“Curious,” Han drawled. “I do not see your pet around.”

“I sent him out on an errand,” Yixing said as he got comfortable on the couch; Han liked to surround himself with luxury, and the furniture in his quarters were no exception. “I do not think he will return until suppertime at earliest.”

“Well, that’s a shame.”

Han had been Yixing’s best friend for as long as he could remember, his mother a dear friend of Xifeng. When his parents tragically perished in an accident that left him an orphan at just eight years old, Xifeng had taken pity and adopted him in every sense of the word except by name and blood. As such he grew up as practically a third brother of Yixing as well as a friend, which Yixing at age seven thought was the best thing to ever happen.

Han had mellowed over the years. As a child he had been the noise to Yixing’s silence, which had frequently gotten him in trouble with Xifeng. Once or twice, his misbehaviour had earned him a whopping from Jianjun. Han had always sat through those sombrely, chubby cheeks puffed up in his attempt to hold back tears. 

Adult Han had shed the baby fat of his childhood in favour of smooth skin and a pretty face, which drew the interest of many women and men. He donned the finest silks gold could buy and had servants do his hair with several ornamental hairpins and sometimes a red ribbon or two. The day’s hairdo was surprisingly simple but made him no less handsome to whomever laid eyes on him.

“How have you been?” Yixing asked, curious to hear what Han had been up to since he last saw him.

Han shrugged to appear indifferent, but his lips were twitching with the urge to split into a grin. “I was a guest at a manor belonging to a young lady. Imagine – twenty-three and already a widow! Her daughter is too small yet to say mother.”

“Is that lady a friend or a lover?”

Han looked at him askance from his lounge on his favourite divan. “Can she not be both?”

“Is it not rather cruel of you to lead her on?” Yixing asked dryly. “She needs stability, which is far from what you have to offer her.”

“Ouch.” Han acted out being stabbed through the chest; Yixing snorted. “I told her I was not looking to become her new husband, which she did not mind in the slightest. She insisted she just wanted a good time because she has been so stressed lately, so that’s what I gave her.”

“I see,” Yixing said. “I suppose you did well, then.”

Han hummed. “She certainly enjoyed it. I gave her more than a good time.” He lifted an eyebrow towards Yixing. “What about you, dearest friend? You are getting old.”

Yixing inclined his head towards Han. “I am not the only one.”

Han scoffed and waved him off. “Are you determined to abstain from until you are wed or coerced into spending your nights with concubines? Or perhaps you intend to take your ity to the grave?”

“You know well I am no ,” Yixing said dryly. 

Han’s expression was distinctly deadpan. “Please, enlighten me. It appears palace gossip has slackened terribly in recent years, for I have heard no rumours about your latest conquests.”

Yixing rolled his eyes and sank further into the soft cushions. Han’s gaze burned on his skin, but they were interrupted by the doors opening to let in a pair of servants carrying trays of refreshments. Han sighed and sat up, stretching his body before reaching for one of the trays. Yixing took the other tray offered to him. He picked a few pieces of an exotic fruit he forgot the name of but knew he liked and discarded the tray on the table between them. 

“Thank you,” Han said to the servants. “I will send for you if I need you later.”

With the servants gone and his full attention back on Yixing, Han said, “I am to conclude you have taken no woman to bed in years, then?”

Yixing swallowed the piece of fruit he had popped in his mouth. “There is no need,” he drawled, “when you more than make up for my slack.”

A grin split Han’s face. “While that may be true, you do have your fair share of admirers. You would hardly have to seduce them into your bed.”

“Your carnal desires know no bounds,” Yixing muttered, much to Han’s amusement. 

“Yixing,” he said, laughter in his voice. “You are the first prince of Lián. Once you take your father’s throne, Watcher’s blessings upon him, there will be no time for fun or to explore. Your most pressing duty then will be to impregnate your concubines.”

“Am I not allowed to enjoy that?” Yixing said.

Han rolled his eyes at him. “That is beside my point.”

“Then, pray tell, what is your point?”

Han left him steeping as he grabbed a bundle of grapes from the tray closest to himself and returned to his lounge. He languidly ate a couple of them as he observed Yixing for a long stretch of silence. Eventually, he said, “Do you prefer men?”

“I like men and women equally,” Yixing said evenly. 

Han hummed. “Is that so.” He popped a few more grapes into his mouth and spoke again. “I suppose there is no harm done in what you do. I am just nosey.”

“And that,” Yixing said, “is something I believe will never change.”

“Is it such a bad thing that I care for my friend’s wellbeing?” Han said. “I am merely curious. We are so different, you and I, that I sometimes wonder why that is so when we spent our childhood practically attached.”

Yixing smiled and shook his head. “It is of no trouble. However, Han, do you not wish to settle down some day with a wife and children of your own?”

“I do. Xifeng always insists on introducing me to several lovely ladies whenever she is around in the hopes that I find one of them suitable.”

“Yet I cannot think of a single time any woman has ever truly held your heart. If ever there has been one, you failed to tell me.”

Han shrugged. “I have not been in love. The women I have been with have been lovely, as have the men, but not once have I felt more than carnal desire for them.” He cocked his head, a little frown appearing between his eyebrows. “Perhaps I am simply not capable of love.”

“I do not believe that,” Yixing said softly. “It is just a question of finding the right person. I do not think there is a single living soul at the palace that has not at some point daydreamed about a marital life with you.”

Han snorted and looked askance at Yixing. “Your pet, that Junmyeon, has never shown the slightest inclination of desiring me. In fact, he hardly spares me any attention at all.”

Han sounded almost peeved about that, which rubbed Yixing the wrong way. He felt something dark within himself rear its ugly head at the thought of Han laying his hands on Junmyeon’s body, or of them sharing heated moments in Han’s bed or anywhere at all.

Han’s voice cut through the undesirable images that had emerged entirely unbidden in Yixing’s head. “Of course, if the rumours as to his manhood are true…”

“They are not,” Yixing said firmly, perhaps a tad too harshly. He detested those rumours. “I do not know why they are still alive and kicking when it has been several years.”

He needed to get a hold of himself. This was neither the time nor the place for him to feel so possessive of Junmyeon, and it never would be. 

Junmyeon belonged to Yixing on paper, but if Junmyeon ever wanted to be free of the metaphorical chains binding him to Yixing, or if he decided that he no longer wanted to stick around until Yixing ascended the throne, then Yixing would release him. Perhaps he would need a day or two to wallow in self-pity at allowing what could have been to slip through the cracks between his fingers, but he would not force Junmyeon to stay by his side until the end of his days. He respected their friendship too much for that. 

Han was talking again. “Odd, then, that such a rumour should have started in the first place.” He hummed. “How would you know what is true and what is not?”

Yixing levelled Han with a hard look. Han returned his stare with an open one of his own, but Yixing refused to leave it at that. “I know you mean no disrespect, Han, but your implications are not welcome in this room.”

“My apologies,” Han said and bowed his head. “I just hope you know that my silence is a guarantee if ever you should want to share with me something… delicate. Your pet is a handsome man, after all, even more so than when he first came to us.”

“Enough,” Yixing snapped. 

He loved Han dearly, but between Han and Yifan, Yifan had always been and would always be his first choice when he needed a confidante for matters of his heart. Yifan was a romantic even if he tried to hide it. He was empathic where Han tended towards cynicism, soft-spoken and considerate where Han did not always care or realise if his words hurt. 

Yifan had been the first person Yixing had sought out once the gravity of his feelings for Junmyeon had dawned on him earlier that year in growth, and Yifan had listened attentively and offered him sound advice that Yixing may or may not have followed.

Yixing knew he could trust Han with matters like this as much as he knew that Han knew he would rather discuss them with Yifan. Han had never outright confronted Yixing about it, but it could not have passed him by. 

Still, this was one secret Han would not be privy to. It was not that he thought Han would use his feelings against him or mock him for desiring a man who was a slave. He was more likely to tell him to just man up and go do something about it.

It was simply just that Han was Han, and Han was not always easy to talk to in the same way Yifan was, and where Han had never truly loved someone before, Yifan loved with his whole being.

Besides, while Yixing had not had any intention of sharing that information with him before coming to see him, he felt even less inclined now after Han had mentioned Junmyeon’s lack of attention in such a disgruntled tone.

Han nibbled at a couple of grapes and said, “Well, so long as you know I am here for you.”

“I do, my friend,” Yixing said. “And on that note, there is something else I wish to discuss with you.”

Han arched a brow in intrigue. “Yes?”

“I had another fight with Father,” Yixing said. “Well, a few fights, I suppose.”

He told Han about the queen and her infant son, about his need to find a good reason for why his father should allow him into the meetings once more, his father’s disinterest in hearing anything he had to say, and, lastly, his plans of sending Zitao to war.

“Absolutely not,” Han said, so vehemently that Yixing almost cracked a smile. His reaction to the prospective assassinations on the two royals had been tepid compared to this, which Yixing had just about expected from him. “How could your father come to such a foolish conclusion? You and I are fighters, but Zitao? By Watcher, he’s a lamb.”

“Indeed.”

“We have to change your father’s mind,” Han insisted, grapes forgotten in his lap. “He cannot –”

A knock on the doors interrupted Han’s passionate speech. He turned a glare towards the doors where one of the servants from earlier was peeking through. “Lord Han,” she said. “Master Yifan wishes to see you. May I send him in?”

“Yes, please.”

“Oh,” Yixing said. “I did not expect to see him today.”

“I heard he returned to the palace yesterday around midnight,” Han said. “I wanted to see him, and I reckoned you wouldn’t mind his presence. We have not yet had a chance to celebrate his birthday, just the three of us.”

“That is true,” Yixing said just as Yifan was led through the doors by the servant.

Yifan’s dark hair was about the same length as Yixing’s, and unlike most others Yixing knew, he preferred to tie back half of it in a simple hairdo or simply leave it loose. He was often seen in yellows or browns or blues, or in the green colours of the university, and today was no exception. Compared to Han’s flowy fabrics and numerous layers, Yifan’s attire was rather dull but fit him well.

“Yixing,” Yifan said upon spotting him, sounding pleasantly surprised. “Good to see you. It has been a while.”

“It has,” Yixing said and rose from the cushions to offer Yifan a hug. “Blessings on turning twenty-eight. How is your mother?”

“She is well,” Yifan said and smiled. “She loves Father, but I am starting to suspect she enjoys handling the estate in his absence a bit more than she lets on.”

“It would not surprise me if she did,” Yixing said dryly and gestured for Yifan to take a seat next to his own spot once he had hugged Han as well. “Kuaihua has always been an admirable lady.”

“Not to forget scary,” Han added. 

Yixing laughed, even if Kuaihua indeed had scared him as a child. She was a strict woman with a firm hand and strong opinions, which Yifan’s father had fallen heedlessly in love with back when he had still been a captain. The two of them were a powerful couple and, despite spending much time apart, always there for each other. Yixing had witnessed their love in fleeting glances and innocent caresses many a time over the years. 

“Sometimes, yes,” Yixing said, amusement still seeping into his voice. 

Han gestured at the two trays on the table. “Take whatever you want, Yifan. If you need something else, I will call for a servant.”

“This will more than suffice,” Yifan said and snatched a handful of apple slices. “I had lunch with Father before coming here.”

“Did your father tell you about Zitao?” Han asked. Yifan blinked at him. “Yixing’s father wants Weishan to take Zitao once the peace treaty is up and they go to war.”

Yifan nearly crushed the apple slices within his hand. “Zitao? You must be jesting.”

“He is not,” Yixing said.

The look of distress on Yifan’s face made Yixing’s stomach twist. “Is there no hope of the treaty being extended?”

“Father wants war,” Yixing said softly. “And if war is what he wants, war is what he gets.”

“I will speak to my father,” Yifan said, nibbling at his lips as he looked at the apple slices in his hand as if they held the answers he sought. “There is probably nothing he can do about it short of refusing, which Father would never do.”

“You need supporters,” Han said. He contemplated his words as Yixing and Yifan turned their eyes to him. “Could you gain the support of someone in the council? Preferably more than one.”

“The council was handpicked by my father,” Yixing said sourly. “He took great care to appoint only the ones that shared his mindset and penchant for violence.”

“Everyone agrees Zitao is not fit to rule,” Han said, ruthlessly blunt as ever even if Yixing agreed. Yixing caught Yifan’s grimace in the corner of his eye and offered a wan smile. “Use that to gain their support, perhaps.”

“I fail to see how that might work,” Yixing said. “They do not want Zitao on the throne, so what better way to assure that won’t happen by sending him to his death under the guise of protection and maturity?”

“Pigheaded good-for-nothings,” Yifan muttered.

“Besides,” Yixing said dryly, “I need my father’s permission to attend the councils before I can start to gain their support in anything.”

“His permission?” Yifan repeated, dumbfounded. “Why?”

Han swiftly filled him in on what had happened during the week of his absence while Yixing reached for some apple slices of his own. Yifan was frowning hard by the time Han finished. “I see. I suppose the first step is to get you back in the meetings, then.”

“Strike a bargain with your father,” Han said.

Yixing rubbed at his forehead. “And what do you propose?”

Han shrugged. “Whatever he wants that you have to offer. Your obedience, perhaps?”

Yixing made sure his stare at Han was every bit as unimpressed as he felt. “He will not accept my obedience unless I swear it to him forever, which is out of the question. Frankly, I rather doubt he would give my promise of obedience any consideration at all.”

“What if you went instead of Zitao to –” Han cut himself off. “No, that is off the table as well.”

“Indeed.”

Yifan was looking between them in confusion. “Are we talking bargains to keep Zitao here or are we talking bargains to get your seat back at the council?”

Han waved a hand. “Whichever.”

Yixing direly needed some tea. “Start from the most pressing matter at hand, which is the council. I have two weeks to convince my father. I have time yet to change his mind about Zitao.”

“I suppose your title as first prince is not enough to sway him,” Yifan murmured. Yixing nodded dejectedly. “Then a bargain, as Han said, may be your best option.”

If only it were so simple as to swear off arguing with his father for a week.

-

The palace temple was open to everyone whether they be servants or royalty, so Yixing tended to avoid the crowd by going early in the morning or late at night. 

Thus, Prayerday found Yixing bright and early before one of the altars. The floor was pleasantly cool against his forehead as he murmured prayers into the stone, a gentle hum amongst the other worshippers in the temple. 

He did not dislike the lack of privacy in the palace temple, per se, but he did look forward to the day he was granted access to the one in the emperor’s quarters. Believed to be the greatest point for contact with the Watcher, it was open only to the emperor, the temple workers when the emperor was absent, and, if he so deemed it appropriate, blood family.

Jianjun had never allowed anyone but himself – and the monks – inside the temple.

Junmyeon, who worshipped not the Watcher but some of the lesser gods, usually opted to stay behind, but this day he had tagged along because they would be going to the city afterwards to visit one of the other temples. He had offered a short prayer before hugging one of the walls as he waited for Yixing.

Yixing made sure to always visit the palace temple at least thrice a week, albeit he tended to stay for no longer than fifteen minutes; the extended and meticulous sessions were usually reserved for the blood moon rites and other such special occasions.

He bowed one last time before the altar before he stepped away and, after a cursory glance around the room in search of Junmyeon, made his way back to him.

“Shall we?” he said the moment he was within earshot. Junmyeon dipped his head once in a nod. 

Twenty minutes later, they passed through the Imperial Palace’s striking front gate, on foot because Yixing had insisted. The weather was pleasant, and with blizzard soon ushering them shivering inside and near fire, he wanted to enjoy the last bits of late-wither warmth they were granted. A few armoured and armed escorts accompanied them, and another two were nearby but deliberately stayed out of sight. As a child, Yixing had loved playing spot the bodyguard with Han and Yifan and had always been proud when he did spot one of them. The excitement had worn off in his adolescent years (and once he had realised they had allowed him to find them; were he to try now, he would probably have more success making wild guesses than actually looking).

Trips to the inner city happened fairly often, but rarely were they for official business. He knew his father preferred to stay within the palace gates to scheme, but Yixing got bored fast. First Prince he may be, but other than council, his father had sparingly few tasks for him to do that concerned state matters.

At least the trips to the inner city were always a delight. Fairday usually meant fairs in addition to the usual markets, plays, music, thousands of people; Meditiationday, on the other hand, traditionally was the one time of week where servants were allowed a few more hours of leisure or even the whole day off and nobles lazed about in their estates, often hangover from spending Fairday night indulging poor habits. 

Walking the streets at this hour had a certain charm; few people up and about, the sun just barely gracing the lands with its light, fresh air, a peculiar quiet right before the bustle began. The day had barely started. 

The temple Junmyeon frequented was not far from the Great University of Lián, the towers of which were visible above most of the other buildings. It was a few streets away from the city centre, so once they reached the crossroads of Emperor’s Road, Ancient Fountain Road, and Market Road, they broke off their current path and went down Market Road.

“First Prince Yixing!” a young voice called. Yixing brought his entourage to a halt with a raised hand once he spotted the small child that came running up to them. Her cheeks were red from the cold, but a wide grin still split her face.

“First Prince,” she said excitedly and stumbled to a halt before him, “I have a gift for you.” She held out her hand, and in her palm was a small pebble.

The child’s caretaker, a young woman, arrived, looking slightly frazzled. She grabbed the girl by the shoulder and firmly but gently drew her away from Yixing. “My deepest apologies, First Prince Yixing. She saw you from afar and took off before I had a chance to stop her. I’m terribly sorry to have interrupted your plans this morning.”

Yixing smiled and waved the girl forward. “It is of no trouble, miss.” The girl had been looking up at the woman with a sour look on her face, but she lit up in another grin once she saw Yixing’s gesture. “What have you got for me, little lady?”

The girl held out her hand again. Yixing sank into a crouch while she said, “A pebble! I found it by the river when Mother took me to find mushrooms.” Her face turned serious all of a sudden, and in a sombre tone she asked him, “Do you like mushrooms?”

Yixing shared a look with Junmyeon, whose impassive face gave little away; his eyes were another matter, the mirth clear as day. “I do, yes.”

The girl scrunched up her face, having obviously not expected Yixing to like mushrooms, but she was smiling again within moments. “Then I will like them as well!” She grabbed Yixing’s hand and deposited the pebble in his palm. “Mother says a water sprite must have left the pebble by the river, so that makes it blessed.”

The pebble was truthfully nothing remarkable to look at, and why this particular one had garnered the girl’s attention amongst the many others that would undoubtedly also be by the riverbank, Yixing did not know – but it did not stop him from arching an impressed brow at the girl. “If that is so, would you not rather keep it for yourself?”

“No!” the girl said, shaking her head so vigorously it almost made Yixing dizzy to look at. “You should have it!” She squared her shoulders, brown eyes so fervent as she looked imploringly at Yixing. “Father never came back from the wars, and my brothers will also leave us if Emperor calls for them. But if you were emperor, we wouldn’t have to worry. We would –”

The woman darted forward to once again draw the girl back. “Enough.” The expression on her face was strained as she looked at Yixing. “She’s only a girl. She knows not what she is implying. Please forgive her, and please forgive me, First Prince.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Yixing murmured, squeezing the pebble in his hand. If even the children felt another war stirring… Children should not have to fear for the future. Yixing’s early childhood had been untroubled and joyful, and while children such as this one would not have the same comforts he had been born into, they still should not have to worry so much at this age. 

The girl appeared to be no older than seven or eight. It was much too young.

A few curious passersby had taken a break from their schedules to observe them; Junmyeon’s discreet nudge spurred Yixing back into action.

He smiled at the girl and patted the side of her head. “I promise to do what I can if you promise to be good to your mother and your brothers, all right? Help your mother when she needs you, and eat the mushrooms.”

She nodded resolutely. “I will!”

He got back to his feet and absentmindedly brushed off his knees. “Good. I must get going, little lady. Take care – both of you.”

“Blessings upon you, First Prince,” the woman said quietly, dipping into a curtsy before taking the girl’s hand and leading her away. The passersby murmured blessings and went on their way, as well.

“Well,” Junmyeon said under his breath, “the girl is wise for her age. She gave you something that is not porcelain.”

Yixing’s smile was pleasant as he looked over his shoulder at his bodyguards and motioned for them to start moving again, but through gritted teeth he said, “I will have you walk barefoot on hot coals until you beg me for mercy.”

Junmyeon hummed. “No, you won’t.”

“One day I might.”

“No.”

 

In truth, Yixing had done practically nothing to ease the lives of the people. He had tried, certainly, and he regularly begged his father to do this or to do that, but – it changed nothing. Yixing’s hands were tied: He did not have his father’s approval to withdraw huge amounts of gold from the treasure to help the citizens, nor did he have the authority to order the construction of new buildings or the restoration of old ones. Most recently he had donated five-thousand bags of grain and rice to the outer corners of the city, and for that he had earned only a long-suffering look from his father. 

He knew it was not a move he could get away with again without harsher reprimand.

What little he could do was listen to the people when they gathered enough courage to approach him during his trips outside the palace walls. He was loath to make promises he thought he could not keep, but he accepted all their gifts with smiles and gratitude and offered a few coins here and there if there were few to witness it.

His willingness to talk and listen usually also delayed him quite a bit, which he did not always take into account on days where he needed to be back at the palace at a certain time. This time, thanks to his father, he had no schedules until sometime past noon, so they spent most of the morning in the city. 

His father, when he so deigned to grace the city with his presence, always had a squad of armed guards to protect him at all times whereas Yixing felt safe with only the two by his side and the other pair of bodyguards blending in with the crowds, but his father never would.

For that, Jianjun could blame only himself, but he did not care.

Yixing knew of one attempt on his own life in the streets a handful of years ago, but the ambush had been thwarted by his guards before the woman could get within range to do any harm. Curiously, it had been Junmyeon who had first alerted Yixing to the danger by laying a hand on his underarm to slow him down. 

He had made many enquiries into Junmyeon’s past, of his life before he came to Lián, but it was a topic Junmyeon refused to discuss beyond a clipped explanation of a disgraced father and a mother. Through the years, Yixing had come to his own conclusions and allowed the topic to rest.

Still, he wished Junmyeon would allow him more than a glimpse into his thoughts and a better understanding of his character. They were friends, and Yixing would entrust his life to Junmyeon within a heartbeat.

Before the ambush that took away his mother and Zhilan, Yixing and Junmyeon had gotten along perfectly fine but Yixing had not considered Junmyeon a friend in the strictest sense: A companion, certainly, but not someone he confided in. As fate would have it, Junmyeon had been with Yixing when the news of Xiulan and Zhilan’s deaths had reached him. 

He remembered the staggering grief, the blinding rage, and the piercing guilt.

He had insisted on seeing the reports despite his father’s cautions because he had needed to know how the enemy had managed to infiltrate the Jade Palace. Granted, the palace was not as heavily guarded as the emperor’s residence of choice, but a palace housing both empresses and their three daughters during wartimes should have warranted significant security all the same. 

Yixing had found no faults in the reports concerning the guards on duty, although he had thought and still thought it reeked of some sort of betrayal amongst their own people – but with no evidence, he had had no choice but to look elsewhere for someone or something to blame.

The infiltration had happened early in the evening with the ambush following a few hours later. It had been swift and brutal, and obviously their main target had been anyone with royal blood. Guards had alerted Xiulan and Xifeng in time for them to reach the girls’ quarters and rouse them from their slumber. They had worked together to get the girls to safety outside the palace, but the enemy had shown up before they could do the same. Xifeng had managed to escape unscathed, but Xiulan had suffered a beating and a deep stab wound in her abdomen. 

Xiaoqing and Xiaodan reunited with Xifeng sometime later in the night outside the palace, but Zhilan, to assure her younger sisters’ escape, had been caught by enemy soldiers. Her corpse was found by the riverside by patrolling guards the following morning, cruelly mangled and bloodied, nightdress in tatters. 

Xiulan eventually succumbed to complications and internal bleeding, but at least she had been aware enough on her deathbed to say her goodbyes to her daughters and Xifeng.

Yixing had had to stop reading when his tears caused the words on the parchment to blur.

Junmyeon did not leave Yixing’s side in the days that followed as they anxiously waited for Xifeng, Xiaodan, and Xiaoqing to return to the Imperial Palace. He was a pillar of comfort, soothing words and guidance as Yixing struggled with grief. 

Zitao, first and foremost, lost a sister, but Xiulan had been almost as much his mother as Xifeng was, and when he didn’t weep into Yixing or Yifan’s shoulder, he tended to seek inwards to deal with his emotions. Han, who lost a mother figure, scarcely shed a tear in front of them, but Yixing knew he grieved as much in the privacy of his own quarters.

Yixing’s grief manifested in outbursts of sudden temper fits that only Junmyeon was around to deal with. 

Xifeng, upon their return, had been overwrought in her own grief of losing her only blood daughter and a dear friend, but still the first thing she had done was demand an audience with Jianjun. He had granted it, but the walls were not thick enough to silence her fury as she cursed him and his wars.

Jianjun’s apparent impassiveness was what slowly drove Yixing away more than anything. The wars were senseless to begin with, nothing but Jianjun’s unquenching thirst for power, and it dawned on Yixing that he had allowed himself to hide from reality behind the palace walls for too long. 

In the following months, he spent many hours in Xifeng’s company and came to see his father in a different light. 

Xiulan had loved Jianjun with all her heart. She may have been an advocate of peace rather than war, but she supported him all the same and was content so long as her loved ones were safe. Jianjun had loved her, as well, but not in the wholehearted way that Xiulan had loved him. Jianjun, Xifeng told Yixing one rainy evening, could and would never truly love anyone. It didn’t matter if it were Xiulan, his own choice for empress, or Yixing, his own blood. 

He simply was not capable of love the way most others were. 

That alone did not make him a terrible or hated man. It was his ideals, his morals, his deeds, and his lack of empathy for those he wronged on the way that sowed the seeds of Xifeng’s hatred. The deaths of Xiulan and Zhilan became the catalyst. 

Xifeng was no longer happy at the Imperial Palace and her hatred only grew for each day that passed by. Her arguments with Jianjun became a regular occurence, then a daily one.

The sacred blood between parents and their children meant that raising a hand to them was a punishable offence. Yixing had had a servant boy once who took any punishment for him, so Yixing had been careful not to invoke his father’s ire from an early age so as to spare the servant as many lashes as possible. 

Xifeng had neither blood nor servants to protect her from Jianjun: The first time Yixing ignored the servant sent by her to request they postpone their talk a few days, he had found her sitting morosely by her dressing table in her bedchamber, what little of her skin that was visible to his eyes besprinkled with tiny flowers of blues and greens and yellows. She had caught him frowning at the bruises and smiled wryly.

She had told him to nok look so concerned for Jianjun had never laid a hand on Xiulan, and while that mollified him some, it still did not calm the fury in him at seeing the evidence of his father’s mistreatment. 

It was not long after that revelation that Xifeng took Xiaodan and Xiaoqing under her arms and left for another of their palaces. She knew Yixing could not leave the Imperial Palace, but she had pleaded with Zitao to come with her up until the day of their departure.

Zitao had watched them go with a sad look in his eyes, but he had been resolute in his decision to stay behind. It was for the best, he had insisted.

Everything had been in full bloom the last time Yixing had seen Xifeng and his sisters. He wondered if wither would see them returning to the Imperial Palace before Jianjun relocated to the Vermillion Palace for the blizzard season.

He missed them.

-

His father could bar him from council, but court was another matter.

They had been at it for little more than an hour and already Jianjun was showing signs of vexation; long fingers rested on his knee and tapped when his patience was running thin, narrowed eyes, shoulders squared, mouth curling downwards into a slight sneer when Yixing interrupted him.

It was, perhaps, a touch of retribution that drove Yixing to speak up at every possible turn instead of choosing his battles more carefully: He was still no closer to getting back into council, at a loss of how he could appease his father, and the end of the month would soon be upon them.

Disregarding his father’s authority so carelessly and interrupting the talks would definitely not make it easier, but he was fed up. 

The mood in the Great Hall was decidedly stiff; With Jianjun seated on his throne and Yixing standing at the bottom of the dais, Jianjun’s advisers had settled around their table on Jianjun’s left hand and the rest of the attending court had spread out on the floor. Amongst them were also the four emissaries.

Since his talk with Zitao, Yixing had made sure to pay more attention to them. It was interesting to see for himself the close bond between Emissary Nitchakhun and Emissary Shuhua despite the reports Junmyeon had procured for him just yesterday noting the continued tension between their two kingdoms. 

They were whispering to each other, glancing at Yixing’s father with trepidation every once in a while (and even Yixing himself, he had noticed with some amusement). The other two emissaries, Jongdae and Takuya, had a better hold over their emotions and retained their neutral expressions.

A cursory sweep of the court revealed that it was not only the emissaries that felt uneasy in the wake of Yixing’s refusal to keep quiet and Jianjun’s consequent infuriation. The advisers kept exchanging looks and glancing nervously between Jianjun and Yixing.

“First Prince,” Jianjun finally said after a long silence, his tone carefully free of the danger in his eyes as he looked down at him. Yixing stared back coolly; he knew his father’s fuse was so short that any word from him could cause an explosion. “Perhaps we could continue court without further interference from you?”

Yixing bowed his head. “Emperor. Proceed.”

Jianjun’s eyes narrowed into slits, but he tore his gaze off Yixing and donned a neutral expression as he called forth the next person in line. 

Yixing listened to the noble’s grievances with half an ear. 

The previous woman had requested a divorce on account of an abusive husband, which Jianjun had nearly denied until Yixing stepped in to demand further explanation from her. She had complied, if cautiously, and revealed her husband had recently lost a fortune in a bad trade, but instead of getting back up he had wallowed in self-pity and anger. He had found solace in the bottom of a wine bottle, which turned to several bottles, which turned him violent and made talking with him nearly impossible. 

She had feared he would take it out on their children.

Jianjun had declared he would send an official to take stock of the situation, and if it were indeed as dire as she insisted, he would grant the divorce. He had not been pleased, but Yixing had refused to see her leave without something; if his father cared naught for the wellbeing of a wife and her children, Yixing certainly would.

Yixing remained quiet throughout the next two nobles that came forth (one requesting Jianjun’s blessing for a blood oath, which Jianjun considered carefully due to the nature of the request, and the other asking for a loan), but the third was one Yixing could not listen mutely to as his father contemplated the woman’s proposal.

“We must help,” he said and looked to his father, whose right hand was fisted on the armrest.

“Soldiers already apprehended the accused,” Jianjun said lowly. Dangerously. 

Yixing would not be deterred and stood straighter. “This family lost their entire fortune due to robbers we failed twice before to detain. Their son might never walk again. We owe it to them to offer some kind of –”

“Reimbursement, is that it?” Jianjun snapped. “You would empty our treasure to help anyone who comes to you for help? Fine.” He clasped his hands together and levelled Yixing with a steely stare. “What of those who come to you once you have no more to give? Will you go so far as to take loans from your wealthy nobles, only to end up in debt?”

Yixing pursed his lips. “Of course not –”

“Then be quiet,” Jianjun fairly hollered. “This family should have known better than to rely solely on their trade. They should have secured their fortune. A fire could have done the same damage.” He rapped on the armrest with his knuckles. “I will not reimburse them. This was their own fault.”

Yixing bristled, but Jianjun silenced him with a hand before he could say anything. “No,” he ordered. He looked around the Great Hall at the people assembled. “Court is hereby adjourned. Kindly take your leave. You,” he said specifically to Yixing, “will stay.”

Murmurs of acquiescence arose amongst the crowd as they fanned out. Jongdae and Shuhua were looking Yixing’s way, eyes guarded, as they took their leave. The woman whose family had lost everything to the robbers mouthed something at Yixing once he caught her gaze. He thought it might have been thank you.

Once the Great Hall had emptied, Jianjun rose from his throne. He kept his fury under control, but his stare was hard as it landed on Yixing. 

“You undermine my authority time and time again,” he said lowly. “You need to learn your place and keep your mouth shut. I will not have an heir who disobeys me.”

“Why must you silence me?” Yixing demanded. “What I have to offer is not insignificant. If you would just listen for once, perhaps we could come to see eye to eye!”

“You are weak-minded,” Jianjun said. “You are too much like your mother in that regard.” 

Yixing glared and said hotly, “Mother was strong,” but Jianjun was no longer looking at him but towards the doors.

“Servant!”

Immediately a girl peeked inside. “Yes, Emperor?”

“Fetch me the first prince’s slave,” Jianjun said. “Bring me one of my guards, as well.”

“Why?” Yixing asked, glare exchanged for a frown as he watched the girl dip into a bow before scurrying off. 

Jianjun did not answer, so Yixing pressed his lips together and waited. He knew pushing him for an answer would not make him yield.

A few minutes passed before the same servant girl knocked on the door and peeked inside again. “Emperor, shall I send them in?”

“Yes,” Jianjun said coolly.

The servant’s head disappeared and instead Junmyeon stepped through the doors. His gaze rested on Yixing for a split second, his face carved from stone, as he came to stand before Jianjun. One older man followed behind him.

“Emperor,” Junmyeon said, eyes downcast and voice much softer than usual. He fell into a deep bow. “You requested my presence.”

“On your knees,” Jianjun demanded. Yixing’s heart was palpitating in his chest, and he looked between Jianjun and Junmyeon with apprehension as Junmyeon slowly did as bid. 

“Father,” he demanded, but Jianjun did not spare him so much as a glance. 

Jianjun beckoned the guard forward. “Bare the slave’s back.”

“Father,” Yixing said harshly, taking a step towards them. He realised what his father had in mind once he caught sight of the whip at the guard’s side, and it made him furious. “Father, I am not a child. Another man should not have to take the punishment meant for me!”

“It appears to be the only way to get through to you,” Jianjun said coolly. “Now, stand back and be quiet.” 

Yixing watched, aghast, as the guard procured a small knife from a pocket. The sound of clothes ripping echoed in Yixing’s ears, and he took another step forward, almost a stumble, but his father held up a hand. 

“If you speak out of turn,” he said, “each word out of your mouth will count towards another lash. Am I understood?”

“How many lashes do you intend to give him?” Yixing spat, caught somewhere between fury and fear. He had not thought – 

“Thirty.” Jianjun smiled. “And you added nine more.”

Yixing felt sick. 

“Now,” Jianjun said, “is there anything else you would like to share with the room, or may we proceed?”

Yixing stole a glance at Junmyeon. His shirt hung loosely at his sides, his back bared. His hands were fisted on his knees, but other than that he offered no outward reaction to what was about to happen. He appeared as calm as ever. 

The guard had gotten into position behind Junmyeon, the whip held loosely in his hand. Yixing recognised the type from his childhood and grimaced. It was rather brutal.

Jianjun signalled to the guard to begin, and so the guard did.

The sound of the whip striking Junmyeon’s back resounded in the room. Yixing desperately wished Junmyeon would look at him so he could somehow relay his regrets for landing Junmyeon in this position, but Junmyeon was staring straight ahead and he did not seem inclined to look elsewhere.

Yixing silently counted the lashes – sixteen – and stubbornly refused to look away. He had sworn to Junmyeon that he would never hurt him, but this was his fault. He had not thought his father would think to hurt Junmyeon, but he should have.

How much did Jianjun know? Did he realise how close they were?

Yixing felt an icy hand grip his heart. His father could never know the feelings he held for Junmyeon. 

He could only do so much to threaten him with his siblings, but his slave… He could do whatever he wanted without anyone batting an eyelash.

“Your slave has always been remarkably resistant,” Jianjun remarked after the twenty-eighth crack of the whip, his voice startling Yixing out of his trance. “Twenty-eight lashes, and still he endures it without a sound. You would do well to take note.”

Yixing held his tongue and glared at Jianjun; he did not know if his father were goading him in the hopes of adding more lashes or if he were just feeling talkative now that he had the upper hand.

The thirty-fifth lash earned a slight grimace on Junmyeon’s face, there one moment and gone the next. Yixing fidgeted with his sleeves, eyes on the whip as it dealt the last four lashes.

After the thirty-ninth lash, Jianjun motioned for the guard to step back. “Enough. You may leave.”

The guard bowed and left. From the corner of his eyes, Yixing saw his father turn to him. He met his stare through sheer force of will and schooled his features into one of anger; he could not risk even a shred of concern to bleed through. 

“I hope your mind is clearer,” Jianjun said pleasantly. Yixing gritted his teeth. “See to it that this mess is cleaned, boy.”

With that, Jianjun his heel.

Yixing would have broken every damned breakable object in the Great Hall if Junmyeon had not still been on his knees with blood trickling down his back. 

The sound of the doors closing behind Jianjun was like a bell; Yixing fell onto his knees by Junmyeon’s side and carefully brushed the back of his neck as he tried to gleam how bad it was. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice more choked than he had thought it would be. He dared not touch Junmyeon’s back for fear of doing more harm, but it did not look pretty. Thin streaks of blood marred the floor after the whip, and Junmyeon’s shirt was thoroughly destroyed. Yixing would have to make sure it was burned.

“If the alternative was him hurting you,” Junmyeon said quietly, “I would not mind sitting through another thirty lashes.”

“No,” Yixing bit out, dropping his hands helplessly at his sides. “Father knows not to hurt me like…” he grimaced, waving at Junmyeon’s back, “this. The repercussions should the court find out what he did would be too great for him to risk, and they would find out. There are so precious few secrets in this wretched place.”

Junmyeon’s face was less stony when he said, “If you keep going head to head with him as you have done the past year, he is bound to reach his limit and snap. He will take his anger out on you. Better he take it out on me.”

“He should not take it out on anyone,” Yixing said, “least of all someone who has no part in this. This is between him and I.” He reached for Junmyeon’s bare shoulder, eyeing the pitiful shreds of his shirt with distaste. “We must have a doctor see you immediately, or the wounds might leave scars.”

Junmyeon heaved a sigh, a frown of pain crossing his face when he made to move. “Please.”

 

Yixing helped Junmyeon back to his quarters, uncaring of the curious looks he received. The first servants he laid eyes on were ordered to clean up the blood in the Great Hall, which they hurried to do, and the next were sent to fetch a doctor. 

A stifled grunt slipped past Junmyeon’s tightly-closed lips when he carefully sat down on the edge of his bed. Yixing helped him take off the shirt before getting him settled on his stomach. He frowned down at Junmyeon’s back, the blood thick and clotting. There wasn’t much, per se, but combined with the tattered skin it was enough to paint a macabre canvas.  

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts, and he drew a sigh of relief. “Enter.”

One of the servants from earlier snuck inside, his face scrunched up with something akin to fear. Yixing frowned heavily. 

“Uh,” the boy said. He hesitated.

“Spit it out,” Yixing demanded. 

The boy looked down. “Every doctor said no.”

Yixing’s fingers itched to snatch one of the vases, but he fought down the urge. Later. “Why, pray tell, would they refuse my orders?”

The boy swallowed. Yixing closed his eyes and attempted to cool down. He would not take his anger out on someone else. “Emperor’s orders, they said. We – First Prince!”

Yixing had shot up from the bed and marched towards the doors. “You are dismissed,” he bit out. “Thank you – I will take it from here.”

“All right,” the boy squeaked and stepped aside to allow Yixing past him. 

By Watcher, Yixing prayed he would not come upon his father on his way to the medical wing. He had no time to waste trying to find a doctor who would risk his father’s wrath for going against orders, but if he came across his father – 

It took him five minutes to reach the medical wing, and one minute to spot a doctor stocking some shelves. He stormed right up to her.

“Doctor,” he said, startling her, “I need someone to attend to my slave. He is hurt.”

The woman’s eyes were wide after turning around to look at him, and she dipped into a bow and stuttered, “First Prince, I… I cannot. The emperor –”

“My slave’s back is in tatters,” Yixing fairly cried. His raised voice drew attention, nosy people appearing to see what the commotion was about. He looked between them, seeing another doctor amongst the newcomers. “Are you all truly so afraid of my father that you would deny a patient your aid?”

“First Prince,” one of the newcomers said, a young girl who appeared to be an assistant by her attire. “Please, have some consideration. None of us wish to incur the emperor’s wrath.”

“You have sworn by Watcher to always help those in need,” Yixing hissed. “Am I to understand, then, that you would gladly go to the Ancient Fountain and drown yourselves in it if my father told you to?”

“First Prince!” the other doctor exclaimed. He dropped into a low bow as he said, “We are loyal servants to the emperor. His wish –”

“Enough!” Yixing yelled. “Get back to work. I do not care for your excuses.”

He left that part of the wing to look for others, but no matter whom he approached for help, he was rejected with a heartfelt apology.

He knew it was not their fault. He knew he could not blame them for doing as his father had ordered, but his concern for Junmyeon did not diminish as he combed the medical wing and nearby corridors for anyone willing to help. 

It was as he rounded a corner after another regretful assistant had shaken her head sadly at him that a voice behind him halted his steps. “I received a shipment of healing ointments from my family the other day. I could bring some to you, First Prince.”

Yixing recognised the man in front of him: Emissary Jongdae from Mogryeon. Sharp cheekbones, keen eyes, and a thin pair of lips. He was dressed rather simply in what Yixing assumed had to be a combination of Mogryeon and Lián fashion and fabrics. Curious.

He narrowed his eyes at Jongdae. “Why would you risk my father’s disdain?”

Jongdae shrugged. “Your slave’s name is native to my kingdom.” His stare hardened as he said, “I will not leave a fellow countryman to suffer through pain caused by your emperor’s whims.”

Yixing arched an eyebrow at Jongdae’s bluntness that courted insolence. It could not be blamed on the language barrier; Jongdae pronounced the words like someone born in Lián and seemed to have no trouble with his vocabulary. 

“All right,” he said slowly. “I would appreciate your help.”

“I will retrieve the ointment from my quarters,” Jongdae said. 

Yixing nodded. “Come to my quarters. Junmyeon is resting there, and I think it is best not to move him.” He paused, mouth pursed, and added, “Take care to not let anyone see you with the ointment. If someone asks you why you are meeting me, give them another excuse.”

“I will.” Jongdae bowed and turned away. Yixing, finally able to breathe easier, made his way back to his quarters. 

Junmyeon was still on the bed when he returned, and at a single glance it was hard to tell if he were sleeping or not. “Junmyeon?”

“I see you had no luck,” Junmyeon murmured into his arm. “The wounds need to be washed.”

“They will be,” Yixing said. “I found no doctors willing to help, but the emissary from Mogryeon will be by soon. He has an ointment that will help you.”

Junmyeon visibly perked up. “Emissary Jongdae?”

“You know him?”

“No,” Junmyeon said. “Well, he has greeted me a few times when we crossed paths, but we have never exchanged more than a few words.”

Yixing hummed. “I see.” His eyes fell on Junmyeon’s back once more. “Does it hurt much?”

“Quite,” Junmyeon said. He shifted marginally on the bed and grimaced. “But it is bearable.”

Yixing frowned, but said nothing more. He instead busied himself with fetching a basin of water and some clean rags in preparation for Jongdae’s arrival.

He had little experience with cleansing wounds, but after asking for permission, he soaked one of the rags, wrought it, and then carefully dabbed Junmyeon’s skin with it. He stayed away from the worst wounds and instead focused on the sides and cleaning up the dried blood. 

Jongdae showed up a little later. He stared at Junmyeon’s back for a long moment, brows drawing together into an expression of disdain, before he procured a glass phial and a small earthenware jar from underneath the fabrics of his clothes. 

“The ointment and something to help alleviate the pain,” Jongdae explained when he noticed Yixing’s questioning look. “May I?”

Yixing left the bed and motioned for Jongdae to take his place. “Please.”

“First,” Jongdae said and held up the phial, “drink this. The effects will take a little time to work.”

Yixing took the phial, making a face when his nose caught a whiff of the smell, and crouched by the bed. He helped Junmyeon to it, who drank it without complaint, and then backed off to give Jongdae room to work as he took over cleaning the wounds. 

Junmyeon uttered a string of words in what Yixing recognised to be the language of Mogryeon, albeit he still floundered when it came to understanding the words. Junmyeon had taught him some over the years, but nowhere near enough to follow the swift exchange of words between Junmyeon and Jongdae.

He did catch what sounded like his name from Junmyeon’s lips twice, and he frowned towards Junmyeon but did not speak up. Yet.

When Jongdae was satisfied, he discarded the rag in the basin, the water now a reddish brown. He opened the jar, revealing a thick cream-like substance, scooped a good bit onto his fingers, and began to apply it to Junmyeon’s back. 

Another drop of his name by Junmyeon had Yixing interrupting their conversation with a dry remark of, “You are in the presence of the first prince, I hope you realise. I would appreciate being a part of the conversation.”

Junmyeon said something under his breath in their language, earning a snort from Jongdae and a consequent raised eyebrow from Yixing, but switched back to Lián to say, “I was just making enquiries about home.”

Home. Yixing wondered if Junmyeon yearned to be back on Mogryeon soil.

“The village Junmyeon is from is not far from the capital,” Jongdae said. Yixing remembered Junmyeon mentioning a small village, but not where in Mogryeon. “I am from the capital myself, but I have been by the village a couple of times.”

“Were you part of the court?” Yixing asked, curious to know if that might be why Jongdae seemed so… casual around him. He was used to everyone – except his family, close friends, and Junmyeon – being more reverential in his presence.

Jongdae started to shake his head, but then he frowned. “Well, sort of. To prepare me for my role as emissary, I spent half a year in court being taught about courtesy and customs.” 

He had reached the worst of Junmyeon’s back, which was the middle where most of the lashes had landed, and he slowly, carefully, spread the ointment. Junmyeon, who had remained admirably stone-faced up until that point, allowed a grimace to distort his face. 

Yixing hummed. “Half a year, you say. I cannot tell whether that explains your behaviour or not.”

Jongdae glanced up from his work to look questioning at Yixing, but it was Junmyeon who opened his mouth to utter a string of words that had Jongdae nodding along.

“I see,” he said and smiled a little. “Would you rather I bow in fear, First Prince?”

Yixing was going to have Junmyeon teach him their language or he would go insane. “No.”

Silence broken only once by a noise of pain from Junmyeon reigned between them while Jongdae lathered Junmyeon’s wounds with the ointment. The jar was nearly empty when Jongdae sat back.

“All right,” he said, grabbing one of the two remaining clean rags to wipe off his hands, “I believe that will do. Stay in bed for a couple of hours and try to move as little as possible. I have another jar with me that I will leave with you. When you no longer can stay in bed, use the ointment and cover your wounds with bandages. It works like one handcrafted by the gods, so you should be right as rain soon enough.”

“Thank you,” Junmyeon said. That, at least, Yixing had memorised. The words that followed he had not, unfortunately. 

“I will not be needing you for the rest of the day,” Yixing said, “so take the time to rest. I will be by later with supper.”

“All right,” Junmyeon murmured. He glanced towards Yixing. “Is Jongdae allowed to stay here for a while? I wish to know more about home.”

“He may,” Yixing said, meeting Jongdae’s gaze as he looked sideways towards him. He did not fully trust Jongdae yet, and perhaps it was a mistake to allow the emissary of a kingdom they had been at war with just a handful of years ago to stay and chat with his slave, but Yixing was a weak man who could deny Junmyeon practically nothing. He wondered if Junmyeon knew. 

“Thank you,” Junmyeon said, this time in Yixing’s language, and the soft smile he offered Yixing had the organs inside him bounce in joy. 

Yixing returned the smile, suspecting it looked much more mushy than he had intended, and turned to leave.

There were a few reports waiting for him in his bedchamber, and after he had read through them, he had time to steep in a hot bath while he pondered his options in regards to his father and council.

That cursed council.

 

---

 

#3: I first intended for the whipping session to end up in a barely-conscious Junmyeon in a lot of pain ‘cause I’m a er for a suffering Junmyeon, but alas, Google ruined that. Apparently a hundred lashes will, obviously, hurt, but it will be bearable and probably leave no scars, so I had to face the facts and behave, lol. THANK GOOGLE, JUNMYEON.

#4: This here, yeah? All of this was supposed to be backstory. Backstory! But I just couldn’t control myself, so uh. I kind of snatched the backstory and ran with it, and that’s how we ended up here. Whoops? For the 'backstory' part of the plot, there is still... I believe one slightly longer chapter left, or potentially two slightly shorter ones. Depends on my wordiness. Or perhaps two whole chapters. Or three. Depends what I end up doing.

So. The prompt number was LT002; I recommend not looking it up if you want to be surprised, but hey, up to you. I'll reveal it when I've finished this .

And the gods know I had an idea that fit the actual prompt better at first. I just... well, yes, thought of too much backstory, in part due to the prompter's wishes, which ended up with me really, really wanting to write what led up to the prompt. So, here we are. With two thirds ish of the backstory and potentially another, uh, 15.000-30.000 words worth of, uh, extra? (Like, for real, I have an Excel sheet for the calendar I made up including national holidays, birthdays, religious events, etc; 10.000 words of notes; and a pages-long list of characters.) I'M SORRY. Part of the reason there's only this is because, uh, I kind of hit a... snag. I wrote myself into a kind of problem and I find it difficult to get out of it, and, well, at the time of writing this AN I am still struggling with that very problem. That, and work got busy, so whoop. I haven't written a lot this past month. I'm looking for a beta as we speak to help with that snag.

Hope you enjoyed so far! If you have any questions, feel free to send them my way! I know some stuff is still left unanswered, but in due time, everything (errr, maybe) will make sense!

I love comments, too! ❤