, his deep voice echoing throughout the room.

Finally, he says, “Is this truly gold?”

He sounds so casual, like he is asking about the man’s day. Still, he drops his gaze first and she lets out a small, tiny sigh of relief.

“Yes, m—my Lor—Lord.” The man stumbles over the words, but as soon as the words come out, she knows he’s made a mistake. The whole court does. The officer Chanyeol seems to trust with most of his military operations closes his eyes, just a brief movement, but it’s acknowledgement enough and her stomach churns, clenching tightly.

The silence stretches on and on and the man looks confused, his gaze landing on Chanyeol’s blank face, as Chanyeol keeps observing the sword, inspecting it for heaven knows what.

Finally, finally, Chanyeol’s deep voice resonates through the silence, slicing right through it, “Lord?”

She is unable to look away when Chanyeol suddenly flips the sword in his hands and presses it against the side of the man’s face, movement so sudden, the man has no time to react. He shakes like a leaf in the wind and she has that distinct rush of fear curl up her spine when Chanyeol’s other hand coils around the man’s hair, yanking sideways, hard enough to pierce his cheek against the sharp edge of the golden sword. The man looks both confused and in pain. She feels bad for him, she feels bad for all of them, but not bad enough to stop Chanyeol.

Chanyeol just raises a brow and says, quite succinctly, his tone sharp, but booming, reverberating right through her, “It is your highness, you ing idiot.”

The man only has time to say, “I am—"

Blood splatters across the floor, down his front, and the scream settles into gurgling, gagging. She looks away and the other maids have their eyes shut. She stares at her own clenched fist and her stomach churns as the gurgling only seems to get louder.

He barely looks at the man, only turns to look at the maids, turns to look at her (she can feel his eyes boring into the side of her head) and he says, “Get this cleaned up. Now.”

He tosses the sword on the floor and stalks out the room and she lets out the breath she was holding the whole time.)

There was a fire and he learns of it months later, when he is allowed to leave camp right after the ceremony, a couple days before the new Sword is set to have her first lesson (he doesn’t miss the wary looks General Minho sends his way, the whispers, before they suggest he take a break—Minseok just frowns at him, frowns at everything now, and he does not have it in himself to care, he just slices up straw dummies with dull swords and anger swells, festers, within him). He doesn’t learn of the fire until he is standing where the threshold of his childhood home once was and there are ashes at his feet.

His neighbor stands beside him and she is eyeing him with the same wariness General Minho had. “Are you all right?”

The skeletal remains of the bed frames will stick with him, he thinks, until the day he dies. He imagines his big sister sitting on that bed. Perhaps, his mother was in the kitchen wringing out laundry for her customers. Maybe, his father was lying around uselessly in bed. “The money.”

“Money?” The neighbor blinks, confused, before her expression grows anxious when he turns his gaze directly on her. She says, “What money?”

“Where is the money I’ve been sending them every month since this?”

She frowns, shrugs. “You’re the first person to come by here since it happened.” She sighs, her eyes glittering with a sort of sadness that should be engulfing him, “May the Heavens allow them peace.”

He nods in automatic response, but anger festers like an open wound. It spreads to his other limbs.

He spins on his heels and as he walks away from the only home he ever knew, even briefly, he learns that everything he does, everything he sees, will always be tinged by these ashes. That he left behind the better parts of him amongst these ruins.

~.~.~.~.~

(She holds his tray of food, waits for him to say something, anything, but he just sits at his makeshift throne, a caricature of the King’s throne he wants so badly, one leg up and his elbow resting on the armrest, his head propped up on his palm. He is not looking at her, he is not looking at anyone. His long dark hair is messy, and his robes slip from his shoulders, revealing scars that settle just past the edges of his robes.

She shifts from one foot to the other as she waits, grimacing internally as she forces her expression to remain neutral.

Her gaze drifts down to the center of the room and she can still see the blood there, the trembling man gasping out his last breaths, despite the floor sparkling because it is so clean. Suddenly, he waves his hand, beckons her closer.

Her heart thumps against her ribs as she moves forward, bowing as she presents him his food.

His deep voice rumbles through the silence, echoing all around them, and, for a moment, she understands what people mean when they say kings are of the heavens. He sounds like a god, his voice rumbling like thunder, deep and true and so there, so electrifyingly there. She is simultaneously afraid and fascinated.

He says, “Look at me.”

She straightens, looks him in the eye, and his smile is there, it’s always there, his big eyes boring into hers, his handsome face unreadable. She says, “Yes, your highness?”

He tilts his head, appraises her slowly, before he murmurs, “I need a queen.”

She blinks at him. Her heart thrums out a rapid beat and she wonders if he can hear, if he can sense her fear, her awe, her anxiety. “A queen?” She repeats.

He nods, his chin still pressed to his palm as he smiles at her, an almost fond little thing that confuses her more than anything. Then, he says, without ever taking his dark eyes off her, “Every king needs a queen. You will help me catch a pretty one.”

Her brows furrow together. For a moment, a brief clandestine moment she thought—he laughs then, the sound booming, loud, grating on her ears.

Slowly, he reaches out and drags a single finger down the length of her face, her knees trembling at the slight touch, at the way his fond smile widens, stretches out, mars his handsome face, and he says, tone low and rough, “Do not fret, sweet girl. Every king needs a maid, too. Perhaps, one day, you can become a royal consort instead.”

She blinks as he observes her neutral expression with mirth, the same way he always does, as if he’s searching for a reaction.

There’s must be something in her eyes because he tilts his head back and barks out a laugh and her heart twists the same way the sound coming out of his mouth does.)

The Lieutenant’s secretary cannot look him in the eye as he sputters out some vague excuse, his gaze flickering around the room, no doubt searching for an exit that is not there. “Chanyeol, let me explain—”

He swings the flat of his sword around, across the thief’s mouth, and the man yelps, cries out, stumbling into his dresser.

The man goes down instantly, curling up in a ball, and he finds the act of it all highly satisfying, all of this deserving. He’s shaking as he says, “Please.”

He mumbles it like a prayer and Chanyeol rolls his eyes before he presses a foot against the man’s chest, placing the end of his sword at his throat. He finds it fascinating, the way a speckle of blood forms and drips down the length of his neck. The man whimpers, then, breaking Chanyeol out of his fascination, out of the reverie the blood has put him in, and Chanyeol’s grin falters immediately. His whimpering is annoying. Please, please, please, is all the man says and Chanyeol thinks if he doesn’t have the guts to face any consequences, even the worst kinds, then why the hell did he steal the money in the first ing place?

The Lieutenant’s secretary doesn’t even have the decency to offer him his ing money back.

Chanyeol sighs, then, digging the end of the sword just a bit further, dragging out a grating gasp of pain.

“Please, let me explain, Chanyeol.”

Chanyeol tilts his head, raises a brow, purses his lips, allows a moment of contemplation, before he decides, “No.”

The man’s eyes widen.

He learns that killing a man is messy work that day. So Chanyeol burns the whole house down, starting with the gasping man. He watches the modest home go up in flames and he wonders if this is what his childhood home had looked like, flames up into dark skies while neighbors tried to douse it with buckets of water from the well. It’s beautiful, he thinks, reds and oranges and yellows interwoven in a dance that reaches towards Heaven itself.

It’s a heavenly mandate of its own, he thinks.

~.~.~.~.~

(“Jiyoung?” It’s almost funny how quickly she turns at the fake name, making sure to keep her expression neutral as she blinks questionably at the pretty princess. She is beautiful, stoic and regal and so tall, but she is quiet, shy. She lets her hair fall into her face when she laughs, even though her smile is a lovely sight, her eyes forming perfect crescent moons. The pretty princess’s skin is soft and smooth, white as the teacups, the opposite of her own dark skin, in fact. The princess is also lithe and, surprisingly, skilled at archery. Her eyes glint with mischief when she is around those she’s comfortable with.

Sometimes, one of the other princes—specifically a handsome tanned man with a quiet, soft demeanor that matches her regality and her accidental coldness that stems entirely from shyness and nerves well—would visit the princess’s quarters.

He is tanner than most in this kingdom, though not as tan as herself—when she’d run crying to her mother because of some awful comment about how dirty she looked because of her skin, her mother would tell her so what, you are blessed by the gods, lovely girl, fashioned from mother earth herself, they are only jealous because the morning sun kisses you gently and leaves you gold, her mother would coo, brushing her tears away, you are the color of earth after the rain, don’t you think that is beautiful? She’d find herself staring at the handsome prince and she’d wonder if his mother had said the same sort of words to him, that he is made of gold and fresh earth and the sun, as she silently watches him smile so sweetly at the pretty princess.

He comes by often and they drink tea together and the princess teaches him archery despite him being a military specialist. He insists archery is his weakness whenever the other princes about it, and the princess would always smile behind her hand, eyes twinkling. They’d walk side by side through the gardens, too close to be appropriate, but never touching, the tanned prince’s Sword always allowing them huge bouts of space during these moments, a small, fond, teasing smile playing on the Sword’s face all the while. They are hushed conversations over tea in too big rooms, giggles drifting up from the practice fields, inside jokes and knowing looks in front of everyone else at court. They are everything she is envious of, really.

And then, there is the new king. Handsome and virtuous King Baekhyun. Sometimes, he comes by bearing the strangest of gifts (all carried by a petite swordswoman who he seems to always find amusing and the Princess jokingly pities, the swordswoman grinning at the princess all the while). There’s a softness to him whenever he’s around this princess that she finds so mesmerizing.

Everyone in the palace seems to adore this Princess. The handsome prince, the Righteous King, his brothers, the Sword of the King, the Swords of the Princes, the damn cook.

Chanyeol.

He was smitten the moment he caught a glimpse of her.

(She wonders if he was smitten of her porcelain looks or of her position, as the kingdom’s favorite princess and the King’s most adored sister. Surely, losing her would devastate him, especially atop of losing his father not too long ago.)

This princess, with her long, dark hair, smooth skin, and quiet, shy demeanor is the future Queen that Chanyeol wants her to snatch up.

So, here she is, pretending to be the maid to a sweet girl who has more love in her life than she could ever begin to fathom.

Here she is, meant to ruin all of that.

“Jiyoung, can you ask the lead why we’re headed this way?” Princess Soojung is peeking behind the curtains of her carriage as she calls out to her. She nods and the Princess ducks back into her servant-carried carriage.

She doesn’t ask. She looks up ahead and she can see the looming figures of Chanyeol’s army, all angry at the way the Royal Family flaunts their riches. The rebellion, they call them.

She leans down and says, in a smooth, soft, non-threatening voice. “A villager said the bridge is flooded. We must take a detour, your highness.”

“Thank you.” Princess Soojung says without opening the curtain again.

One of the servants carrying the carriage, a servant that doubles as a guard, really, turns a sharp look on her. But before he can say a word, call her out perhaps on her obvious lie, the sound of hooves hitting dirt echoes all around them, like rumbling thunder or the tumultuous banging beat of the drums her mother used to play—drums her mother said she had gotten as a parting gift from her pirate father who loved the adventures of the sea more than he ever loved the two of them.

A sort of coldness blankets them all, a tension churning at her stomach that she is not used to. The servant who had been looking at her with such sharp eyes tears his gaze off her, looking ahead, to the left, the right, behind them.

The fear in his eyes, however brief, is so utterly palpable that it manages to creep itself under her skin. She looks up, straight ahead, and she sees his towering figure, larger, more imposing, when its situated atop a large horse, in front of a huge crowd.

Chanyeol sits on his horse in a fur robe, his dark hair pulled back, a dark aura radiating out of him that screams danger. She thinks he looks just like the savage rebel king the kingdom makes him out to be, right then, as he grins so so maniacally, head held high and dark eyes glinting, pinned on the paladin beside her.

The servant guards drop the paladin to the ground, failing to do it gently due to urgency, and the Princess lets out a soft yelp before she sticks her head out the curtains, confusion knitting her brows together. Before a single word leaves , they are surrounded. Her eyes widen with substantial fear and Princess Soojung turns to look at her, her gaze sharp, analytical, scared.

Princess Soojung grabs her arm, dragging herself out of the paladin, even as the servants and guards, a twenty-person procession suggested by the Princess herself because the journey was short and she deemed it both unnecessary and excessive to bring the usual amount. The Princess had only brought three of her maids, including her—kind, quiet, simple, dumb lady-in-waiting, Jiyoung.

“I will give you only one warning. Drop your weapons or I will cut each one of your heads off your shoulders and mount them on pikes for the whole world to see.”

The way Chanyeol grins constantly, his voice booming so cheerfully through the clearing, makes his words come off as pompous, as big, empty threats.

But she knows that is the game he plays.

Princess Soojung holds out a hand and someone places a bow in her hands. The lead guard tells Chanyeol that he is to stand down now.

Chanyeol’s eyes slide past the guards, landing briefly on her, and her heart thrums in her chest at the way he looks upon her, with his dark gaze and the quirk of his lips. But then his eyes flash as he takes in Princess Soojung cocking an arrow.

Soojung says, “You have some nerve attacking a member of the royal family like this.”

Her voice booms, strong and steady, louder than Chanyeol’s even.

Chanyeol slowly, so very slowly, tilts his head to the side and appraises the Princess, even as her guards step in front of her, blocking his view. After a moment, a long, long, tense moment, Chanyeol shrugs, still grinning with such languid ease, and says, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you all.”

He waves a hand and all hell breaks loose almost immediately. Princess Soojung lets an arrow fly and she knows it will catch its mark. Soojung’s arrows always do.

She is wary, however, of the way Chanyeol will react because he is quick to anger, and she thinks he’s terrifying, as terrifying as he is fascinating.

She watches Chanyeol’s body jerk, his horse neighing in distress as its front legs kick out and Chanyeol has to tug it back down by the reins, even as his men take on Soojung’s procession, her guards laying down their lives for her because everyone is smitten by her. She watches as Chanyeol eyes the arrow lodged in his shoulder, as Soojung settles another arrow in her bow, her expression calm, though her eyes are anything but. There is a fire in Chanyeol’s eyes and there is a storm in Soojung’s.

She knows what the outcome of all this will be. She’s seen it so many times before. Chanyeol hunches over his horse and surges forward, the thundering sound of hooves stamping against dirt too loud, so loud.

She turns to Princess Soojung—as Jiyoung, wholeheartedly, thoroughly—and she shouts, “Run!”

Princess Soojung stands her ground, chin held high and her eyes ablaze.

In that moment, she thinks she understands why so many adore Soojung.

Soojung doesn’t flinch as Chanyeol barrels towards her, horse neighing as Chanyeol’s fingers curl around the reins. His back is bent over the horse, his dark eyes pinned on the Princess, and the Princess keeps his gaze. For a moment she thinks that Chanyeol will trample Princess Soojung into the dirt.

But then he yanks back the reigns and the horse ninnies loudly as it comes to an abrupt halt, a hairsbreadth away from the Princess, who just her bow and arrow, bow string held taut, and her blazing eyes seem to want to set Chanyeol and his horse ablaze. Her arrow is pointed right at Chanyeol’s head.

Chanyeol smiles, then, the girn wide, maniacal, before he starts to laugh. He laughs, his head thrown back, and she sees the discomfort in Soojung’s expression then, the confusion.

“Why are you laughing?” Soojung asks, soft voice echoing through the clearing, ringing so clear.

Chanyeol leans forward against his horse, its neck as he stares down the sharp point of Soojung’s arrow. His long hair is messy and his big eyes are twinkling. He says, “Because you are everything I imagined and more.”

He his head when Princess Soojung sneers, her elbow falling a bit further back, a telltale sign that she a moment away from letting that arrow fly right through Chanyeol’s eye socket.

But then, Chanyeol turns his toothy grin away from Soojung and on her, eyeing her up and down in a slow, lazy sort of way before he speaks, tone filled with praise that she finds is a sort of rush. His deep voice rumbles as he says, “You’ve done well, my sweet girl.”

His eyes contain a darkness and a twinkle she finds she wants to both run from and explore for the rest of her days.

She reddens inexplicably, especially when Princess Soojung’s eyes widen, her gaze tearing away from Chanyeol and landing on her. There’s surprise, disbelief, betrayal, anger, sadness, so many emotions flickering through Soojung’s eyes, each emotion potent and sharp, like a punch to the gut. She feels so so horrible right then because Soojung had trusted her—that may have been the point, but guilt still bubbles up at the pit of her stomach. Soojung had told her that she finds it hard to trust people, that she doesn’t open up easily, and she—as Jiyoung—had achieved that in less than a year. And then stomped all over it in a matter of seconds. Betrayal shines through, stark against the dark brown of Soojung’s eyes.

Her eyes flicker from Soojung’s face, her slackening bow arm, to Chanyeol. It’s a split second of a distraction but it’s all Chanyeol needs. He slides off his horse and grabs the arrow, the sharp point digging into his palm as he curls a fist around it and yanks it out of Soojung’s surprised grip. That split second of betrayal was all Chanyeol needed. Chanyeol was aware of it before he even said a thing. Soojung realizes it too late.

There is genuine fear in Soojung’s eyes.

She feels bad, watching as Chanyeol snaps both the bow and arrow digging into his palm in half, tossing it aside as his horse neighs softly, the only other sound in the clearing as every one of Chanyeol’s men are watching, holding their breaths, and every single one of Soojung’s are either dead, forcibly silenced, or incapacitated.

With bloodied palms, he reaches out and grips Soojung’s jaw. It’s something of a caress, but it’s made ugly by the stain of scarlet red against porcelain that’s left behind.

She thinks red looks different on white skin. Against her brown skin, it almost blends in. Undetectable. On Soojung, it stands out. A stark contrast that begs to be seen. The red blood seeps and spreads and it mars her pretty, pale face.

(Meanwhile, it compliments hers. She doesn’t know which is a more terrifying observation to behold.)

Chanyeol says, “Yield and the rest of them won’t have to die.”

Soojung’s eyes never waver and she (not as Jiyoung but as her) admires the strength in them. Soojung looks between Chanyeol’s hunched figure, his dark, unrelenting gaze, and the few men she has remaining, scattered throughout the clearing.

Her dark eyes turn glassy as she speaks, despite the tight grip on her jaw. “Okay.”

The guard that was going to question her earlier shouts, don’t, and it echoes all around them: don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t.

The Princess ignores the guard, her head held high as she nods to Chanyeol, “I shall yield.”

He stares and stares at the Princess and she knows there’s something hidden in his words, she knows him, she knows—

Chanyeol waves his hand anyway and each of the man’s pleas of don’t don’t don’t settles into the very depths of the forest, perhaps to live on for centuries. With a wave of a hand, they are surrounded by dead bodies, blood seeping into the dirt, disappearing, and a silence that’s deafening all on its own.

She knew this would happen, but her heart still slams against her ribs and she can’t stop looking at the blood settling all around them, at the heads rolling, eyes frozen with dread and fear.

But, Princess Soojung gasps, her eyes widening as she looks around. Princess Soojung is alone. Chanyeol doesn’t let go of her jaw.

Her gaze lands on Chanyeol, before flickering to Soojung. The Princess is a burning fire, raging with anger, though her fiery eyes swim with an unsubstantiated amount of grief. She screams and birds flutter off the trees all around them, her voice trembling with anger and pain and a sort of trepidation that might be the smallest inkling of fear, “I said I would yield.”

(She knows Chanyeol can sense fear, smell it. She finds herself unable to look away from the exchange.)

“Defiance is not yielding.” Chanyeol tells the Princess, very simply, his posture lazy as he eyes her, clearly amused.

He turns to her, then, his gaze piercing, and she glances sideways at the Princess before quickly turning back to Chanyeol. He says, “Clean her up. We’re going.”

Soojung stares at her, with tears in her eyes and trembling fists, and she feels absolutely terrible, despite everything. Betrayal mars her pretty features so thoroughly that she’s breathless, unable to move. Chanyeol looks between them, more intrigued than ever. She feels worse, somehow, at that.

But is there anything someone like her can do about it?

So she takes the Princess by her elbow, remaining silent, eyes averted, even when Princess Soojung yanks her arm out of her grip, head shaking back and forth, back and forth, eyes widening with fear and anger—an expression she quickly learns will be the Princess’s default—and the Princess tells her, “I trusted you.”

Chanyeol replies for her, “And that was your first mistake, Princess.”)

Chanyeol is merely a member of the rebellion when the King is assassinated, and the Crown Prince turns into a King. The current rebellion’s king thinks the Crown Prince to be too young to rule properly, a boy who can be turned into a puppet, easily manipulated, perhaps easily preoccupied with his Woman Sword and the concubines that live in the castle. Chanyeol had sat there, at a meeting in someone’s wine cellar, and murmured, “Do not underestimate the Crown Prince.”

But old men are overconfident idiots. They are behind with the times. This was their grand plan.

They had set up an assassin disguised as one of the dancers and she doesn’t return.

Chanyeol was never one to feel bad about things, but he’s faced the loss of his family before, and it was a pain he still sometimes feels, especially late at night when he is unable to sleep. So when he goes to the woman’s secret funeral to pay his respects and finds some girl a couple years younger than him with smooth, dark skin and incredibly fierce eyes refusing to cry at the altar, he feels a twinge of sympathy for the girl.

It doesn’t last very long, however, sympathy never does. Besides, Chanyeol makes a decision, after paying his respects to the woman and allowing a brief planning period. Two days after the funeral, he stages a one-man coup at the meeting, easily slashing the throat of every overconfident old man who allowed Byun Baekhyun to take the throne, his connections, the members of the rebellion he whispered sweet promises to, all standing behind him, defending him, allowing him to do as he pleased. He easily takes over. He looks each person in the eye and tells them of the injustices he’s seen, the people starving, the children begging for food, while the people wearing that crown reside in their fancy palaces, bellies full with food, surrounded by exotic jewels, growing richer and richer as the poor grow poorer. He ignites the fire in the eyes of men with gaunt cheeks and starving babes back home. He promises them change.

(He thinks of his own childhood, of training to become a Sword, of having that taken away from him so easily, of all the other boys he met, the exploitation of starving children who should have never been exposed to such violence at such a young age—he could handle it, he relished it, in fact, but some of the other boys? They never stood a chance. He sometimes felt bad for them, especially the day the girl appeared before them and the king declared the Heavens as the reason why she was stealing opportunities from each and every one of them.)

He promises them change and they look at him with an inkling of trust in their eyes. That is all he needs to take over the rebellion and transform it into something better, until there is no more dissent left, until they all decide he will be remembered and the Boy King will be thrown into the pits of hell, forgotten as he deserves, as Chanyeol’s always wanted.

She’s there, during that particular meeting, because she wanted to receive her mother’s dues for her final assignment, for accomplishing something no man had been able to do before. He sees her, after it is all over, when he stands in the midst of only his allies—or those who are too afraid to do anything but be his ally because he knows they exist, despite his efforts—his chest heaving, sword dripping with the blood of incompetent old men who had to be torn down, blood splattered across his face, his robes. When he sees her watching him with eyes a thousand times fiercer than the stormiest of waters, the twinge of sympathy for her returns.

He doesn’t turn the sword on her. He kicks the body of one of the dead men off her mother’s things, steps through pools of blood, padding towards her, his sandals clicking against wood, watching as her gaze grows fiercer and fiercer the closer he steps, her eyes darting for an escape, until he is standing before her, towering above her. He hands her her mother’s dues, the robes she had changed out beforehand that night, and he smiles at the way her eyes widen.

He says, “This is yours.”

She stares at it before she slowly plucks it out of his hands.

Sympathy sometimes lingers deep inside of him, especially when he walks the streets in the poorest of this kingdom’s districts. It never stays for long; he doesn’t bother holding on to it, but it is there. Right now, it is a heavy reminder of what she has lost. He says, “You may leave.”

She is the first person he allows that option to. She is also the last. It’s too dangerous, he knows, to allow dissenters to leave freely—they hold too much knowledge of their meetings, of the whats and whys and whos, so he must get rid of them. He refuses to allow dissenters to stay, it will only cause problems in the future and he does not want that. So he rids his ranks of them.

Except her.

Still, she doesn’t leave. She returns to the next meeting and he notices a hollowness to her cheeks that hadn’t been there before. He’s seen that gauntness plenty of times to know it as it is: hunger.

So, he assigns her as one of his maids and provides her room, board, and salary. She looks at him like he’s crazy, but she doesn’t say anything, seemingly considering his proposal—perhaps she’s thinking so carefully because she believes he’ll kill her if she denies his offer, he’s killed enough dissenters thus far to justify that thought process. There’s a wariness to her gaze that makes his smile grow, just a bit. Her eyes are filled with the sort of intelligence that amuses him, even now. He knows she’ll agree to the offer even before she does so herself, her fingers clenching tightly into fists at her side as the seconds tick by. She’s cagy, wise really since she never dares to be alone with him, careful to never meet his gaze head on—but whenever she does, she’s always quick to look away, quick to keep her distance, embarrassment barely noticeable unless one knows where to look. He always knows where to look. He finds her intriguing, though, a fascinating form of entertainment. She is a fascinating little thing, he decides, and the sympathy—pity—quickly dissolves away, replaced by a morbid fascination even he cannot explain.

He finds she is almost as fascinating as the fake rebel throne he’ll use as a stepping stone to the real thing. Almost as fascinating as the way the little crying prince-turned-King’s tears had streamed down his face the day the girl’s mother was killed after she had murdered his father. Almost as fascinating as the crown that had stuck to that dead King’s head long after he bled out. Almost as fascinating as the lack of sympathy so many villagers held for the former King, despite his supposed god-like status. Almost as fascinating as the knowledge that he must rid Byun Baekhyun of that crown, along with the head on those broadening shoulders sooner rather than later.

He imagines the Crown Prince begging him, eyes trailing tears, groveling on his knees, his pretty fingers clutching at Chanyeol’s silk robes, and Chanyeol can’t help the grin that spreads across his face, his head falling back against his makeshift throne, cheeks hurting from the stretch of his grin. He imagines the songs they’ll sing of him, the stories they’ll twist of his accomplishments.

“Girl, come here.” He calls into the empty throne room, his chest heaving a bit at the fantasy, the lovely sight he’s itching to see, to have play out right in front of him, right at his feet.

The girl with the fiery eyes flits into the room, avoiding his gaze. He drops his head to the side, watching her movements, watching the way her gaze flickers to him, from the side, but never quite meets his own dark gaze.

He laughs, loud, boisterous, his deep voice booming through the empty room.

His head lolls on the fake throne and he stares at her shaking fingers as he gestures for her to pour him rice wine.

She takes it from him as he watches her reactions, and somehow, he sees the fantasy Crown Prince in her, wallowing there at his feet, frightened of him, wary of his actions. He likes it. It’s fascinating.

He says, “Little bird.”

She blinks, the high points of her cheeks darkening. “Ex—excuse me, yo—your highness?”

“Do you like that name? Little bird?”

She doesn’t look at him, her brows furrowing together as she stares at a specific point on the wall to the side. Her curly hair is slipping out of her bun and her brown skin glows underneath the dim torch lights he’s had one of the other maid’s light. She glows, the fire of the torch lights dancing off her skin, casting shadows along her skin, elongating her shadow, emphasizing the dips at her neck, the wary twinkle in her eyes, the sharpness of her cheekbones, the fullness of her lips, the curves of each and every one of her features. Her brows furrow and there is the fire in her eyes all over again, trumping the slight quiver of her fingers and the nervous sweat glistening at her brow. She shakes her head, an imperceptible little thing he would not have noticed if he had not been looking at her so intently.

She says, “No, your highness.”

He hums, still smiling brightly, and her eyes flicker to meet his for just a moment. He holds her gaze, traps her there, and murmurs, “Then, allow me time to work on it.”

She looks like she wants to refuse. He stares at her, dares her to, but then she lowers her gaze, her bottom lip caught in her lip, and she says, “I look forward to it, your highness.”

She doesn’t look forward to it. He knows. Yet she says she does.

He throws back his head and laughs and laughs and laughs.

~.~.~.~.~

(“Sanggung.” Chanyeol whispers, his deep voice sending shivers down her spine.

She freezes, fingers stilling against the teapot, and she hears his chuckle, a deep, deep sound that burrows under her skin and into her bones. Her gaze flickers up to meet his and he tilts his head to the side, hair falling into his eyes, his big eyes focused entirely on her and his perpetual smile so utterly present.

“New name. Do you like it?” He eyes her, raising a brow, before he adds, “Speak freely.”

She blinks at him, placing the teapot back down on the tray, the soft thud echoing so, so loudly all around them before she bites out, “I am moving up ranks?”

“You’ve gained the King’s favor.”

She stares at him and he raises a brow, as if he’s challenging her, daring her to say it. But, she’s watched him tear apart people for less. Still, she manages to whisper, “How?”

He ignores her question, whispers with the lowest of voices, his tone rumbling, soft, “You are a maid favored by the King. Is that not a story that should be written into all the history books? Should you not have poems written of you?”

“As a concubine? I doubt it.” She finds herself hissing, her heart swelling and her eyes welling, her gaze lingering on the way he looks at her, his eyes never once leaving hers. There’s a softness there, within the darkness and the intensity, a look she’s started to see quite a bit lately, a look that often made her lose touch with reality, at least until he sent her off to kidnap the King’s most precious sister to turn her into his illegitimate queen, even though all she does now is scream and kick and claw at whoever enters her room.

He murmurs, “You are to help the Queen run my palace, as every other King has had their queens and royal concubines do. If no one writes thousands of poems about your fiery eyes, your sweet skin, your nimble fingers, your cloud of curls, I’ll write them my damned self.”

He’s a man of honeyed words that make her knees tremble and she hates it, she decides, hates the way he sometimes looks at her like she is the crown and throne he desires so damn much, because it isn’t true and they both know it. He knows exactly what to say to her, though, and maybe, in the end, she really hates him, more than anything.

He knows of the thoughts running through her head. He always does. Some say the Gods have given him the ability to read minds, but she knows the truth is simpler. He is perceptive, and most people are like open books. Most people are so easy to figure out if one just takes a moment to look closer. He stares at her, his big eyes unwavering and his grin plastered across his face, unrelenting. He knows that she does not think him a God, though she will never admit it out loud in fear of retaliation. He knows, even as she refuses to acknowledge his saccharine words. He doesn’t look phased by her ignorance at all. In fact, he looks almost amused, the corners of his lips twitching, his smile growing lopsided. She snaps out, unable to help her sharp tone, “So, is that it? You’ll be like other kings?”

“I’ll embody every one of their strengths and then I will surpass them. I will help this kingdom prosper properly. I will redistribute the wealth and ruin any nobleman who thinks he can use his status to oppress the poor. I will be the best.” Chanyeol tells her, almost too calm. She also knows that what he wants most is to be remembered, despite all the honeyed promises he makes to the people to get them to follow him. He never once explains how he will change the social hierarchy of the country nor does he tell his loyal followers how he will redistribute the wealth. He just says, in a tone that is so smooth, so easy to digest, and with a sword that is always at the ready, and everyone believes him.

(Sometimes, she thinks she believes his honeyed words, too. For just a moment, she believes in him and the small smiles he graces her with, late at night. A part of her believes him.)

He reaches out then, so suddenly she doesn’t catch the movement on time, his fingers gripping her chin suddenly. His grip isn’t tight, but it still makes her breath catch in . His dark eyes are filled with a wicked sort of amusement as he murmurs, “And you will manage the affairs of my palace alongside the pretty princess, understand, sanggung?”

She stares at him, stares and stares, her eyes widening and her heart thrumming in . She stares at him and he stares back, leveling her with his dark gaze. She manages to whisper, “I don’t like it. It is not mine.” He raises a brow, tilting his head dangerously, like a predator assessing his prey, and she clarifies, “That name.”

He releases her chin and leans back against his fake throne, eyes lingering on her, slowly, slowly, settling over her, making her shiver as she refuses to tear her gaze off him. “Perhaps, you can move up ranks and change it.”

His movements are deliberate, calculated, as they always are, especially when he leans forward, so so close, hovering just so, and he murmurs, “Now go and make sure our Princess eats her dinner.”

Her eyes flicker over his face, so close she can barely breathe, and she slowly nods, breath caught in . He twists a stray curl around his finger, expression contemplative. She whispers, “What if she doesn’t want it?”

He tilts his head, ever so slightly, his breath fanning over her, and his eyes filled with a look that tells her she should know the answer to this. Still, he bites out, “Then make her eat it.”

Finally, finally, he releases her from his gaze and she stumbles back, nearly tripping over her own two feet. The corners of his lips curl into an impish little smirk as he watches her try her best not to run from the room.)

---

a/n: UH THIS IS LOOOOOOOOONG OVERDUE I'M SO SORRY. but also it's long as hell, I've already written a good 10k of this and it's still not done, so I'm going to make this into 3 parts. I hope the timeline makes sense. The OC is nameless at the moment (though she won't be nameless forever, unlike the OC from carry your throne). Anyways, this was written a while ago, so the writing style is a bit different. I hope yall like it, please let me know your thoughts <3

ALSO SUHO'S ALBUM.........SO GOOD............AHHHHHHHHHHH