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Aug 10, 2024

the kingsguard ; jisung x reader ; part iv

pairing: han jisung/reader summary: You are a queen. He is a kingsguard - a member of a holy order that vows to defend the king in the name of the gods. They forsake all earthly goods and swear a vow of chastity to avoid all worldly temptation. When he stands in as proxy for the royal wedding, all those vows are tested.

content info: reader described with curly hair.

content warnings: the previously established story dynamics are prevalent in this chapter, please proceed at own discretion.

chapter word count: 12000 words.

Your body inevitably surrenders to its exhaustion. You sleep through the sunrise and past noon, opening your eyes to a day gone by. The deep gold of afternoon sunlight fills the room like a dreamy mist.

The golden shade obscures all your worries. You forget where you are. You forget who you are. You feel well-rested and well-loved, a warmth blossoming in your heart, reminiscent of a hopeful spring in this rotting hot summer.

You are brought back to reality by voices outside your door. You sit up in bed, straining to hear.

“—had me ride ahead to see the queen was safe.” That voice sounds like Changbin. You have only heard him speak a few times but he has a recognizable pitch, not to mention his tone when he says, “You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” Jisung replies. He sounds tired. You can only imagine what he looks like. Did he sleep at all?

There is a beat of silence. Maybe Changbin is waiting for more, but Jisung is not forthcoming.

“Did something happen?” Changbin asks.

“Huh?” There is some clattering as Jisung moves. “Yeah,” he snaps, in a tone more agitated than you have heard from him. “Someone tried to kill the fucking queen.”

“Hey, watch your tone with me. I know that, but you—”

Changbin stops halfway through his sentence. Jisung’s expression is evidently enough to quiet him.

There is some more movement, the swish of fabric, then Changbin says, “Go change into clean robes. Take a nap. I’ll guard the queen. When you’re done, I’ll ride back to the others and report. We should all arrive by nightfall—”

“I’ll ride back,” Jisung says, his voice and footsteps already sounding farther.

“Hey!” Changbin hollers. “You need to rest!”

There is no reply. You hear the creak of booted steps on the stairs, then Jisung is gone.

“Be careful with my horse!” Changbin shouts. “Ahhh, if he leaves her in the woods…”

Changbin keeps muttering even though Jisung is long gone.

You sink into the blankets.

It does not matter how far he goes. Not the shade or the sunlight or the mist can hide him. Even when you close your eyes, he is there, looking back at you. In a few short days, Han Jisung has inextricably twined himself around your heart. You don’t love him yet, but you could. You want to love him. That warmth in your heart is him, a blossom unfolding in the spring of your new becoming, but it aches – not because a love is ending, but because it can never begin.

Jisung has saved you yet again. He took care of you last night, disregarding himself as he has done before. You want to chase after him, swear new vows to him alone. You would give anything for him to experience the same devotion he has bestowed upon others. You want to fly out of this bed and saddle a horse, chase after him, find him in the woods and –

And what? That plan did not work last time.

You linger in bed for a long time, awake but nonetheless dreaming, pondering:

You. Your duty, your family, your people. The king. The marriage, the cruelty, the wedding bed.

Jisung. His eyes, his voice, his everything.

Hunger finally lures you out of the covers. You dress yourself in the gown gifted by the innkeeper’s wife. When your hair is pinned up as neatly as possible, you step into the corridor and greet Changbin. You go downstairs and the innkeeper prepares you a meal. You eat by the unlit fire, the same place you sat with Jisung last night, before –

Your whole body burns when you think about it. Whether you are with the king or on your own, you doubt you will ever touch yourself without thinking of Jisung and last night.

“Is the food all right, Your Majesty?” Changbin asks. His nose crinkles as he looks down at the bowl, as if he expects to find the source of your misery there. “It smells all right.”

“Oh, yes, it is,” you say. You suppose morosely poking at a bowl is bad manners.

The inn is bustling with workers preparing for the royal arrival. When you finish eating, you find the innkeeper’s wife and ask for something to do. Though she says the queen should not lift a finger, you insist that you prefer to stay busy. You tell her you have genuine technical skills and she relents, perhaps seeing the sincerity in your pleading. You do not want to sit in silent thought right now.

That is how you find yourself with the mending. Changbin loiters nearby, not hiding his boredom very well. He starts lifting random objects to exercise his already-ample muscles. He tries to challenge himself but it loses novelty quickly as there is nothing especially heavy in the room.

You ask if he wants to sew with you. He gives you a wary look but takes a seat. You show him some basic stitches.

“Kingsguards don’t do their own mending, I suppose,” you say.

He furrows his brow with concentration. He has thick fingers and struggles to thread the needle, but he cheers for himself like the winner of a game match when he succeeds.

“Ah, no,” he eventually answers, stabbing the needle into a torn shirt. “The squires take care of it. I haven’t touched a needle since my training.”

You chat about his time as squire for the kingsguard. Unlike Jisung, Changbin comes from a noble family, though he is the youngest of ten. Knowing he would never see a penny of inheritance nor an acre of land, he devoted himself to the gods. He claims beyond prayer, his only real skill is crushing skulls.

“Well, I don’t know about that,” you say, resuming your own mending now that he is easily sewing on his own. “You’re quite the seamstress.”

He giggles. That bubbly laughter in that bulky body makes you laugh too.

“Well, it never hurts to have more skills,” you say. “And I don’t think any work is beneath anyone. If you don’t take care, you may forget just how much effort goes into menial tasks.”

“Hmm.” Changbin looks thoughtful. “Yes, that does happen.”

The day passes with a few chores and some conversation. The sun begins its descent sooner than later. You are eating supper when the royal party arrives.

You promptly lose your appetite.

You and Changbin wait in the front room while the party loudly organizes itself outside. The contrast of quietude makes it feel like there is a bubble around the room – weak, vulnerable, about to burst.

Changbin looks at you sideways. He has spoken freely this afternoon and appears to debate whether he should question your wellbeing as a person or stay silent as a kingsguard. He rocks on his feet, fist curled around his sword hilt. His mouth opens with a question when the door swings open.

Chan enters first. He and Changbin exchange a nod, then Chan bows to greet you. “Your Majesty,” he says.

He moves aside swiftly. The king enters right behind him. Your knees knock but you conceal your fright, hoping your queasiness does not show on your face.

“My queen,” the king says. His tone is warmer than usual. He has only ever addressed you with open contempt, but now he approaches you with his hand outstretched and a respectful dip of his head. “The gods have surely blessed you to survive such a trying ordeal.”

You flinch when he grabs your face, though he does not strike you. That would have been less surprising than the kiss he places on the top of your head.

He drops his hands and walks away without another word, leaving you standing there in shock.

The other kingsguards follow. Minho does not show much expression but Hyunjin rolls his eyes at the king’s display. His aggravation seems as red hot as ever, barely concealed as he bows appropriately. When he rises, he gives you a look, one you can only describe as a warning.

Your shock settles. Maybe it is not strange the king is acting nice. He would not want anyone to suspect him of your assassination attempt. Feigning affection for his wife would redirect the accusations.

Hyunjin and Minho move along. Seungmin and Jeongin bow next. You wait but Jisung does not show, just an array of courtiers and servants that have been travelling in the retinue.

“Wife,” the king says, though bellows and commands is more appropriate. “Sit. Eat.”

You do not have an appetite. You sit beside the king as he glowers and mutters complaints about everything and nothing.

Part way through the meal, Jisung arrives. He makes some excuse to Chan, something about minding his horse after its ordeal.

You stare at Jisung across the room. He shakes out his robes, brushing a few twigs of hay from the black cloth. His dark hair is pushed back, his face open as he turns his face to the room.

He catches your eye before anyone and anything. Your heart reacts with an eager leap.

Last night was overwhelming. You remember his desperation towards the end. You can only imagine what was on his mind. You have spent all day in turmoil, alternating between reassurance and berating yourself. Perhaps he just needed to decompress, or perhaps he regretted ever telling you a word, that he would prefer to never look upon you again.

He looks at you now and you realize that was nonsense. It is the same roving, intense stare as last night, one that moves like a hungry touch. You shiver even though the heated room is packed full.

The king pays him no mind, engaged in conversation while he eats. Jisung bows from across the room and it is only for you.

He does not look at you after that, sitting with the other kingsguards while he eats his meal. When it is over, the king asks for music so Jisung fetches his guitar. His singing soothes your anxious spirit. It is so calming after so much turmoil, your eyelids start to feel heavy.

You fall asleep to his music. You wake to a gentle touch on your shoulder, finding yourself slumped over the table, head on your folded arms, a very un-queenly pose. You surface groggily, blinking slowly up at the guard who touched you.

It is Minho. The front room is empty except for the innkeeper, some servants, and two kingsguards chatting, evidently manning the front door. The king is gone, perhaps already to bed. You sigh with relief as hopefully that means he will not bother you.

Minho has been assigned to guard you tonight. He sweeps through your room, checking the windows and locks, but thankfully does not stay inside. You prefer privacy, though you would not mind if it was Jisung, even if it is dangerous to think that way.

Yes, very dangerous, as you close your eyes and imagine his dark eyes, watching you from across the room. You kiss your fingertips and touch your neck, just like he showed you, feeling that tell-tale flush of warmth when you imagine his lips on your throat. Your body feels tight, everything from your waist below clenching inside.

Your hand slips under the covers. You do not think of the king even once, all your thoughts rivetted to Han Jisung. You follow the natural call of desire, going so far as to curl your fingers inside yourself. You dare only a little touch but it still makes you gasp. You bite your lip to stay quiet, even though you want to scream a certain name when you stroke the place he showed you and come apart with the same earth-shattering release. You picture his face the entire time, specifically the dark and desperate way he looked at you when you put your fingers in your mouth.

You do it again, imagining those fingers are his, imagining kneeling in front of him like you desired last night. You take your fingers to the knuckle and wonder what he would say, what he would do. Just watching you made him blaspheme, the gods on his tongue as his whole body shook with a deep breath.

You fear you may be an insatiable, lecherous creature on top of irredeemably sinful, as you lower your fingers and do it all over again.

You whisper his name as you come over that crest of pleasure. It sounds like a prayer in the quiet dark.

A long day of travel looms ahead of you. You do not want to give the king any excuse to berate you, so you rise early and dress quickly without assistance. You intend to be the first downstairs.

You open your door without warning, causing the guard to stumble backwards because he was leaning on it.

The guard is no longer Minho.

Jisung spills into your path, eyes flashing with surprise. You are surprised too. The guards must have traded posts overnight, allowing the first group to get some sleep.

Of course, no one thought anything of assigning Jisung to your room. No one would have reason to believe you would stand like this in the doorway, staring at each other so intently.

You make no sound, just the gentle exchange of breath, but your heart races towards him in a noisy stampede. Given how he leans towards you, as if enthralled in a spell, his own heart is doing the same.

“Ah, uh, Your Majesty,” he finally says, sweeping into a bow.

His dark hair falls over his face. Unable to resist the soft allure of each dark wave, you touch the back of his bowed head. It is a soft, quick caress of your fingertips.

He makes a wounded sound. When he stands, his face is flushed.

“Are you, ah, ready for me to take you?” he asks. His eye twitches. He clutches the hilt of his sword very tightly. “Downstairs,” he says quickly. “Are you ready for me to take you downstairs? Yes. That.”

You nod. You have not spoken a word out loud, but you suspect your gaze gives you away, because Jisung looks into your eyes and makes that same sad whimper before darting down the corridor.

“Downstairs,” he says, a sing-song as he scuttles down the stairwell. “Downstairs, downstairs, la la—”

The king arrives while you are having breakfast. Before long, you are gathered outside the inn, preparing to travel. There is a long stretch of countryside between this city and the capital. The next few nights will be spent camping in the woods, then you will arrive at the capital city and stay at an inn, then finally traverse the great city to the palace.

You are not sure what fate awaits you there. It seems so impossible and far away, but the interim is only a handful of days.

You stand on your own, watching the activity around you, anxiously twisting your fingers around the sleeve of your dress.

In the midst of the hustle, your eyes find Jisung. He is adjusting his saddlebags, surreptitiously glancing at you from a distance. If anyone caught him looking at you now, you fear they would see far too much of everything. Those eyes betray him every time. Right now you see anxiety burning in them. Perhaps he is picturing what you are picturing: that you will have to ride with him, your back pressed to his front, and you will not be able to think of anything except the other night.

You make your way over to him. He turns his attention to his saddle, securing and re-securing every strap, rein, and buckle. He keeps his eyes occupied and his hands busy, even when you finally step into his periphery.

“Jisung,” you say.

“Hmm?” He tightens a strap he just loosened.

“Is it all right if I ride with you?” you ask.

“Of course!” he says, his voice bright and joyful, like a bard entertaining a crowd rather than a man in conversation.

“I just thought I would ask, in case there was a problem,” you say. You get more anxious the longer he does not look at you.

“That’s nice,” he says, in that same boisterous tone. “But why would there be a problem, ha-ha?”

He steps away, circling the horse to adjust something on the other side. You blink at the empty air then follow. The horse dips its head you so you take a second to stroke its muzzle. To anyone passing, you and Jisung look perfectly occupied and uninterested in each other. Truly, you can feel the distance straining. You step a little closer.

“Can you look at me please?” you say softly.

His frantic hands finally stop their fluttering. He looks the other way. It is towards the king’s carriage where the other kingsguards are organizing.

In the blink of an eye, that cheerful bard disappears and a much more solemn character stands before you.

“No, Your Majesty,” Jisung speaks in a low voice. “Not when you’re this close to me.”

It is good he has the sense to look around, because you forget about everyone but him. You are rooted to the spot, unblinking and not breathing. It comes in a shallow gasp at last.

“Why not?” you ask.

His brow furrows with utter confusion, like he cannot fathom the question because the answer is so obvious.

“You know why,” he says.

You are not sure how religious you are anymore. You have drowned in the silence of the gods. When Jisung says those words, this quiet but honest acknowledgement that he is just as affected by this power between you, you feel a force of nature rise within you. It is the closest sensation to the breath of the gods, the supposed life force they breathe into their chosen ones. It moves through you like lightning. You feel hot, dizzy, and not from the sun as it creeps towards its midday pinnacle.

You look at Jisung. He looks at nothing.

“Your Majesty,” Chan’s voice breaks the wall of intense silence.

You and Jisung both whip towards him. If Chan saw anything untoward in your nervous behaviour, he does not comment. He strides to you with the confident steps of an authoritative man. He dips smoothly into a bow. When he rises, one hand rests in a fist above his heart. The other sits on his sword hilt.

“As I’m sure you know by now, yesterday was not just a robbery,” Chan says, getting to the crux without wasting a breath. “Jisung is a very capable soldier but if there is another attempt on your life, the safest place will be with me. If it’s all right with you, Your Majesty, I would personally escort you to the capital.”

There is no reason to refute his request. Perhaps it is better you do not even try. With the intensity of the last few days, maybe it is better to let all these passions simmer. When they have burned themselves to ash, it will be easier to sweep them away.

“Of course,” you say. “Thank you, kingsguard.”

Chan guides you towards the front of the train. You do not look at Jisung until you are perched on the horse. You intend to merely glance over your shoulder, but he is staring intently and it locks your gaze on him. Fortunately, before it lasts too long, Chan swings onto the horse and blocks your view.

You let yourself settle near the kingsguard leader. All the while, you feel a different pair of eyes on you.

It feels like ages before you finally depart. After some time on the road, the others begin their chatter and sing-song. Jisung starts the singing, as is his wont. You wonder if anyone else notices how he starts the songs but never finishes them. As soon as the others begin their jovial singing, Jisung goes silent and remains quiet until prompted again.

You do not have to turn around to know his expression is solemn between bouts of entertaining giddiness.

Chan does not sing or chat much. He has a clear respect and even affection for his men, but he puts his duty first.

Chan is also better at keeping an appropriate distance between your bodies. Perhaps that is because the king’s carriage is close enough that you can catch a glimpse inside. Some of the king’s favourite courtiers ride with him, all of them adjusted to the uneven road as they play card games and drink while talking. You are sure some of their gossip is about you given the side glances and whispers.

You are not sure if Chan notices. You get periodically tense and he is close to you, so maybe he can tell. Perhaps that is why he lets his horse fall back just enough to lose view of the inside of the carriage.

With the king’s judgemental eyes no longer snapping towards you, you can breathe easier. You even dare start a conversation with the kingsguard leader, though it feels intimidating in its own right. Riding with Chan is not like riding with Jisung, and a conversation with the devout leader is very different than giggling with the bard.

“Why doesn’t the king want me to ride with Hyunjin?” you ask curiously. “He seems like a competent soldier.”

“Ah.” Chan laughs, a nervous little giggle. “He is. It’s, ah, not for any real reason. Really. Just that, well, Hyunjin is good-looking, I guess.”

“But he’s a kingsguard,” you say.

“Yes, he is,” Chan answers more seriously. “Honestly, I know the guys joke about it but… Hyunjin is one of the most devoted soldiers I have ever known. There’s a reason he’s in the order. He can’t really helps what he looks like, but whatever you hear: it’s not true. He’s good, Your Majesty. They all are.”

“I believe it,” you say. “I’ve never known a more loyal group of men. They live up to their reputation.”

“Yes, they do,” Chan says with obvious pride.

You were seeking the warmth that is now in his voice, the respect with which he clearly regards his men. It makes the real question inside you burn.

“May I ask something more serious?” you finally say.

“Of course, Your Majesty!” Chan says. “You can ask me anything.”

There is not a hint of insincerity there. You truly do believe Chan wants to do the right thing, but you are still wary in conversation with him. Chan is steadfast with his responsibilities. To him, the right thing will always involve the king in some capacity, so you cannot be as free as you were with Jisung.

“The matter does not necessarily concern me,” you explain.

“Hm, you’re the queen,” he answers. “If it’s about the kingdom, it’s to do with you. Ask me.”

He lends himself easily to trust. With his competency and sincerity, you see how he easily rose the ranks of the kingsguard. Jisung mentioned Chan was one of the youngest squires in history, setting records for length of time spent in training. Those years of study and prayer make him incomparable. He is the best and worst person to ask this question.

“The guard who ran off,” you say, “and the king’s former mistress… What will become of them?”

The king has not forgiven nor forgotten the treachery. It contributes to his constant stream of anger. You cannot imagine anyone, even this spoiled fool, possessing the energy to rant and rave so incessantly, but his passions will not be tempered. He has mused aloud all his gory desires, threats you know he will manifest if given the opportunity.

It makes you sick to your stomach. The details of the king’s fury are nauseating, not to mention your personal connection to the couple. You saw them with your own eyes. You saw their hope and their desire as they risked everything for freedom.

You know that Han Jisung was involved.

All those gory images dance across your mind like tableaus from some horrible play, too gargantuan and horrifying to be real life.

“Ah,” Chan says. Though he encouraged your question, he does sound a little hesitant now. “I understand. That was a… bad introduction to the kingsguard, I guess, wasn’t it?” he says. “We couldn’t spare the resources to search for them, not without delaying our return. The king wants to launch a kingdom-wide search once we are settled in the capital.”

“You’ll be the one in charge?”

“Well, I’m issuing it to Changbin and probably Minho, because I’ll have to attend to my usual duties. But I’ll oversee it. Why?”

“How much will a search like that will cost?” you ask.

The question surprises Chan. Perhaps he did not expect such a pragmatic question, but there is an emotional underbelly to your query. That is your family’s money the king will use to satisfy his own petty grievances, rather than putting it towards the kingdom he is sworn to protect.

“It won’t be nothing,” Chan finally admits.

“What purpose will finding them serve?” you ask.

You want to turn around and shout it: that the king is pursuing them to soothe his own damaged ego and not because they are any threat to the wellbeing of the kingdom. Surely, a man as capable and intelligent as Chan must know that.

You wonder how it must feel for this dedicated guard to be sworn to this type of king. He deserves better. Everyone does.

Chan bristles, hearing the unspoken accusation in your question. You feel his upright posture straighten even more.

“They broke the law,” he answers, his voice steadier than his body. “He broke his vows. She broke her promises. There are consequences.”

“Consequences?” you ask. “Or punishments?”

“Your Majesty,” he says, as sternly as he can without being rude. You suspect if you were a foot soldier, you would have been told to shut up. “The kingsguard is pure. When we give up our earthly goods, that doesn’t just mean literally, it means emotionally. We trade our present life for eternity. Everything we do, we do in service of the gods who provide for us. Then and only then can the kingdom thrive. A slight against the king is a slight against the gods. Corruption can’t be allowed to spread.”

“Corruption,” you say softly. “You truly believe in the king’s purity?”

When he does not answer right away, you look at him. He looks at the carriage. His brow is furrowed, his jaw set, looking very austere and cold. He softens his expression when you meet eyes.

“I think you’re a good kingsguard and a good leader, Bang Chan,” you say. “Your men are good and they put their faith in you as much as the gods. Whatever you believe, I will believe too.”

You know Chan will not speak ill of the gods-chosen king. You also know he will not commit a sin like lying. So when you ask if he believes in the king’s purity, you are not surprised there is no answer. He simply sighs as he turns his gaze ahead.

“Maybe we should talk about something else,” he says.

It is all the answer you need.

Your journey follows a river that flows to the sea, now behind you. The course ahead lays inland. Rest comes a few hours into travelling. It is at a clearing not far from the river. You can only just hear as it rushes and pours in a steady stream that leads far away from here.

Everyone mills about, stretching their legs or sitting in the shade, while some prepare food and share drinks. The king is with his courtiers, Chan close to him as usual. You sit near the remaining kingsguards, close enough to be guarded but not so close to make them uncomfortable. You know they will not speak freely in the queen’s presence so you grant them privacy.

It means they are distracted just enough, blind to the way you and Jisung lock eyes across the breadth of woodland space. After your conversation with Chan about the potential fate of the runaway lovers, you have fought to restrain all those deep, complicated desires. You are less committed to true obedience, resigned to your own tragedy if the king moves against you, but you cannot be so careless with Jisung’s fate.

It should be easy. You hardly know the man. But those dark eyes find you and see you, always right down to the core of you, and it is so difficult to wrench your gaze away.

Jisung turns first. He mutters something to Minho who is sitting beside him. Whatever he says makes Minho freeze, a drink halfway to his lips. His eyes dart over to you.

Your back straightens, goosebumps rising, wondering what Jisung just told him. Whatever it is, Minho makes the same report to Seungmin who also looks your way.

Startled with all the attention, you resume focus on your idle task. You dug some embroidery tools out of your trunk, so you sit on a stump threading patterns with no particular end design in mind. It is just way to look and feel busy. Your loneliness is less acute when occupied with a familiar task.

You are disrupted by the crunching of the dirt path under booted steps. You lift your head, gaze travelling long dark robes until you meet Seungmin’s eyes. Seungmin is not exactly the friendliest, but there is an honest simplicity to him. He does what he must, when he must, and he does it well, with no subterfuge or obfuscation of true intent. So he must mean it very sincerely when he tips his head towards the circle of guards, clearly inviting you to join them.

“Your Majesty,” he says. “The kingsguard would be honoured by your company.”

“Oh,” you say, surprised.

Seungmin does not leave time for argument, taking your embroidery out of your hands and offering his arm. You accept it blindly, ushered along before you can think twice. You are soon seated, this time a part of the kingsguard circle. You take a seat between Seungmin and Hyunjin.

Seungmin returns your tools once you are settled, skirts neatly arranged around you. The boys continue their conversation while you work, a tenderness and warmth in your heart that was not there before.

“I can do that too,” Changbin says, pointing to your embroidery. It makes Hyunjin spray his drink everywhere, the others similarly laughing. “I can!” Changbin protests. “Tell them,” he says to you. “Tell them how good I am.”

“Tell them, Your Majesty,” Jeongin reminds him, nudging him with an elbow.

“You don’t have to call me that,” Changbin jokes, ruffling the youngest’s hair.

“Yes,” you say. You laugh at their antics, but lay a hand on your heart and declare with teasing solemnity, “It’s true. Kingsguard Changbin is quite a natural with a needle, I must swear it so.”

Seungmin whistles, the others still chuckling.

“I believe it then,” Hyunjin says, a twinkle in his eye. “If the queen swears it, it must be true.” There is a hint of seriousness to the proclamation, a knowing glance cast aside. “It’s easier being a queensguard when the queen is true.”

Though it is not unusual to refer to the kingsguards as queensguards in relative context, it is rarely done, and certainly no one has said it yet. You suspect this king would not be so partial to acknowledgement of shared power. Any reminder of your own latent holiness just angers him.

Not to mention, while Hyunjin does not mention the king directly, the proclamation it is easier to guard a true monarch nonetheless carries a hint of accusation.

You say nothing to refute nor encourage the claim, anticipating someone else may correct or shush him.

Instead, Minho tips his cup in your direction.

“Mm, hear to that,” he says casually, before taking a sip.

“To the queen,” Jisung says, lifting his own cup too.

Your gaze flies to him. He smiles from across the circle, his arm outstretched and his cup tilted towards you. Strange to say you have missed that sincere smile after so short a time, but you have, and it moves you more than the toast. It reminds you of the first time you saw him, the first time he saw you in turn, when he stood above a crowd and sang to you across hundreds of people.

The other guards follow his prompt. They lift their cups and take a drink, leaving you more than a little flustered.

“You’re the queen,” Seungmin says with that wide, cheeky smile, lightly nudging you with his elbow. “You’ll have to get used to this.”

You find it unlikely anyone but the kingsguard will ever toast to you, but you smile and express your gratitude.

Conversation has scarcely resumed when Chan comes stomping over. His agitation ripples like rings in a disturbed pool of water, spreading to his men who are follow his flow. They all sit straighter, looking at him for orders.

Chan, clearly frustrated, just huffs and takes a seat.

“Jeongin,” he says. “Go stand guard over the king.” He unwraps some food and takes a bite, shaking his head all the while. His irritation clearly gets the better of him because he mutters through his teeth, plenty loud enough for the others to hear, “I can’t listen to more complaining.”

“Is he mad about the weather again?” Changbin asks with a laugh.

“He’s the chosen one,” Minho says with a sly grin. “Why doesn’t he just make it less hot?”

Chan clears his throat loudly, though he doesn’t berate them beyond that.

“Jeongin,” he says, making a vague gesticulation in the direction of the king.

“Why do I have to go?” Jeongin asks, wearing a petulant pout that only the youngest could get away with. You suspect anyone else would have received a lecture, but Chan just gives him a look, eyebrow quirked, and Jeongin complies with a tired sigh.

“That’s what you get for eating so fast,” Seungmin says, earning himself a smack up the head as Jeongin passes him.

“He’s right,” Minho says. “You eat like a horse.”

“Whoa, hey, man!” Jisung says. “Don’t insult our horses like that.”

There is some more laughter. Jeongin shakes his head but his deep dimples show his amusement. You giggle too, though it is probably inappropriate to jeer and chortle with a group of guards, hiding it behind your palm. It is just too funny. You watched moments ago as Jeongin shoved a truly impressive amount of food in his mouth, all but unhinging his jaw as he crammed it in like it was going to be taken away. The jokes are mostly to that effect as the youngest ambles over to the king for guard duty.

The conversations splinter after that, everyone more or less talking in pairs. You just listen while working on your embroidery. When Seungmin leaves to relieve himself, it opens an empty space between you and Chan. The others are engrossed in their conversations – and playful but rowdy debates – while Chan just smiles and listens. He occupies his hands with sharping the point of a dagger.

You shuffle closer to him. The motion catches his eye and he looks at you. Though your conversations on horseback were polite after the initial topic, he still looks wary, perhaps now recognizing the look in your eye.

“May I ask a question?” you ask.

“You know you can,” he says, though he looks even more concerned.

“It’s about the kingsguard vows,” you say. “I know you said it prevents corruption – but how? But why?”

“Why those vows?” Chan asks.

He picks up the sheath for his dagger, eyes there as he slides it back in place. The other guards notice his contemplative attitude, eyes flicking towards him then towards you. Their conversations trail off when Chan begins to speak.

“The kingsguard is an old service,” Chan says. “Almost as old as the kingdom itself. The gods chose favourites even before the palace had walls, and those favourites become kings, yes? But with palaces, and money, and power… comes corruption. There was a king who lost his way. He stopped listening to the gods. Sin and lust and anger: he let it conquer him. The kingsguard was formed to save him from himself and, when that couldn’t happen, to save the kingdom. The first kingsguard order burned all their clothes, put on the black cloth, and vowed to never be swayed by any temptation or sin. It is not an order you can just join. It is not a vow you just make. The king, your brotherhood, and all the kingdom rely on your sword. The corrupt king was executed by the kingsguard so the gods could choose another. Since then, there has been no need for intervention. It has been a perfect harmony for centuries. So we maintain the vows of those first kingsguards and so the kingdom stays in harmony and order.”

“So it is of utmost importance both the king and the kingsguard keep their vows,” you say.

There is a beat of silence, like Chan knows you are going to say something that will make his forehead throb, but he relents and says, “…yes.”

Rather than torment him with more implications the king is not pure, you ask, “What makes a sin?”

His shoulders fall with a sigh of relief, though it doesn’t last. His eyes dart over the other guards, aware they are waiting for an answer too.

He slowly turns to you and says, “Anything that distracts from the gods.”

“I see,” you say. You can feel the kingsguards looking at you, their attention moving between you and Chan as if watching the volley of an intense game match. It makes your skin prickle, sweat on your nape as you swallow your nerves. “Such as lust and anger, as you said?”

Their eyes flick to Chan.

“Yes,” Chan says.

Their eyes flick back to you.

“Yet I fear I feel the gods most strongly in the throes of such things,” you say. “The gods created all those feelings. I have spent much of my life suppressing the call of great emotion. Perhaps it is not a coincidence that since being chosen by the gods, I have felt their designs all the more powerfully.”

Their eyes practically bulge out of their heads. Chan just stares at you, barely even blinking.

“Perhaps the king does too,” you say, your voice light, like this is a simple remark. You draw your needle through the fabric, watching the colourful thread as you draw it heavenward. “Perhaps that is why his relentless wrath is considered a permissible action.”

Hyunjin makes a sound, a short, sharp cackle, throwing a hand over his mouth before it can grow. The others wear long faces, not daring to remark. Jisung is wide-eyed. When you glance at him, he tips his head, at once curious and concerned.

You tear your eyes away from him. You smile at Chan.

“Ah,” Chan says. “Well.”

“I think it might be the same for other so-called sins,” you say. “Lust for example. I think… I think it’s a lot like prayer.”

“I’m sorry.” Chan shakes his head rapidly back-and-forth. His eyes close in a painful wince. “Like.. like prayer?” He looks at you like you just smacked him. He probably would have preferred it. A kingsguard can take a hit, but you are not sure they are built to withstand the queen speaking like this.

“Yes,” you say, smiling. You look down at your embroidery, threading a little flower. “I think intimate intercourse is like praying. It is the highest expression of gratitude and love, showing appreciation for the life the gods have given you, and the appreciation of the life they have created in another. I think this can be turned into a sin, of course. When it is stolen, when it is forced, when it is coerced, when it is taken without care or consideration for the other… Yes, I believe this great gift can be corrupted. But I believe it can be the holiest of all earthly actions. I dare say there is no way to be closer to the gods.”

There is a long gap of silence. Hyunjin still has a hand over his mouth, like he doesn’t trust himself otherwise, and Jisung is still wide-eyed – and more than a little flushed. Tufts of dark hair are flicked up at the nape of his neck, a scarlet tinge to his complexion.

Minho and Changbin eventually say, “Wow.”

“Um.” Chan clears his throat.

“I know,” you say, smiling at him. “We should talk about something else.”

You focus on your embroidery, humming to yourself.

Seungmin returns and sits down in the silence. He looks around the quiet circle and lifts an eyebrow.

“What did I miss?” he asks.

Rest comes to an end. There is a bustle as everyone packs up and prepares to continue the journey. You will travel a few more hours, at which point the sun will begin its descent. You should reach the predetermined site to build camp before nightfall.

You wait near Chan’s horse, stroking its muzzle, lost in thought. You imagine what would have happened if you died yesterday. Would the king have the audacity to celebrate, even in the face of his solemn guards? His success might have emboldened him, made him feel justified, like the gods were on his side. You like to think his failure has tempered him, that he will take it as a sign of the gods’ disapproval, but you doubt it.

You spot Changbin in the middle of the crowd. He is helping the servants with some heavy lifting, packing cooking instruments back on the wagon. Chan looks like he will be another minute. While he is distracted, you wander over to Changbin.

Changbin puts the last piece of equipment on the wagon. A servant bows and thanks him profusely. Changbin grins and lifts the servant out of his bow. He winks, saying, “Ah, no work is beneath anyone! You don’t need to thank me.”

You smile as Changbin gives the flustered servant a friendly pat on the back. Of course, Changbin is quite strong, and the willowy servant stumbles, but it is still a sweet moment. Once confirming the servant is all right, Changbin approaches you and bows.

“Your Majesty,” he says. “Can I help you?”

Changbin is in a good mood. The kingsguards did not seem angry with your earlier words, just surprised, even amused. You think they just like to see their incorruptible leader so flustered.

“Not so much,” you say. “I just have something on my mind. Chan told me the king intends to launch a search for the missing guard and mistress. He said the primary duties may be relegated to you.”

“Ah.” Changbin’s eyes darken with the furrow of his brow. His grin disappears and he looks very morose. “Yes. Most likely. Do you have something to report?”

Flashes of that night play in your mind. You shiver as you suppress them.

“No,” you say. “I just – I have a great deal of respect for the kingsguard. This is a difficult situation for you all, I am sure. I just wished to make my allegiance to you known. In the event of any… complications.”

“Complications,” Changbin repeats.

“Yes.” You weigh your words very carefully. You can either win Changbin’s confidence or push him further away. “Like Chan said, the vows are so important, and your brotherhood relies so strongly on each other. I’m sure Felix meant a great deal to you, at a time. This must be very difficult.”

“Yes.” Changbin’s brow unfurrows, his face softening in a moment of obvious reminiscence. He seems to stare right past you, lost in some faraway thought. He sighs and runs a hand through his black hair, smooth strands falling back over his forehead. “Felix was a good man,” Changbin says. “You… remind me of him, a little. The things you say. Ahhh, this is all wrong.” He shakes his head, his expression pinched with frustration. “It shouldn’t be like this. I don’t like the idea of going after him.”

You restrain yourself, not leaping too eagerly at the brazen remark. With the well of emotion rising in your chest, you ask, “Then why do it?”

“Because those are my orders,” he says, like it is obvious.

“What if those orders are wrong?” you say.

“They’re the king’s orders,” Changbin says, not quite an argument, not quite an agreement.

“Yes,” you say. “And the king is heaven’s earthly sovereign, who rules us all by the will of the gods. But what if those orders are not actually coming from the gods?”

The king is close to you. Changbin sees him first, but too late to spare you.

The king shouts your name like it is a blasphemous slur. The scream is imbued with so much fury, it sounds as though he means an exorcise a demon right here, right now.

Although you told yourself you were resigned to his wickedness, the terror of that voice makes your whole body shake. Bravery is much easier in theory, a whispered voice in the back of your head that extends no further than stolen words in shadows, but it is different to stare down a hateful man whose cruelty knows no bounds.

You turn to face the king, grateful for the length of your skirt as it hides your trembling legs. You summon your many years of etiquette practice, feigning the most stoic countenance you possibly can.

The king gets right in your face, screaming so loudly it blows a loose curl out of its pin.

“You have the audacity to blaspheme against your king?”

A deathly hush has fallen over the forest, all conversations ended. You hear nothing but the shuffle of bodies as people either retreat or approach the action. Servants make themselves scarce, courtiers gathering with eager eyes. The kingsguards swarm, abandoning their horses and forming rank with a hand on their swords. You are not sure who they mean to protect.

Chan is the only one to directly intervene, shoving through the throng to reach the king.

“Whoa, whoa, Your Majesty,” he says, skidding to a halt, his black robes swishing around him. “What happened?”

“This blasphemous creature dared to question the will of gods before my people,” the king snaps.

“I did not,” you say, wrenching your voice from the nauseas pit of your gut. “I did not question the gods.”

“You have the nerve to call my authority into question?” the king asks, taking another menacing step forward.

You instinctively stumble back. Your gaze darts when you move, eyes finding the other kingsguards. Minho, Changbin, and the younger two watch the scene intently, hands on their sword hilts. Hyunjin has partially withdrawn his sword, hilt firmly in hand and a shiny length of silver catching the sunlight.

Jisung has one hand on his hilt but his grip is loose. He is the only one moving, taking tentative steps towards the scene. His wide eyes are concerned but not frightened, his shoulders tensed, entire body braced. A fist uncurls, hand lifting. You are not sure if he is reaching for you or warning you.

The king is still ranting. All he does is repeat the same accusation, hurl the same slander. There is a wretched delight to his snarling ire. Because of the assassination debacle, he has been forced to feign a modicum for respect for you. Your remark serves as justification for unleashing all that contempt once more.

He calls you every foul name a man can call a woman. No doubt you are also subject to his anger for the mistress. It makes your hands curl up in fists at your side. Your trembling body is building adrenaline with every quivering shake. You think of the mistress, of Felix, of Jisung, of a cluster of crying servants, of your own body slumped in a carriage with an arrow in your heart, when all you ever wanted to do was help your people.

“I would never speak ill of the gods,” you snap. Perhaps it is your shaking or perhaps it is heavenly intervention, but you feel your voice as it thunders out of you. It reverberates in the arching trees and quakes underfoot like an earthen tremor. “Even in moments of my greatest doubt, I use them as my example in how to conduct myself.” You speak loud but steady, looking the king in his startled eyes. “I would never speak against them. I would never act against them. I would never assume I have the perspective to rebel against their will. No matter how someone might offend me, I would not attempt to intervene on the god’s will by bringing harm anywhere near to them.”

Ostensibly, this is in retaliation to his comments – but everyone knows the attack yesterday was not just a robbery. No one is speaking the accusation aloud, but it sits on the tip of every tongue when the subject is broached. Yes, everyone here knows what the king has done, and when you make your declaration, it is all anyone hears.

Only one of you has kept your vows. Only one of you is righteous.

He backhands you, clean across the face. It lands even harder than on the wedding night. That slap burned like a hot iron welt, but this one drums like a storm. It knocks you to the ground, the earth rushing up so quickly that you cannot even catch yourself. Your cheek hits the dirt, your body crumpling on impact.

Your face is downturned but you hear the zinging slash of sword after sword as the kingsguards reveal their weapons. When you look up, you see every blade partially drawn. Hyunjin is the only one to fully draw his weapon, his sharp, intense face focussed on the king while the other guards look at Chan.

Jisung is the only one who looks at you. He does not draw his sword. His hand leaves his hilt and he runs straight towards you. He slams onto his knees with so much impact, it sends leaves and gravel flying. His hands are on you, shameless and without delay.

“Your Majesty,” he says. He holds your shoulders, guides you upright into a sitting position.

You can barely see him through your tears, watering from the sheer physicality of such brutal pain. You face is numb so you do not even realize Jisung is wiping it clean.

His efforts accomplish very little because the king kicks you over, a sharp jab in your side that makes you cry out. It is more unexpected than the smack and makes everyone gasp.

Jisung catches you, drawing you protectively into the cradle of his arms. You imagine his face, his wide, startled eyes turned up to the king in questioning terror as he clutches the queen to his chest. You fear he will be kicked for insubordination. You press against his chest and will the world to disappear to around him.

“Are you seriously going to allow this?” Hyunjin’s voice rips through the clearing.

You turn your face, cheek pressed to Jisung’s chest. Hyunjin has stepped forward but he does not address the king, anger bright red on his handsome face as he stares at Chan.

Chan looks at him but it is the king who answers, spinning on his heel to march up to Hyunjin.

Bellowing, the king begins, “The kingsguard does not allow or disallow me anything—”

“The kingsguard has a right to intervention in the face of injustice!” Hyunjin shouts back, driving his sword into the dirt a mere foot from the king.

It draws the man to a halt, a flicker of intimidation crossing his face as he looks at the guard. He quickly shakes it off, pointing a threatening hand at Hyunjin.

“What do you dare accuse me of?” the king demands. “Do you have the audacity to make so formal a claim against me? Tell me, kingsguard! Use your rights! Make your claim! And I shall make mine, rest assured!”

Hyunjin cannot say anything more. He stares at the king, fuming. Chan was not exaggerating when he spoke of Hyunjin’s devotion to his beliefs. More than a pretty face, indeed. He does not budge an inch for the tyrant king.

While the king is distracted, Jisung helps you up. You rise on shaking legs, using his arms for leverage. He murmurs your name, not your title, so soft an utterance that no one else hears. It affects you more deeply than the king’s shouting.

Your watery eyes lift to Jisung. You are clasping his forearms for support but you want to fall against him. Your heart and body both call to him. You are overwhelmed with the memory of being in his arms at your most vulnerable moment, bare and open and overcome. It makes you feel like if he is close, there is no height you cannot reach, no harm that can ever pursue you there.

With your eyes locked so reverently on Jisung, you do not see the king approach. You turn your face as he throws Hyunjin an arrogant, challenging look.

Then the king reels back and punches you. It is clumsy and too emotional, his anger getting the better of him, so it lands with less force than intended. You still feel it right down to your toes, a shock of awful pain. You are not sure what actually hurts, if he hits your nose or something else, but you taste blood, tangy and metallic on your lips and tongue. Jisung catches you when you fall, keeping you upright while you spit blood onto the forest floor. If anyone gasps, you cannot hear it over the ringing in your ears.

Hyunjin instantly explodes. He attacks the king with his bare hands, his swing far cleaner, a swift punch that strikes the royal face so hard, it makes a cracking sound. Hyunjin is lean but evidently strong because the king reels upon impact.

Hyunjin does not let him recuperate. He lands another blow, then one more, coming at a different angle each time. The king hits the ground on the third punch, landing with a humiliating scream and thud.

Everyone is chattering and shrieking now, even the most eager courtiers retreating from the violence. Minho and Seungmin spring into action, charging Hyunjin before he can chase the king to the ground.

“Hold him back!” Chan shouts at them. Like everyone else, pure shock delayed him.

Minho and Seungmin seize Hyunjin by the arms, hauling him away from the king while he froths with anger. The king recoils from him, then starts to rage because he has been humiliated. Hyunjin shouts back, so much piercing chaos that you hardly make sense of it.

“This ends now!” Chan shouts above it all. He does not need to draw his sword or swing his fist. Hyunjin finally goes silent, shrugging Minho and Seungmin away. Even the king ceases his hollering, spitting blood onto the ground.

Your own mouth is still streaked red. Chan looks at you, his hard expression softening.

“Your Majesty, are you okay?” he asks.

The king begins to answer, a furious exclamation that he is obviously not okay, then he realizes Chan is speaking to you.

“How dare you address that creature—” the king begins.

“That creature is the gods-chosen queen!” Chan shouts. Where Hyunjin and the king raged with a red hot fire, Chan is cold, the harsh narrowing of his eyes speaking for him. It cuts across the clearing. Everything, high and mighty or low to earth, seems to bend in acquiescence. “The queen is not to be struck under any circumstances,” Chan says sharply, a hand on his sword hilt, his eyes on the king. “I am making a formal accusation against you as I just witnessed the offense with my own eyes.”

The silence is more deafening than the chaos. You watch as Chan shakes his head. His booted steps roll like thunder on the dirt as he approaches you. His arm is outstretched, a word on his lips, but he interrupted by the king.

“I want him flogged.”

Chan freezes. His back is to the king and all the courtiers, guards, and servants. Only you and Jisung see the flash of fury, barely tempered as Chan clenches his jaw then draws a breath.

“The gods spoke to him,” Chan says, frighteningly calm. “They told him to defend the queen who should never have been struck so carelessly.”

“And for that I won’t have his head removed,” the king snaps. He spits blood on the ground again, looking at Hyunjin as he does. Hyunjin stares back but has the sense to not act again. The king lacks any and all sense. No sense of duty, no sense of responsibility. He points at Hyunjin like an infant points at a child, stamping his foot and crying to his parents of some petty, childish plight. “Twenty lashes,” the king demands. “Ten for each time beyond this so-called defense he dared laid his hand against the holy king.”

Chan turns. He looks at Hyunjin. Hyunjin stares back, a silent conversation unfolding in the space between them. You see the calculation, the surrender. Chan shakes his head and Hyunjin clenches his jaw.

Your hand twitches at your side, instinctively searching for Jisung. He finds it, clasps it, hiding your joined hands between his robes and your dress.

“Jisung,” you whisper.

“It’s all right,” Jisung whispers back. Despite his words, he sounds upset. “Hyunjin can take it.”

In proof, Hyunjin does not await further instruction. He rips at his outer robe, tearing it off his body and dropping it in a heap on the forest floor.

“Jeongin,” Chan says. “Get me a horsewhip.”

You jolt. Jisung squeezes your hand, holding you back, shushing you gently. You watch, heart in your throat, as Hyunjin tugs off his under-shirt. He drops to his knees where he stands, Minho and Seungmin backing away, their faces plastered with practiced stoic looks. Seungmin betrays only a hint of thought, shaking his head an infinitesimal degree as he backs away. Minho flashes Jisung a look of similar aggravation.

You still taste blood, even when you wipe your mouth with a shaking hand.

Hyunjin prostrates himself on the ground, a full bow as if at prayer. Chan has the whip in his hands and he snaps it open at his side. You do not know if your eyes water from pain or sorrow.

The king stands nearby, arms crossed, a smug look on his face. You look at him as Chan swings an expert arm and brings the whip down. The king does not flinch, his pompous self-satisfaction only deepening.

You jump at the crack of the whip, eyes racing back to Hyunjin. There is a welt across his skin, pale as it is never exposed beneath those layers of black. Despite all the jests made at his expense, Hyunjin does not remove those robes for anything. He keeps his vows with an unrelenting determination. He is a good kingsguard. It is not his fault he has a bad king.

“Stop,” you say.

Jisung tries to hold you back but you drop his hand. You are still dizzy and speaking with a mouth full of blood, but you march onward. The king is probably looking at you with all that heated aggravation but you do not care. You look at Chan, the only authority you respect.

“Hyunjin was defending me,” you say. “He acted on my behalf. I will take his punishment.”

There are immediate protests, not just from the kingsguards but from servants and even scandalized courtiers. Their vocal protestations make chaotic discord, the forest shaking with every shout and holler.

You hear Jisung above the rest.

“Chan!” he says. “Don’t you let her, Chan! Chan!”

You and Chan are the only ones who remain silent, staring each other down. You are perfectly calm, holding his gaze. He looks at you like he is reading a book in a language he did not even know existed, scrutinizing the shape and sound of everything that lies in front of him.

“Silence!” the king finally shouts, curtailing the worst of the chaos. He marches over to you, hand out like he intends to grab you. “Stand down, woman! You’ve caused enough problems today!”

You storm towards him too, wiping the blood off your face with such a flourish that it flicks towards him. He takes a step back, so surprised by your approach that he almost trips over his own feet.

“Am I not correct in saying that a citizen has the right to stand in for another when a punishment has been issued?” you ask.

“You are not a citizen, you fool, you are the queen,” the king snaps.

“Oh, so now there’s some fucking rules about propriety!” you snap back. “Punching me in the face did not account for it, but this does? I am curious where your lines are drawn, Your Majesty, and which gods drew them, as they certainly do not resemble any teachings I know.”

The look on the king’s face is more satisfying than any welt or punch.

“Enough,” Chan says, not raising his voice. He drops the horsewhip to the ground and Hyunjin lifts his head. “This has gone on long enough,” Chan says firmly. “We have a long journey to make today. This was a petty disagreement and a misunderstanding, and it is an insult to the gods and all of us present to draw it out any longer. Hyunjin, get up. You’ll spend the night in prayer asking the gods for forgiveness for any slights they perceived. Accept their revelation and be done with this. Everyone, back in formation. Now.”

Finally, the crowd disperses, speaking lowly amongst themselves as they return to their former tasks.

Chan faces the king. In the same tone, he demands, “You too, Your Majesty.”

The king boils with such a quiet, fiery rage that you are amazed he does not burst. Chan does not relent in the face of his threats, standing firm until the king storms away. Once he is gone, your own adrenaline cools. Your legs feel weak again. You stumble.

Jisung catches you. His arm swings wide, catching your waist and drawing you into him.

“She’s still bleeding,” Jisung says.

“Take her,” Chan says, nodding sharply. “Get cleaned up. Meet back at the horses soon. He’s not going to be in the mood to wait.” Chan rolls his eyes and turns away.

You and Jisung are the only ones left. You are standing too close to him, his familiar heartbeat pounding against yours, and you need to rip away but you want to be even closer.

Jisung takes a step, guiding you towards the sound of the river. When you try to separate further, he pulls you back into his side, that hidden strength revealing itself. Your feet only skirt the ground as he practically carries you the riverside, like if he lets go for a second the gods will sweep you away from him.

Jisung holds the briars as you cross through dense brush. The riverbank is on the other side. You step onto the gravel bed, breathing a sigh of relief as you feel separated from the world again at last.

Jisung touches your lower back, just a press of his fingertips to get your attention. It certainly works, sparks shooting up your spine as if he traced the length of it. But no, it stays there, palm on your lower back, nudging you towards the water.

Earlier, he could not bring himself to look at you. Now you are the one hiding your gaze. After a tumultuous day of warring with yourself, of provocations and retreats, accusations and regrets, you feel tired and unsure, hurt and embarrassed.

“What were you thinking?” Jisung asks.

You kneel at the same time, at the river’s edge, the cool fresh water lapping at the edge of his robe and your skirt. It is paid no heed. You gather water in the cup of your hands, bringing it to your face in a gentle splash. You close your eyes, relishing in the cool kiss of the stream. The water runs pink as it spills over your lips. You scrub your mouth on the sleeve of your dress.

“It doesn’t matter what I do, does it?” you ask. “It doesn’t matter if I follow every rule he makes or if I break them in front of him. He is going to hurt me. He is going to find ways to justify it.”

Jisung is still bad at hiding his emotions, looking at you with sad, shiny eyes, his face long with sorrow.

You spare him a momentary glance, too affected by his empathy. It would be easier if he did not care. It would be easier if he did not look at you. It would be easier if he did not gather every undone curl to pull them back over your shoulder.

It makes you shiver like the first time. That chill is swallowed by heat as you remember him looking at you through that mirror, drawing your hair off your shoulders, firelight warm against your naked skin as he choked on his breathing.

Even now, his hand lingers on the back of your neck, on your shoulder, your arm. Every touch is just a second too long. He looks at his hand like it belongs to someone else, curling his fingers towards his palm like they hurt.

“Your Majesty,” he says, not much louder than a whisper.

“You can use my name,” you say, just as quiet.

The roar of the river makes you bold. You are alone but even if you were interrupted, you could never be overheard. It makes everything feel so natural, so right, like the gods themselves have aligned the world in such a way that you would be here with him at this exact moment. Yet at the same time, that is impossible. The gods chose you for the king. It was you who chose Jisung.

“I know,” he says. With a laugh, airy and humourless, he runs a hand through his hair and says, “Believe me, I know.”

You finally look at him. His eyes are drawn to your mouth, but that is because you missed some blood. You fold your hands neatly in your lap, the very picture of lady-like perfection if not for your bloodied lips and the aching swell of your cheek.

Jisung cups water into his own palm. With one hand, he holds your face, thumb and forefinger curled around your chin to tilt your head. He brings the water to your lips, pours as neatly as he can.

“You’re incredible,” he whispers. “I mean, you’re crazy— Fuck, I shouldn’t say that to the queen – Fuck, I swore again – don’t listen to me – Your Majesty, with all due respect, you’re just—” He laughs, truly and deeply, wiping blood off your cheek while you stifle your own giggles.

The ordeal is still too fresh to truly have any perspective, but you suspect you will be reeling later tonight as you remember your own adrenaline-fueled actions.

“Don’t tell anyone I told you that,” he teases.

“Our secret,” you say, smiling.

His eyes are on your cheek, his thumb scrubbing a mark. When you say that, his gaze flicks to yours.

Your whole body reacts to his eyes. You feel – tight, clenching, stomach twisting with heat. There is at once an impossible emptiness at the centre of your being, and also a penetrating fulfillment as he looks at you so intensely that you feel it deep inside of you. You think the king could come to your chamber every night, could do whatever he would, and it would not feel half so thorough a claiming as one glance from Han Jisung.

“I, um, oh. Oh.” Jisung shakes his head. He looks down, hair falling into his eyes as he swoops over to cup some more water. He still holds your chin with his other hand, fingers loosely clasped.

He straightens, tossing his hair out of his eyes, focussed on your lips.

You know it is just because he is cleaning the residual blood, but his searching glance moves through you. It deepens when he wets your lips, as he lets that little bit of water pour off his skin and onto your mouth.

Your lips part, trusting. His fingers on your chin tremble just a bit. When he exhales, it flutters through a loose curl.

“Thank you,” you murmur, lips moving against his fingers.

“Your Majesty,” he says, trying to be jovial, trying to laugh, but it comes out like a croak. “It’s why I’m here,” he says in a voice that sounds as rough as it did the other night. “I’m supposed to serve you. And – And I—”

His thumb runs slowly across your bottom lip, his eyes entranced with the way it gives under his touch, where it softly springs back. Your breath spills over his fingers and he swallows.

“And,” he tries again, breathing deeply when you do.

“And?” you say on that breath.

His gaze moves from your lips to your eyes. He drops one hand as if startled, fumbling for nothing, accidentally finding yours in its descent. You clasp that hand in your lap, heart racing as he so tightly curls his fingers around yours. It is such a desperate clutch, but it does not hurt. No, it never hurts.

“And,” he says, those other fingers still curled under your chin. It would make any defense impossible, his fingers so obviously guiding your face closer to his own. His mouth is a breath away, every exhale soft against your lips. “And I want to serve you, my queen,” he says in a soft, low murmur. “I need to serve you.”

You make a noise that could be mistaken for pain, wounded and sharp, but it is not that. It is the sound you make when you draw your kiss-wet fingers down your own throat, the way his damp fingers now trace that same descent. You tilt your head, offering him all that vulnerable skin, shivering under the long, slow touch.

He recognizes that sound too. He heard you make it two nights ago. You remember him kneeling, just like this, looking at you, just like this. You remember him, slouched in that chair by the fire while you dreamed of nothing more than kneeling in front of him. What would you even do from that vantage? You do not know. You just know it beckons to you like a call from above.

“Oh,” you say, trembling for a very different reason than earlier. “Jisung,” you whisper, “I want to serve you too.”

It is that remark that petrifies him, his hand freezing, his eyes wide. He stares at your neck like it is more dangerous like a sword-hand. A million complicated thoughts seem to flash across his face, one after the other.

His fingers splay open across your throat, your pulse beating under his hand. You swallow.

“What are you doing to me?” he breathes.

Then his fingers are under your chin again. Your faces come close. His lips are touching yours but it is not a kiss, just the promise of one, so painfully close to kissing that your mouths brush with the slightest twitch or breath. Still, he does not close the space entirely. He leans into it like he will, but then he collapses with a pained whimper, abruptly letting go, turning his face to the side.

“Fuck,” he says. He puts a hand over his face and shakes his head.

You turn your face the other way, closing your eyes too, breathing hard. You also touch your face, fingers shaking as you touch your unkissed lips, still tingling from the proximity.

Your other hand is in your lap. It is still tightly clasped around his.

“Oh gods,” he says.

“Yes,” you say. “I feel them too whenever you’re near.”

You look at each other. His mouth opens, some sentiment on his lips, desperate to be uttered, but he only manages to move his lips a few times before surrendering to muteness. He stands. With a gentle tug, he brings you with him.

The river laps at your feet. There is a swirl of pink where your blood spilled. You look at it for a long moment.

“In the banquet hall,” you say, watching the pink wash away. “In the wedding ceremony. On the road. In that inn.” You lift your eyes to his. “I felt it everywhere,” you say. “The gods, or just you, all around me, like nothing I have ever felt before.”

You lift his hands, bringing them to your lips as he did last night. He just stands there, mouth open, watching as you kiss his knuckles with the same devoted press. Where he was all desperate teeth and lips, you are tender, a soft wet kiss that lingers on his knuckles, scraped and scarred from so much work.

“These hands are a testament to years of hard work, kingsguard,” you say. You give his hands one final squeeze before letting go. “They should be worshipped too.”

He makes a sound you can only describe as a comical squeak. Your sweet, complicated, funny guard. Big eyes blink at you as you step back.

“Shall we?” you say, nodding to the brush, to the world that waits on the other side.

He nods, still too stunned to speak, staring at you as if in a trance. You bow your head to him, clasping your hands politely in front of you. You turn to leave.

You have only taken one step when you feel his hand on the back of your neck. It sends a bolt of fire shooting down your whole body. Your heart, moments ago doused with cold water, comes roaring back to life, shooting heat to every extremity.

You remember the strength of his arms. Yes, you will never forget. He wraps one arm in a possessive grip around your waist, just like before, but more. The other hand stays on the back of your neck, buried in your half-pinned hair, leaving it even more dishevelled.

The state of your hair is a perfect visual metaphor for what you feel inside: unravelled, undone.

He pulls you right into him. His name has scarcely left your lips before he swallows the sound, mouth pressed to yours in a hot, hungry kiss. His lips, his tongue, his teeth, all of it there, soft and hard and needy.

A kiss is the most you ever dared to steal over the years, silly childish exchanges that amounted to nothing.

But this –

This is everything.

“Jisung,” you say, like begging, almost a cry against his mouth before he steals the sound again.

You are both clumsy from lack of practice, or maybe lack of time. You are desperate to feel everything in the few moments afforded to you. There are lifetimes of desire packed into that kiss, eternities surrendered to the passionate press of his lips on yours.

He breathes your name, cups your jaw, tilts your face just so, kissing you slowly despite the ticking clock. You shiver, humming a sweet, amorous sound against his lips. The taste of blood is long gone, replaced with him. Just Jisung, on your lips and your tongue. You want it everywhere else.

You would give yourself to him if he asked. You would forget about everything and do it right here on this riverbank.

Fortunately, he has more sense than that. He lets you go, takes a small step back. He breathes unevenly while raking his fingers through his hair.

“We can’t do that again, okay?” he says.

You blink at him. It must be a convincing argument because he groans, then grabs you by the hips and pulls you towards him. He kisses you again, mouth open against yours, coaxing all those tender sounds you did not know you could make. It feels wet and messy and it should be awful, this frantic animal hunger, but it just feels good.

You just – feel.

“Okay,” he gasps. He clutches your waist, holds your body in his hands and counts under his breath. Finally, he steps back, nudging you away from him. “Okay,” he says, wiping his mouth and shaking his head. “That’s fine. That was – that was just. Exactly, you’re so right. Yes. All right. Very fine. Very good.”

He clears his throat, adjusting his black robes neatly like he did not just ravage your mouth in his holy garments. He tips his head back and stares up at the sky, holding the briars back for you, pointedly not looking down even when you approach.

You could walk right past him. You should walk right past.

You lean towards him and whisper, “I thought of you again last night.”

You step through the brush. You listen as he somehow accidentally slams them all in his own face, sputtering as he fights through the greenery to join you. He shakes himself out like nothing happened.

“Right,” he says. “Right. Right. Right. Go.” He points ahead.

You walk a few paces ahead. He escorts you back to Chan. When you are perched on the horse, you look back over your shoulder, once more intending just a fleeting glance. Jisung is already looking at you, fingertips pressed to his bottom lip. He lowers his hand.

You smile softly. Like something heaven-sent, he smiles back.

yongbbokkie

YES FINALLY!!!! WHOOOOOO!!! THEY KISSED I MIGHT JUST SWANDIVE OFF A CLIFF!!!

damn, Jisung has more restraint than I gave him credits for.... dunno if I should be impressed or frustrated haha

and thank fucking god someone finally put that idiot king in his place!! thank you Hyunjin you are godsent!!! Channie...... pls.... pls. I need you to end him. he ain't the one.

I can not wait to see how this turns out! you always write the best stories and I thank my luck stars I exist at the same time as you!

jondoe368

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