He opens his arms and takes in a grand breath. The gentle breeze, the lovely caress of the wind, and the lullabies of the waves as they glide into the shore. The air is clean, pure, kind and the sight is miraculous, like a thousand sapphire crystals shimmering under the sun's encouragement. He could just run away to the white poofy clouds in the distance, let the castles that rest on top of them welcome him back home, back to heaven. The ocean is just too beautiful, it's vastness is mysterious, but it's wonder is undeniable. He releases his breath. Baekhyun feels it. Freedom.

But only for a moment. A wonderful but fleeting moment. Because soon, he would have to leave. In chains. Back to reality. Painful, crude, harsh, unfair, terrible reality.

A whiplash. The scream of a horse and hooves begin to clatter faster. The wooden carts brattle on the ground and a rattle, like pieces of metal shaking together in cacophonous choir, chains bond to feet rip across dirt and stone as they walk. Transferred like furniture. Slaves. A travelling group of slaves.

I promise to free you. Because I love you. Such kind, exalting words have once been uttered to Baekhyun. In his childhood, when the nightmares were only in sleep, when days were lovely, and when love was pure. Like heaven. Like the ocean.

He never once saw him again. His first love and best friend. His Chanyeol. Every time he thinks that he might have died, his eyes begin to fog. Even the thought is enough to wish for death. But that cannot be right? He promised therefore he is alive. He must be alive so they could be together again. But somewhere in that aching heart, a dark sinister corner whose shadows slowly envelope the hinterland, has already lost hope in this wonderful dream. I loved you. This thought also forms fog in his eyes.

War has ravaged the land and plagues have ruined the continent. Cities have burned to nothingness, ashes of greatness made ashes of roses, falling into nothingness and forgotten by the wind. This is the once great land of Kolore. Baekhyun's great kingdom made history, his once royalty stripped and branded with curses, only a slave to corruption, and made a mockery in his story. The only faint glimmer of hope remains and keeps people alive. But no one dares to dream anymore. To reach out to the sky and call for heaven's glory. Not since the city was buried with roses and made forgotten.

It lingers.

Kris absconds at the shores of what was once the edenic kingdom of Kolore. The weather is beautiful, almost perfect, and the sight was elating. He is free here. But where he came from he was a criminal. In a far land untouched by vanity and shame, is a prosperous people who have once equalled the citizens of Kolore in wealth and blessings during a time of peace. Kris was not one of those people. He belonged to a fallen group who shone the shoes of aristocrats, ate crumbs from sewers, and lived like vagrants in slums. One loaf of bread. It's always just a loaf of bread. And his mistake becomes capital, his head to be guillotined. So he runs away to a place with where people are even worse. Where the worth of law is equal to the stolen loaf of bread in his hand.

He looks up from his boat, sees a travelling caravan of slaves. They're depressing, dirty, wretched, a complete mistake next to the beautiful ocean that carried him here. Kris despises them immediately. They remind him of corruption, of his hate towards the aristocrat who spat in his face. Dirty scoundrels who cannot be free like him. But what's this? One falls. He collapses like a sack of nails onto the harsh road. His motionless body is dragged by his fellow servants, pulling him forward as they walk, their feet still chained together. He's trampled and kicked like his body was never there, like he's air or less than air, because he is obviously nothing to these people. The caravan slows, his lagging, dragging, ragging, body becoming a burden to the reckless party. One of the transporters jump off of his horse and pulls on a scabbard from his side. He reveals sword, rasping into the air, glistening in the sun, but clearly tainted with the blood of the weak. He plans to cut the slave's feet off. Cut the slave completely off.

It's too much, he thinks and Kris scampers over desperately. Calling out for the man to stop, feeling sympathy in his criminal's heart.

“Stop!” The man halts, his arms and sword hanging in the air, his face, first surprised by the sudden outburst, now full of irritation.

“What is your business here, vagrant?!” He points his sword to the newcomer.

“What do you think you are doing? You cannot just cut his legs off!”

“He's dead. Dead load exactly. It's my duty, will,” he smiles maliciously, “and pride to remove any and all unwanted load.”

“It is a dishonour even to a deadman! You should be aware of that!” Kris fumes, “Release him!”

“This is no place of honour. Why, that is but a figment of imagination here. Ha! Are you an immigrant?” Kris doesn't respond and only continues to glare at the swordsman. “How dumb you are to set foot on the soils of Kolore! Go home while you still can, vagrant! Slavery doesn't suit such a Jovian face like yours.”

“Release him.” Kris demands. The other man, taken aback by his abrasive defiance of authority, scoffs and brings his sword down violently. He cuts the chains of the slave's feet. The slave boy is detached from the caravan, without spilling any blood. The man pulls on the boy's frail and lifeless arm and tosses him toward Kris' way. He skids unsightly on the dirty road.

“Here is your honour!” The swordsman turns and stomps away, mounts on his horse, and signals his men. The impeded caravan continues to trek again alongside the ocean, leaving all beauty and freedom behind in the dust. Like they were unworthy of it all.

Kris and the body are left on the road, alone. He looks down at it, a dirty and pitiful creature robbed of humanity until his dying breath. Kris crouches down, only with the intention of taking him elsewhere to a better and more honourable place to die and rot. But as he leans closer, he realizes that the boy is... breathing! He breathes slowly, faintly, at the brink of death... but he lives. And Kris resolves to keep him alive.

Evening falls quickly. The sun lets itself set to a new tomorrow, washing the skies with autumn colours until shadows veil the heavens. The moon shines bright, full, and close, while speckles of light twinkles happily around it. They calm the people and help them escape from the horrors and poverty of the lands they overlook.

What ails Baekhyun puts him into a deep slumber, but somewhere in that sleep he floats in the middle of nowhere and feels no more. The currents beat against his body but the ocean refuses to swallow him, rocking him in its arms and washing his pains away.

Kris in waking life, stands in the middle of a forest spring, cradling the unconscious boy in his arms. He gingerly washes the boy's filth away with the spring's water and the dirt comes off gradually, diffuses into a cloud, and falls to the bottom of the pool. Little by little he witnesses the slave's darkened and injured skin be stripped of its habits and reveal a paler and gentler being underneath. It reminds him of aristocratic skin – fragile, fair, and pure. But his face is far more beautiful than any opulence of man or nature he has thus encountered. Kris thinks that it does not belong in chains, but with treasures and flowers. And yet people have dared to sully it. It angers him.

The boy does not wake yet and the night passes by under the tranquil security of the moon.